Chapter 4
Cassius
She sleeps like the dead.
I stand in the doorway of my bedroom—my actual bedroom, not the recovery room at the club—watching her breathe.
The morning light filters through blackout curtains I left partially open just to be able see her like this.
Destroyed. Claimed. Mine.
The sheet has slipped down to her waist, revealing the masterpiece I've made of her skin.
Bruises in the shape of my fingers around her throat, purple and blue like a necklace she can't remove.
Bite marks on her shoulders, her breasts, her inner thighs—some still bearing the indent of my teeth.
Red welts from my belt across her ass.
She looks like she's been mauled by an animal.
She looks like she belongs to me.
My phone vibrates.
Vincent.
It's not even seven AM, which means something's wrong.
"Someone's been pulling court records," he says before I can even say a word. "Everything related to Judge Deveraux's case."
My blood chills, though my expression doesn't change.
I move to my office, closing the door behind me. "Who?"
"Working on it. But Cassius, the eight-year anniversary is next week. Media might pick it up again. You know how they love their tragedy retrospectives."
Eight years since I put two bullets in her parents and created the broken creature now sleeping in my bed.
Eight years since I wore that leather mask and became death walking through their suburban home.
The irony isn't lost on me—their daughter is naked in my bed, covered in my marks, begging for her parents' killer to hurt her more.
"Find out who's digging," I order. "And Vincent? Have Peter and Paul sweep her apartment. I want everything—journals, photos, anything that tells me who she really is."
"You could just ask her."
"She doesn't know who she really is yet. I'm about to show her."
"This is dangerous, Cassius. If she finds out?—"
"She won't."
"You sound certain for someone who's breaking every one of his own rules. You don't let anyone sleep in your bed. You don't keep them past one night. You certainly don't clear Hell for them."
He's right.
I've broken every protocol I've established in the decade since I took over from my father.
But there's something about her—something beyond the sick satisfaction of corrupting the judge's daughter.
"Just get me the information," I tell him.
I end the call and move to my laptop, pulling up the surveillance footage from her apartment that my men installed months ago when I first learned she was asking about Purgatory.
Twenty-three hundred square feet of mundane existence.
Beige walls, practical furniture, everything safe and boring except?—
The bedroom.
Her bedroom walls are dark red, almost black in certain light.
No photos of her parents in there, though they're everywhere else in the apartment.
The living room has their wedding photo, their family portraits, her father in his judge's robes.
But not the bedroom. She can't sleep with them watching.
And hidden in her nightstand drawer, barely visible in the footage, are things that would shock anyone who knows the "good" Selene.
Toys she's never used with anyone—still in their packaging, but well-researched based on the browser history we pulled.
Rope, she's never let anyone tie—but she's practiced on herself, the footage shows her late at night, trying to recreate something she doesn't understand.
Books about dominance and submission with pages marked and notes in the margins.
One note, captured when she left the book open, makes my cock harden: "I want someone to take the choice away. I want to be forced to feel."
She's been preparing for me without knowing it.
My phone buzzes again.
This time it's a series of messages from Paul, who's been monitoring David.
David has called her phone forty-seven times since yesterday. Left twenty-three voicemails ranging from concerned to angry. Currently drinking at his apartment. Seems unstable. Want us to handle it?
Not yet. He might be useful.
I pull up the audio files Paul has been collecting.
David's pathetic voice fills my office:
"Selene, please, I know you're getting these messages. Whatever you're going through, we can work through it together. I love you. I've always loved you. Even if you're with someone else now, I can forgive that. Just come home."
Then, later, drunker:
"This isn't you. This is your trauma talking. You're sick , Selene. You need help, not some random fuck who doesn't understand what you've been through."
If only he knew.
The random fuck understands exactly what she's been through because I caused it.
I crafted her trauma with bullets and blood when she was too young to understand what was happening to her psyche.
And now I'm reaping what I sowed—a perfect, broken toy who craves the darkness I put inside her.
Another message, this one from two a.m.
"I'm going to find you. I put a tracker app on your phone months ago, for your safety. I know you're in the warehouse district. I'm going to save you from whatever you've gotten yourself into."
Interesting.
The pathetic ex has more spine than I gave him credit for.
This could complicate things—or make them more entertaining.
