Sherryl Rain stood in the rain, her eyelashes dripping with the water that slid from her wet hair to her forehead, then down to her eyes.
If she hadn't been sure before, now there was no doubt: the man who had bought her off the black market was a devil. Dallion was cold and evil, with no trace of humanity in his soul. It wasn't just the darkness that surrounded them—the rain blurred her vision, making it hard to tell weeds from plants. When she crouched down, pulling out weeds by mistake, she realized she had also yanked out some of the good plants, which Dallion had already planned to punish her for further. But, just as Dallion had said, the rain finally let up, leaving only the cold wind to lash against her, making her shiver in the drenched dress that clung to her body, heavy and cumbersome from all the water it had absorbed. Now able to see the garden more clearly, she glanced down at the ruined plants and grimaced internally. Kill me now, she thought. Hiding the good ones under the soil again, she moved to another patch. If anyone asked, she'd blame it on the rain. It wasn't a complete disaster—the garden was well-kept, and there weren't many weeds left to begin with. Sherryl dared not look around to check if Dallion was still watching. Who knew if the devil was having his own twisted fun at her expense? Thanks to the rain, the soil had softened enough to make pulling weeds easier, and she was careful not to disturb any more of the actual plants. The last thing she wanted was to give Dallion another reason to punish her. While Sherryl worked under the dim light cast by the mansion’s outdoor lamps, Lady Grace arrived, summoned by the butler with news that her brother was waiting for her at the door. Lady Grace hadn’t noticed the woman toiling in the garden and turned to speak to her brother as soon as she stepped outside, "You called for me, Dallion?" "I did," Dallion turned to his right, meeting his elder sister's gaze with a smile that appeared calm and collected. Grace furrowed her brows, wondering what had put her brother in such a good mood. Something caught her eye, and she turned to see Sherryl working in the garden. "What are you making her do this late at night?" "What do you think?" Dallion let his sister guess, watching her frown deepen. "She's soaked. She’s going to catch a cold," Grace said, taking two steps toward the garden before her brother's voice stopped her. "Bring her back, and she’ll face the same fate as Sven." Grace froze mid-step. "You wouldn’t," she said, turning to face him, her voice strained as she clenched her fists. The memory of what happened to Sven, a servant who had crossed Dallion, flashed through her mind. "Try me," Dallion smirked, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "There’s no harm in testing boundaries, is there?" "Show some compassion, Dallion. They’re still human, with feelings." "Don’t patronize me, Grace. Especially not you," Dallion’s smile lingered, though it darkened as his sister recalled their shared history. "It was an accident. You know that," Grace insisted, her voice wavering. "An accident? You killed a maid out of jealousy because the man you loved paid her attention. How did it feel, Grace? To have her blood on your hands and watch him look at you with so much disgust that you wanted to end it all?" Dallion’s taunts pierced through her, and though pain flickered across her features, she quickly masked it. "Say what you will, brother, but you’re no better than me," Grace replied, her voice hardening. "I never claimed to be," Dallion shrugged, his gaze shifting back to Sherryl, who was trembling in the cold garden. "This is just a reminder." "You’re punishing her for something I did. Why? Why torment her for my mistake?" Grace asked, though she knew her brother relished the sight before him. "Because, dear sister, I can’t punish you. You’re blood. And where’s the fun in hurting someone who won’t react?" Dallion’s voice dripped with mockery. "She’s going to get sick." "I’ll nurse her back to health. But don’t forget, it’s because of you that she’s suffering," he replied, his gaze sharp and unrelenting as the cold wind swept over them. "It’s your fault, Grace. The girl doesn’t know it, but you do. You know how much I hate intruders in the attic, including you." "She wasn’t just your mother—she was mine too," Grace said, her voice defensive. Dallion chuckled darkly. "I haven’t forgotten that. But where were you when Father wanted to burn all her belongings? Standing there, watching, doing nothing? You were her daughter, and you’re my sister, but even between us, there are lines that cannot be crossed." Grace nodded slowly, the weight of the past settling on her shoulders. "Drawing lines and setting rules is one thing, Dallion. But for your loved ones, sometimes understanding comes too late." As if the conversation hadn’t just plunged into