Luna Winston

I can't breathe.

The office is all dark wood and leather—expensive and cold, just like the man behind the desk. Everything in here reeks of money and danger. The kind of wealth that doesn't come from honest work. The kind that leaves stains you can't wash out.

Damon Knight.

I've heard the name whispered in the streets of Brooklyn. Heard it hissed in corners, muttered with crossed fingers and averted eyes. I've seen the fear flash across faces when the Knight Syndicate is mentioned. Mrs. Chen from my building once told me to cross the street if I ever saw men in black cars. "Those are Knight's people," she'd said, gripping my arm. "You stay away from them, Luna. They're devils."

She was right.

He's younger than I expected—mid-twenties at most, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four—but there's something ancient and dangerous in those black eyes. At first I thought they were just dark brown, but no. They're black. Pitch black. Like staring into a void. Only when the light from his desk lamp catches them at a certain angle do I see it—rare grey flecks, like stars in a night sky. Beautiful and terrifying.

He's beautiful in a terrifying way.

Sharp jaw that looks like it could cut glass. Dark hair perfectly styled, not a single strand out of place even though it's past midnight. Broad shoulders filling out a tailored black suit that probably costs more than everything I own. A body that screams controlled violence beneath all that expensive fabric. Lean but powerful. Dangerous.

He hasn't spoken since I gave my name.

Just stares.

Studies me like I'm a puzzle he's deciding whether to solve or destroy.

The silence stretches until my nerves feel like they're going to snap. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard it hurts. My hands shake at my sides, and I dig my nails into my palms to try to steady them.

Don't show weakness, I tell myself. Don't let him see you're scared.

But I am scared. Terrified. Two men dragged me out of my apartment at nearly midnight, shoved me into a black SUV, and brought me here to this chrome and glass tower overlooking Manhattan. They wouldn't tell me why. Wouldn't answer my questions. Just said, "The boss wants to see you."

Now I know why.

Dad's debt.

Oh God, Dad. What did you do?

Finally—finally—Damon Knight speaks.

"Your father," his voice is like smoke and gravel, low and rough in a way that sends shivers down my spine for all the wrong reasons, "owed us two hundred thousand dollars."

The number hits me like a punch to the gut. Two hundred thousand. My vision swims. That's... that's impossible. We were poor. We lived paycheck to paycheck. Dad worked construction. How could he possibly owe—

"He's been paying in installments for three years," Damon continues, leaning back in his leather chair with the casual confidence of a predator who knows his prey can't escape. "Five thousand a month. Like clockwork. Never missed a payment."

Five thousand dollars a month. For three years. I do the quick math in my head—one hundred and eighty thousand already paid. Which means there's still twenty thousand left, but—

"Then he died," Damon says, and there's no sympathy in his voice. No compassion. Just cold, hard facts. "Heart attack. Three weeks ago. And the payments stopped."

My throat tightens. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I won't cry in front of this man. I won't give him the satisfaction.

Dad never told me. Never warned me. He worked those extra shifts, picked up weekend jobs, told me the overtime was for my college fund. He was lying. It was for this. For them.

For him.

"I don't have that kind of money," I whisper, and I hate how small my voice sounds.

"I know."

Two words. Flat. Final.

Of course he knows. He probably knows everything about me. Where I live in that cramped studio in Brooklyn. Where I work at the convenience store on Fifth Avenue for nine dollars an hour. How much I have in my checking account—basically nothing. He probably knows I'm broke and alone and completely fucked.

Damon stands, and the movement is so smooth, so controlled, that I take an involuntary step back even though I'm already against the wall.

He walks around the desk with predatory grace. Every step deliberate. Calculated. Like a big cat stalking prey.

He stops inches from me.

So close I can smell his cologne—cedar and something darker, something rich and expensive that probably costs more than my rent.

So close I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, and God, I'm short compared to him. He towers over me.

So close I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the grey flecks in those black eyes up close for the first time.

"But you're going to pay it back anyway," he says softly, and somehow that soft voice is more terrifying than if he'd shouted.

My hands shake harder. I force them still, clasp them in front of me to hide the trembling. "How? I don't have—"

"How?" His lips curve into something that might be a smile if it weren't so cruel. "You're going to live in my penthouse."

I blink. Surely I misheard. "What?"

"Be my maid," he continues, circling me slowly like a shark. I feel his gaze tracking over me—my messy dark hair, my cream-colored midi dress with the full sleeves, my worn flats. Taking inventory. "Clean. Cook. Serve."

He completes the circle, stops in front of me again, and the way he looks at me makes my skin prickle with awareness I don't want to feel.

"Exist in my space every single day until the debt is cleared," he finishes.

My stomach drops. My pulse pounds in my ears. "You want me to work for you? As a... a maid?"

"I want you to belong to me," he corrects, and the way he says belong—slow, deliberate, possessive—makes something cold slither down my spine. "Until that debt is paid in full."

"For how long?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

"Two years," he says. Then, almost casually, "Maybe three, depending on how well you perform your... duties."

Duties.

The way he says that word—with that pause, that weight, that dark promise—makes my skin crawl. I know what men like him expect from arrangements like this. I'm not stupid. I've heard the stories. Read the news. "Maid" is just a prettier word for something much uglier.

"And if I refuse?" I force the words out, even though I already know I don't have a choice. Can't have a choice.

Something dangerous flickers in those black eyes.

Damon leans in, so close his lips nearly brush my ear, and his breath ghosts across my skin when he speaks.

"Then I'll have your father's body exhumed from that pathetic grave in Brooklyn."

Ice floods my veins. No. No, he can't—

"I'll scatter his ashes in the Hudson," he continues, his voice still soft, still deadly. "I'll seize the shithole apartment you're clinging to—the one with his clothes still hanging in the closet and his coffee mug still sitting on the counter. Every photograph. Every book. Every memory."

Tears burn harder behind my eyes. My chest constricts.

"Every memory you have left of him?" Damon whispers. "Gone."

The cruelty of it steals my breath. He's not just threatening me. He's threatening the only things I have left. The only proof my father existed. The only pieces of him I can still hold onto.

"You're a monster," I breathe, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.

I expect him to get angry. To deny it. To hurt me.

He does none of those things.

"Yes," he agrees simply.

And then his hand comes up—I flinch, thinking he's going to strike me—but instead his fingers wrap around my throat. Not squeezing. Not choking. Just resting there. Warm. Firm. A collar made of flesh and bone.

A reminder.

"But I'm the monster who owns you now, Trouble," he says, and that nickname—Trouble, like he's already decided who I am to him—sends a shiver through me. "So what's it going to be?"

I stare up at him. At this beautiful, terrifying man who holds my entire world in his hands. At the black eyes with their rare grey flecks that would be mesmerizing if they weren't so cold.

I don't have a choice. I never had a choice.

If I say no, he destroys everything. My father's memory. My home. The fragile pieces of my life I've barely managed to hold together since Dad's funeral.

If I say yes, I trap myself in a cage with a predator who looks at me like I'm something to own. To use. To break.

Either way, I lose.

But at least one way, I keep my father's memory safe.

I meet Damon's eyes. Lift my chin despite the terror clawing at my chest, despite his hand still resting against my throat, despite every instinct screaming at me to run.

"Fine," I say, and my voice is steadier than I expected. "I'll do it."

His eyes darken with something that might be satisfaction. Or anticipation. Or hunger.

"But," I add, because I need to say this, need to claim some small piece of myself before he takes everything else, "you'll never own what's left of me."