A soft whimper from my bedroom draws my attention.
Through the monitor on my desk—yes, I have cameras in my own bedroom, because I trust no one —I watch Selene stir.
Not waking, just shifting in her sleep.
Her thighs press together, hips moving slightly.
A moan escapes her lips.
She's dreaming, and based on how wet her thighs are getting, she's dreaming of me.
Time to make those dreams a reality.
I return to the bedroom, moving silently despite my size.
She's on her stomach now, ass slightly raised, presenting herself even unconscious.
The bruises on her ass are purple-black, perfect imprints of my hands.
My marks. My property.
I trail a finger down her spine, light enough that it doesn't wake her but makes her shiver.
Another moan, muffled by the pillow.
Her hips push back, seeking more.
"Even asleep, you're desperate for it," I murmur.
I spread her legs carefully, revealing how wet she is.
Her pussy is swollen from last night's use, pink and glistening.
The sight makes me painfully hard.
I lean down and breathe on her heated flesh, watching her unconscious response.
Then I lick her, one long stroke from clit to ass, tasting myself on her, in her.
She wakes with a gasp, hands flying back to grab at me, but I pin them to her lower back with one hand.
"Don't move."
She freezes except for her trembling.
I continue my exploration, working her with my tongue until she's sobbing into the pillow, begging incoherently.
I build her up slowly, methodically, until she's right on the edge—then pull away.
"No," she whimpers. "Please, I need?—"
"Shower. Get cleaned up. You have twenty minutes."
I release her wrists and step back.
She turns to look at me, hair wild, eyes desperate.
The look she gives me is half frustration, half worship.
Perfect.
"But I'm so close?—"
"Twenty minutes. Don't touch yourself, or you won't come at all today."
She scrambles off the bed and rushes to the bathroom.
I hear the shower start immediately.
While she cleans herself, I prepare for the day.
She doesn't know it yet, but today is when I truly claim her.
Not just her body—that's already mine.
Today I claim her mind, her identity, her future.
I select what she'll wear.
Not clothes—she won't need those yet.
Instead, I choose jewelry from my collection, pieces I've acquired over the years but never used.
They were waiting for her, apparently.
A collar of diamonds that will sit at the base of her throat, hiding the bruises while making new ones.
It locks in the back with a key only I possess.
A delicate chain that connects to clamps I'll attach myself—rose gold that will complement her skin.
Anklets with tiny bells that will announce her every movement.
A plug, jeweled at the base, that will keep her ready for me all day.
She emerges from the bathroom exactly nineteen minutes later, skin pink from hot water, hair damp around her shoulders and stops short when she sees what's waiting on the bed.
"We have a meeting this afternoon," I tell her. "An important one. You'll be present."
"As what?"
"As mine."
The word makes her shiver. I approach, taking my time to adorn her with each piece.
The collar goes first. I position it perfectly, tight enough that she'll never forget it's there but not so tight she can't breathe.
She gasps when I lock it, the tiny click echoing in the room.
"This stays on until I decide otherwise," I tell her.
"How long?"
"Maybe forever."
Her pupils dilate at that.
I continue with the clamps, watching her bite her lip as I attach them, adjusting the pressure until she's right at the edge of pain.
The chain swaying between her breasts catches the light, drawing attention to her marked skin.
The anklets go on next, each movement now accompanied by soft music.
She tests them, shifting her weight, and the bells chime.
"Everyone will hear me," she says.
"That's the point."
Finally, the plug.
I bend her over the bed, taking my time preparing her, watching her try to stay still as I work it inside.
When it's fully seated, she's panting, fingers clutching the sheets.
"Stand up. Walk for me."
She obeys, each step making the bells chime and the plug shift inside her.
Her face is flushed, lips parted.
She looks debauched, and we haven't even started.
"You're displaying me," she says, not a question.
"Yes. Do you object?"
She meets my eyes, and there's something fierce in her gaze. "No. I want them to know I'm yours. I want everyone to know."
The possessiveness in her voice goes straight to my cock.
This sweet, broken thing has no idea she's claiming her parents' killer, marking herself as mine in ways that would horrify her if she knew the truth.
But she doesn't need to know.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
My phone buzzes.
Peter this time:
We're in her apartment. You need to see this.