painful memories, Dallion remarked, "Is she planting flowers or pulling weeds? What’s taking so long?" "It’s dark. What did you expect?" Grace pointed out the obvious, earning an eye roll from her brother. Dallion didn’t bother replying. He strode toward Sherryl, who crouched low, struggling to see in the dim light. The mansion's lanterns offered only a faint glow, just enough for her to spot the plants in front of her. Catching the shadow of Dallion looming over her, she looked up, startled. Unable to stop herself, she blurted out, "You’re going to pull weeds with me?" "Why not?" Dallion said as he crouched beside her. Sherryl's eyes widened in disbelief. This man—this dangerous, possessive mafia leader—was now sitting next to her, examining the same plants. Without warning, Dallion scolded her, "Do you have a death wish? You’ve been pulling the good ones." Despite his harsh words, the threat didn’t seem as terrifying as it should have. This man, the feared leader of the Cross empire, was sitting at her level, casually talking to her. Dallion snapped his fingers in front of her face, bringing her back to reality. Sherryl shivered under his intense gaze, her wet clothes clinging to her skin. Her heart pounded as Dallion’s face inched closer, his eyes dark and unreadable. She could feel his breath against her cheek, and her pulse quickened. “Master Dallion,” she whispered nervously. “Hm?” Dallion didn’t move, his eyes still locked on hers. “You’re crushing the plant under your foot. That’s not a weed,” she said, her voice barely steady as her heart raced. Dallion glanced down, his lips curling into a smirk. “Says the girl who’s been uprooting all the good ones. Are you stupid or just plain useless?” Ignoring his comment, Sherryl felt the tension between them grow thick as the rain began to ease. Lady Grace, watching from afar, couldn’t help but wonder what twisted game her brother was playing. As the night wore on, the past hung heavily between Dallion and Grace, while Sherryl remained caught in the crossfire of a dark legacy she couldn’t yet comprehend.Bone lake Coastal City....Year 2014, Midnight The relentless downpour drenched the dimly lit streets of Bone lake, a coastal city where the sea roared under the storm's fury. The streetlights flickered, barely illuminating the narrow alleyways. Deep puddles formed, reflecting the towering shadows of forgotten buildings in this forsaken part of town. Beneath a broken street lamp, a young woman named Sherry Rain stood, clinging to her black umbrella, the rain slapping down like a symphony of whispers and screams. Her jade green eyes darted nervously across the empty street as her aunt and uncle huddled under another umbrella a few feet away. The city's underworld had kept them on edge for weeks. Every delivery felt like walking through a minefield. Tonight was no different. "Aunt May, do you think they’ll show?" Sherry asked, her voice barely rising above the sound of the rain. "The storm’s getting worse." "They’ll come," her aunt replied, she was an old woman who had worked f
Sherry was woken up by the deafening rumble of thunder, the sound blending with the heavy patter of rain against what felt like cold stone. Her eyes, still heavy with exhaustion, struggled to focus on the dim shadows that surrounded her. She lay on a wet floor, the slickness of the ground confirming that water had seeped through the narrow window above her. Disoriented, Sherry blinked once, twice, pushing herself up, her palms slick against the moisture-coated ground. Her breath hitched as she glanced around. The room, devoid of light except for a faint glow spilling in from a hallway beyond, felt small and suffocating. A sense of danger slithered around her, the stone walls holding more than just coldness; they held secrets. The air reeked of damp stone and rusted metal. Sherry's mind raced as she pushed herself up on shaky legs, her fingers brushing against the cold iron bars that separated her from freedom. Bars. This wasn't a room. This was a cage. She peered through the dar
The early hours of the morning were typically silent, but today, a soft drizzle accompanied the heavy clouds that still blanketed the sky. The mansion that stood at the heart of the sprawling estate was a fortress, with guards stationed at every entrance, their cold gazes alert for any disturbance. Inside the vast underground levels, the clinking of metal against the concrete floor echoed. Sherry's eyes fluttered open as the noise roused her. She sat up slowly, her body aching from the night spent on a hard, cold cot. She rubbed her eyes and took in her surroundings—the dim, damp room that had been her prison for what felt like weeks. The steel door of her cell clanked open with a low groan, and Sherry felt a small surge of relief. The prospect of stepping outside, of breathing air that wasn’t stifled by the smell of fear and sweat, was a small consolation in her otherwise grim situation. As she rose to her feet, she saw other pr
