Damon Knight

My penthouse overlooks Manhattan like a throne room in the sky.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the glittering city below—millions of lives, millions of stories, none of which matter to me. What matters is control. Power. The empire I've built from the ashes of my father's legacy and my uncle's cruelty.

And right now, what matters is the woman on her knees in front of me.

She's beautiful—objectively. Blonde hair that probably costs a fortune to maintain, perfect tits that she's definitely paid for, the kind of face that graces magazine covers. I picked her up at some charity gala three hours ago. She'd been throwing herself at me all night, pressing those fake tits against my arm, whispering filthy promises in my ear.

Now she's choking on my cock, and I feel absolutely nothing.

Her manicured nails dig into my thighs as she tries to take me deeper. She moans around my length like she's enjoying this, like the act of sucking me off is somehow pleasurable for her. Maybe it is. I don't particularly care.

My hand rests on her head, fingers tangled in that expensive blonde hair, controlling the pace with clinical precision. She bobs faster, desperate, making wet gagging sounds that should probably turn me on.

They don't.

My mind is elsewhere. On the shipment arriving tomorrow. On the territory dispute with the Russians that needs handling. On the fact that I need to call my tailor about the suits I ordered last week.

This is the rule, I think, watching her mascara start to run as tears leak from her eyes. She gets my cock in her mouth. My fingers in her cunt. The toys I choose to use on her body.

But I never fuck. Never taste. Never kneel.

Those acts are reserved for someone who doesn't exist yet—the girl who will make me break every vow I've ever made. The one worth destroying myself for.

This blonde isn't her.

She gags, pulling back suddenly, gasping for air. Mascara runs down her cheeks in black streaks. Her lipstick is smeared. She looks up at me with desperate, hungry eyes.

"Please," she whimpers, her voice rough from my cock bruising her throat. "Please, Damon. Fuck me. I need you inside me. I need—"

"No."

My voice is flat. Final.

Her face crumples. "But I—"

"No," I repeat, pulling away from her entirely. I tuck myself back into my pants with efficient movements, not bothering to zip up yet. "Stay on your knees."

She obeys, trembling. Good. Obedience I can work with.

I walk to my desk, open the bottom drawer where I keep my collection. Dildos in various sizes, vibrators, plugs. All clean, all expensive, all perfectly maintained. I select a thick silicone dildo—slightly smaller than my own cock but substantial enough to make her feel it.

When I return, she's still kneeling, watching me with a mixture of confusion and desperate hope.

"Bend over the couch," I command.

She scrambles to obey, positioning herself over the leather armrest, ass in the air. She's wearing a tight red dress that she has to hike up to her waist. No panties. Of course not. She came here planning to get fucked.

She won't.

I watch her arch her back, presenting herself like an offering. Her pussy is already wet—from sucking my cock, from anticipation, from whatever fantasy she's built in her head about tonight.

I feel nothing.

No desire to bury myself in that wet heat. No urge to taste her. No impulse to make her mine.

She's just another body. Another transaction. Another reminder that I'm still waiting.

I push the dildo against her entrance, and she moans—loud, theatrical. I push it in slowly, methodically, watching the thick silicone disappear inside her. She's tight enough that it takes some effort, but she's wet enough that it slides in with steady pressure.

"Oh god," she gasps. "Oh fuck, yes—"

My other hand finds her clit, circling with the same clinical precision I bring to everything else. I know exactly how to touch a woman to make her come. I've studied it like I study everything—with detached focus and perfect execution.

I work the dildo in and out of her cunt with a steady rhythm while my fingers manipulate her clit. She's panting now, pushing back against the toy, chasing her orgasm like it's salvation.

Within minutes, she screams.

Her whole body convulsing, inner walls clamping down on the silicone, thighs shaking. She comes hard, sobbing through it, and I watch with the same expression I'd have watching paint dry.

When she's finished, boneless and whimpering against the couch, I pull the dildo out and set it aside. I'll have it cleaned and sanitized before putting it back.

"Get dressed," I tell her. "Car's waiting downstairs."

She struggles to her feet, legs still shaky, looking at me like I've just broken her heart. "That's it? You're just—you're sending me away?"

