POV: Lily Ashford
The darkness inside my apartment is absolute.
I stand frozen in the doorway, my eyes adjusting slowly to what I'm seeing. My brain keeps telling me I'm wrong. That I'm misinterpreting. That this isn't real.
But the smell hits me first. Metal and fear. Blood.
I fumble for the light switch.
The moment the lights flicker on, I want to turn them back off.
My apartment—my tiny, perfect apartment—is destroyed.
Not robbed. Destroyed.
The couch I bought from a thrift store for two hundred dollars has been methodically smashed. Stuffing hangs out like guts. My bookshelf—the one thing I was proud of—is overturned, pages from my beloved books scattered across the floor like snow. My laptop, the one I saved three months for, is in pieces. Literally broken into fragments.
Everything I own is destroyed.
And there's blood. Not a lot. But enough. Splattered on the white walls like someone made a point. Like someone was sending a message.
"Oh God," I whisper.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone. I need to call the police. I need to call someone. My parents—
"911, what's your—"
"There's been a break-in," I say. My voice doesn't sound like mine. "My apartment. There's blood. Someone broke in and—"
"Ma'am, slow down. What's your address?"
I'm starting to give it when a hand clamps over my mouth from behind.
The scream dies in my throat.
An arm wraps around my body—muscular, impossibly strong—and pins my arms against my sides. I struggle, kicking, trying to break free, but I'm like a fish on a line. Useless.
The phone falls from my fingers and clatters on the floor.
"Don't make a sound," a voice whispers in my ear. Male. Rough. Someone I know.
My eyes adjust and I see him in the broken apartment's chaos.
Vincent.
My parents' dealer. The man I've seen hanging around our old apartment a dozen times. The one I always avoided. The one who looked at my mom like she was a piece of meat to be used.
"Hello, Lily," he says, and his smile is the cruelest thing I've ever seen.
He releases my mouth but keeps his arm around me, a prison of flesh and muscle. I could scream now. The neighbors might hear. But Vincent's smile says he doesn't care. His smile says screaming will only make it worse.
"Your parents sold you," Vincent says, and the words come out like a joke. Like the punchline to something hilarious. "Did they tell you? Probably not. They're cowards that way."
"What?" The word is barely a whisper.
"They owed me money," Vincent continues, spinning me around to face him. His breath smells like cigarettes and beer. "A lot of money. Twenty thousand dollars, to be exact. That's a significant debt."
I shake my head. "My parents don't owe you—"
"Yes, they do." Vincent's hand grabs my chin, forcing my face up. "And they couldn't pay. So when I asked them what they had of value, you know what they offered?"
I'm going to be sick.
"You," Vincent whispers. "They offered you. Twenty thousand dollars. That's what you're worth to them, little girl. That's what your parents think you're worth."
The words don't make sense. They can't make sense.
"You're lying," I say. But even as I say it, I know he's not. I know my parents in a way that makes this horrifyingly, absolutely possible.
"Believe what you want," Vincent says. "But you belong to us now. You're payment. Collateral. Property."
He releases me, and I stumble backward. My apartment tilts. The destroyed furniture, the blood, Vincent's cruel smile—it's all too much.
"Your parents took the money and ran," Vincent says. "They're probably in some motel right now, snorting their salvation. They're not coming back for you."
I want to deny it. Want to scream that my parents would never—
But I know they would.
I've always known they would.
Vincent moves closer, and I back away until I hit the wall. He reaches out and touches my hair, and his touch makes my skin crawl.
"Don't worry," he says. "You're going to be fine. Better than fine, actually. My boss paid a lot for you. He's got plans."
"Your boss?" The question comes out strangled.
"Yeah. You're not my property anymore, sweet girl. You belong to Dante Morelli now. And trust me—"
The air in the apartment changes.
It becomes heavier. Colder. Like something deadly just entered the room.
Vincent's hand drops from my hair immediately. He straightens up, and the cruelty drains from his expression, replaced by something like fear.
The door is still open behind him.
And in that doorway stands a man.
Not tall the way Vincent is tall. Taller. Dangerous-tall. The kind of tall that comes with power. The kind of tall that fills a room.
He's wearing an expensive suit that probably costs more than my entire education. His dark hair is perfectly styled. His face is beautiful in a way that seems wrong—all sharp angles and cold precision.
But his eyes—
His eyes are black.
Not brown. Not dark brown. Black. Like staring into an abyss. Like looking at someone who isn't quite human anymore.
Those eyes find me, and I feel like a rabbit being observed by a wolf.
"Is this her?" the man asks. His voice is quiet. Controlled. So much more terrifying than Vincent's shouting ever could be.
"Yes, boss," Vincent says quickly. "This is the girl. Lily Ashford. Just like we discussed."
The man steps into the apartment—into my destroyed sanctuary—and looks around slowly. He takes in the destroyed furniture, the scattered books, the blood on the walls. He observes it all with the same detached interest he observed me.
Then those black eyes return to my face.
I should cry. I should beg. I should fall apart.
Instead, I feel rage.
Pure, burning, crystalline rage.
My parents sold me. They looked at their own daughter and decided she was worth less than their next high. They destroyed me without hesitation or regret.
But I'm not broken yet.
And I'm not breaking for this man either.
The black-eyed man steps closer, and I don't back away. I meet his gaze directly, and I see something flicker across his face—surprise, maybe. Or recognition.
"If you're going to kill me, just do it," I say. My voice is steady. My heart is breaking, but my voice is steady. "I'm done being afraid of monsters."
Vincent laughs. "She's got fire. Might be worth more than twenty grand after all."
The black-eyed man doesn't respond to that. He just watches me. Like he's reading something written on my skin. Like I'm a puzzle he didn't know existed until this moment.
Then his lips curve into a slow, terrible smile.