A knock on the steel door interrupted the guard before he could press the knife any deeper into Sherry's skin. His blade had already grazed her cheek, a shallow line of blood trailing down her face. "What?" he growled, his voice a guttural snarl as another knock echoed through the cold, dimly lit room. As strong as she tried to be, Sherry was terrified. She knew her position here—bound by ropes in the mafia's underground trafficking ring, a pawn in a vicious game of power. Viktor had been sent to "discipline" her, to remind her that rebellion came with consequences. He tugged on the back of her hair, yanking her head up so that her tear-filled eyes met his. "I haven't even started with you, girl," he sneered, breath hot on her skin. Sherry had hoped her desperate attempts to escape—punching, kicking, screaming—would have bought her some time. But all she got in return was a twisted grin and
The narrow corridor felt like a tomb, the pale lights overhead flickering intermittently, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Sherry's footsteps echoed down the cold concrete floor as she passed the holding cells, each lined with steel bars and flickering red lights. The captives inside sat motionless, their faces a mixture of despair and defiance. Some leaned against the wall, others curled into themselves, trying to shield their broken spirits. It had been five days since Sherry was dragged into The Basement, the infamous underground lair of The Bone lake Syndicate, a sprawling mafia organization that traded in secrets, power—and human lives. She'd spent two of those days in an isolation room, a punishment she was told would ‘teach her to behave.’ But she knew the real reason—they were trying to break her down before branding her, marking her like they did every other captive in this place. It was the same warning she’d heard from Raphael, her cellmate. The branding was a sign of o
In the dimly lit chamber of the underground warehouse, the air was thick with tension, and the smell of dampness hung in the atmosphere like a cloak. The bare bulb overhead flickered ominously, casting eerie shadows across the worn, concrete floors. This wasn’t a place for the faint-hearted. This was the heart of the underworld, a place where people became commodities, and money changed hands in exchange for flesh. Sherry stood in line with the other women, her wrists bound tightly behind her back, the coarse rope biting into her skin. Her heart hammered in her chest, but her face remained expressionless. The others, terrified and broken, had already shed silent tears. Sherry had learned long ago that crying did no good in a world like this. She’d bite down her terror like she had bitten down on the filthy hand of the man who had dared to touch her. The memory of it sent a fresh wave of disgust through her, but she kept her gaze steady, her lips pressed into a hard line. Across fro
Meanwhile at the center of Bone lake city.... Dallion "Black Death" Cross strode through the bustling streets of Bone lake, a place known for its shady deals and underworld connections. The sound of chatter, clinking coins, and distant laughter mixed with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and burning cigars. It was a maze of alleys and crooked streets, a place where power wasn’t just bought with money, but with blood and favors. As his black leather shoes clicked on the cobblestones, men and women quickly moved out of his way, lowering their gazes in a mixture of fear and respect. Mr Cross was no ordinary man. In fact, in the dark underbelly of the city, he was considered more of a myth than flesh and blood. The Black Death wasn’t just a nickname; it was a title he'd earned through merciless violence, swift executions, and a reputation that left most either shaking or dead. He wore a tailored black suit, his muscular frame exuding
Sherry could feel the fear beginning to seep into her bones like poison. She had watched a minute ago how Mary and others were auctioned, Lyon had left immediately asking his subordinates to end finalize everything and leave. He had asked them to let the other three remaining back to the cell until next week because he had urgent business, but his subordinates didn't pay attention to his words. Now standing on display for an audience of ruthless men, she was more than just nervous—she was terrified. Her heart pounded with the kind of dread that left her skin cold despite the cool, cloudy weather outside. The clouds loomed heavy and dark, promising a storm, but the real storm was already brewing in her chest. Her palms were clammy, and a light sheen of perspiration had started to settle on her skin. She kept her gaze low, unable to meet the gazes of the men who stood before her. There was no