21. Damien
Damien
Her mouth is warm.
Obedient.
Grateful.
And I don’t close my eyes—not even when the pleasure hits like a current snapping through my spine—because I want to watch . The crown of her head bobbing. Her palms flat against my thighs, like she’s praying to a god she doesn’t even realize is broken.
This isn’t about release.
It never is.
It’s about control .
And control is what I have.
I don’t even like this fucking slut. I just know how badly it will destroy Dante. I need him to be so utterly pissed off that he does something irrational. Something out of character. I need him to fucking bleed for me.
The sound of chains clinking against a metal chair draws my attention. I glance to the side, smirking at Dante, still shackled, still bleeding, still pretending he’s above all this.
But I see it.
Th e fracture in his gaze.
The barely-contained disgust curdling behind his stoic expression.
Good.
“Sensitive, brother?” I murmur, threading my fingers through Brooke’s hair and guiding her just the way I like. “You should be proud. She’s got your blood, after all.”
His jaw flexes.
I finish with a sharp inhale, letting the silence carry the weight of it all. Then I zip up, smooth out my shirt, and stroke Brooke’s cheek like she’s a fucking pet I trained to beg.
“Go upstairs,” I say quietly.
She stands without hesitation, lips swollen, mascara smudged.
“Yes, Damien.”
She exits like a ghost—silent, unbothered.
When the door clicks shut behind her, I turn to Dante.
And smile.
“See,” I murmur, crouching in front of him again. “The difference between you and me? I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stares.
So I lean in, drop my voice to a near-whisper.
“I’m letting you go.”
His brow lifts—confusion flickering like static.
“But not because you deserve it. And not because I’ve gone soft.”
I reach into my pocket, dangling the key to his chains between two fingers.
“I’m letting you walk out of here because I want you to. Because I own the outcome.”
I unlock the first cuff. The second.
He stays still, cautious. He’s being smart.
I crouch again, hand on his shoulder, grip tightening just enough to make him wince.
“But know this,” I hiss, voice cutting like a blade. “If you so much as breathe in a way I don’t like—if you think about interfering with what comes next—I will carve your new little sister into something unrecognizable.”
His whole body tenses.
“I’ll make her beg to go back into the system. Beg to be forgotten. I’ll erase her so thoroughly, that not even the Devil himself will recognize her when I’m done.”
Dante doesn’t blink.
But his silence? That’s the fear talking.
I stand, pocket the key, and back away.
“Now get the fuck out of my house,” I say. “And remember who’s still down here in the dark.”
The best part is that I know he will run right now. He is unarmed. He knows I’ll fucking kill him and Brooke. I know he will be back, but this time… He’ll have to find me on his own. No one will be there to guide him to me.
It’s going to be fucking perfect.
* * *
The blueprints are everywhere.
On the desk. The floor. The fucking walls.
Lines traced. Notes scrawled. Red Xs, yellow circles, routes highlighted and crossed out, and drawn again. Every possibility accounted for. Every threat neutralized.
Almost.
I drag the chalk across the wall in a jagged line, connecting Sector B to the north corridor gate. My hands are shaking, but not from fear.
From anticipation.
Seven girls, one boy. Just one week from now.
Ea ch is more valuable than the last.
The final shipment before the Orchard transitions. Before we become untouchable .
But it has to be perfect.
“No phones,” I mutter to myself, scribbling across the margin. “No live GPS. No convoys larger than two vehicles. No branded vans. Only trusted handlers.”
My pen snaps.
I don’t care.
I grab another and keep writing.
“Three routes. Three drivers. Three decoys.”
Each girl will be tagged, cuffed, and sedated. Enrique will ride with the highest-value target—Anya, and Brooke. Reese with the twins and our only male. I will escort the three younger girls myself.
I trust no one with them.
Not anymore.
I move to the table and slam my hand down on the files—each one cataloged like livestock.
Name. Age. Sellable traits. Psychological profile.
Auction tier. They also have brands. We started using freeze branding on them to mark them.
It works perfectly so that the imperfection is barely visible to buyers.
Harmony used to help with this.
I shove the thought away.
“Reese gets the south exit,” I mutter, circling the map. “Enrique takes Route 94. I’ll go west, through the industrial corridor—no cameras, no checkpoints, just burnt-out buildings and asphalt ghosts.”
I draw another line.
Thick. Bold.
The main decoy route.
A fake convoy loaded with crates, GPS tagged to an old warehouse in Kansas. I’ll let a few rumors leak. Let the scent drift.