"Yes."

"But I thought—"

"You thought wrong." I walk to the bar, pour myself two fingers of whiskey. "The driver will take you wherever you want to go."

She tries one more time. Smooths her dress down, fixes her hair with trembling hands, walks over to me with that practiced seductive sway. She reaches up to kiss me.

I turn my head.

Her lips land on my cheek instead.

"Don't," I say quietly.

Something in my tone makes her step back. Maybe she finally understands. Maybe she finally sees what everyone who gets close to me eventually sees—there's nothing warm here. Nothing soft. Nothing worth staying for.

She leaves without another word.

I down the whiskey in one swallow, pour another, and walk to the windows. Manhattan glitters below me—a city full of life I've never really been part of. I built an empire here. I command respect and fear in equal measure. I have more money than I could spend in ten lifetimes.

And I feel absolutely fucking nothing.

My phone buzzes against the bar. I pick it up without looking at the screen.

"Yeah."

"Boss." It's Marcus, one of my enforcers. "We picked up the debt collector. Winston's daughter."

Winston. The name rings a bell. Some low-level associate who'd been paying off a debt in installments for the past three years. Died recently—heart attack or something. Left behind a daughter who probably doesn't even know what her father owed.

"Where is she?"

"In the car. She's... she's not making this easy, boss."

I can hear shouting in the background. A woman's voice, high and fierce. "Let me go! You can't just—this is kidnapping! I'll call the police!"

Despite myself, I feel the faintest flicker of interest. Most people we pick up for collections are crying or begging by now. This one's fighting.

"Bring her to my office," I say. "I'll deal with her personally."

"Yes, sir."

I end the call and check my watch. 11:47 PM. Late, but I don't sleep much anyway. Haven't in years. Sleep means dreams, and dreams mean memories I'd rather keep buried.

I clean up the living room with methodical efficiency. Put the dildo in the cleaning solution. Wipe down the couch. Pour another whiskey and settle behind my desk to wait.

The elevator chimes forty-three minutes later.

I hear the struggle before I see it—Marcus's calm voice, another enforcer's grunt of effort, and that same fierce female voice from the phone.

"I said let GO of me! I can walk on my own! Don't you fucking touch—"

The door to my office swings open.

And my entire world fucking shatters.

She's small. Maybe five-four, and that's being generous. Dark hair falling in messy waves past her shoulders, like she's been running her hands through it all night. Her dress is simple cotton, cream-colored, with full sleeves that reach her wrists and a skirt that falls to her calves. Modest. Innocent. Nothing like the tight, revealing clothes the women I usually see wear.

Flats on her feet. Practical, worn.

No makeup on her face.

Just natural beauty. Freckles dusting her nose and cheeks. Wide hazel eyes that are currently filled with terror and defiance in equal measure.

She's shaking—I can see it in the way her hands tremble at her sides—but when those eyes lock with mine, she lifts her chin.

Defiant.

Stubborn.

Perfect.

My cock, which has been indifferent through an hour of having a model's mouth wrapped around it, suddenly hardens to the point of pain.

My heart—dead for so long I'd forgotten it could actually beat—slams against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

Every nerve in my body lights up, screaming one word over and over:

MINE.

"That's all, Marcus," I hear myself say, though my voice sounds distant, strange. "Wait outside."

Marcus and the other enforcer exchange glances but obey, leaving the girl standing alone in the middle of my office.

The door closes.

Silence.

She stares at me. I stare at her.

I should say something. I'm Damon Knight. I'm never at a loss for words. But right now, looking at this girl in her modest cream dress with freckles on her nose and terror-defiance in her eyes, I can't form a single coherent thought.

Finally, she speaks.

"Luna Winston," she says, and her voice shakes but doesn't break. She lifts that stubborn chin higher. "And I'm here to pay my father's debt."

Luna.

The name settles in my chest like a brand.

I know, with absolute certainty, that I'm looking at the girl who will destroy every rule I've ever made.

Every vow I swore in that basement when I was fifteen, bleeding and broken.

Every wall I've built to protect myself.

She's going to demolish all of it.

And I'm going to let her.