If anyone’s watching?
They’ll chase shadows.
I pace, running my fingers through my hair, tugging hard.
Breathe.
Focus.
“They’ll move Tuesday,” I decide. “But we prep on Sunday. Lockdown begins tomorrow. No visitors. No messages. The captives stay separate. No contact. No chance to plot.”
I glance at the surveillance screen.
Each one in their own room. Quiet. Obedient. Beautiful.
Good.
Except Brooke.
She’s been… unpredictable lately. She has acted softly toward Harmony. Asking questions that she doesn’t need to know the answers to.
I jot her name in the corner and draw a question mark beside it.
I’ll have to test her loyalty again.
And Harmony?
She’s been quiet.
Too quiet.
But she’ll obey when it matters.
She always does.
I snap open the burner phone and start typing the code for the warehouse drop. Final address. Timing. Decoy logs. I’ll burn the phone once the texts go out. No digital trails.
I pause mid-sentence, eyes flicking to the cellar feed.
Dante’s empty chair.
The dark stain on the floor.
Gone, but not forgotten.
I smirk.
He won’t come back.
He knows now. He saw what I did to her. To Brooke. He won’t risk her life by playing hero.
I made sure of that.
Still…
I walk to the window and check the perimeter again. Fences. Cameras. Traps. Backup generators. Electrified gates. Motion sensors at the north ridge.
No one’s getting in.
And no one’s getting out—unless I say so.
I turn back to the wall and draw one final circle.
The Orchard.
My legacy.
My kingdom.
My endgame.
And next week?
It begins.
The new place needed a new name. I write largely over the drawings in a manic frenzy.
The Midas Mansion
The Golden Cave
The Whispering Hollows
The Midas Gallery
The Silent Gallery
Then I think of the perfect name…
The Golden Hollows:
Welcome to the Golden Hollows
Where obedience is golden—and sin is cleansed .
There. It’s done. And it’s fucking perfect.
* * *
Harmony’s curled up on the bed, pretending to sleep.
I can tell by the way her breaths hitch when the door creaks open. The way her fingers twitch against the hem of that little silk nightgown I gave her—barely a whisper of fabric, just enough to remind her she’s mine.
Always mine.
I shut the door softly behind me. Lock it.
The sound makes her flinch.
Good.
I peel off my jacket, slow and deliberate, tossing it over the armchair like I don’t have her heart clenched in my fist. Like I didn’t just finish using her replacement to destroy someone else.
Brooke was so eager to please me tonight.
And Harmony?
She’ll break without needing to be asked.
“You’re awake,” I murmur, watching her body stiffen.
“No,” she whispers.
Liar.
I cross the room, crouching beside her, brushing her hair back to reveal the bruises I left yesterday. Faint purple fingerprints. A signature.
“You know what I did tonight?”
She doesn’t answer.
Smart girl.
I lean closer, lips at her ear. “I let your friend’s little boyfriend go.”
She shifts. Barely.
“But not before I fed your little friend my cock in front of him.” I chuc kle. “She cried when I finished. Not because she hated it—because she wanted more.”
Harmony’s whole body goes still. She’s breathing, but shallow now. Silent.
“Do you want more, Harmony?”
Her throat works. “More what?”
“Me,” I hiss, dragging the covers off her body. “Do you want me to treat you like her?”
Her lip trembles. “No.”
“No?” I echo, grabbing her by the ankle and yanking her down the mattress. “But you used to. You used to beg.”
Her silence pisses me off.
I crawl over her, pinning her down by the throat, letting just enough pressure build to make her squirm. Not to hurt. Just to remind.
“You used to scream for me,” I growl. “You used to fucking cry if I didn’t come inside you.”
Tears pool in her eyes.
I smile.
“There she is,” I whisper. “My good little girl. My favorite sin.”
I shove her legs apart and press myself against her thigh, hard and hot through my jeans. She tries to roll away.
I don’t let her.
“Don’t act like you’re better than Brooke,” I sneer. “At least she knows she belongs to me.”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” Harmony chokes.
I slam my palm beside her head, teeth bared. “You do. You always did.”
Her breath hitches.
I grab her wrists and pin them above her head with one hand, the other tearing the nightgown down the center.
“You want soft?” I whisper. “You should’ve run when you had the chance .”
My mouth crashes onto hers—possessive, devouring, cruel.
She bites me.
I taste blood.
And I fucking smile.
Because now?
Now it’s real.