The game had only began

It took a few hours before consciousness slowly returned to Sherry, her eyes fluttered open to a dimly lit room, the familiar scent of expensive cigars and leather assaulting her senses. It took a moment for her vision to adjust to the space she was in. The ceiling above her wasn’t the peeling white she was used to from the dingy motel she had fled, but instead, it was a high, vaulted structure, covered in ornate dark wood paneling. The mirror directly overhead made her jump slightly—she barely recognized herself in the reflective glass. Her face, was pale and hollowed from exhaustion, she seemed almost foreign even to herself.

The bed she lay in was an oversized king-size bed, its posts carved intricately with designs that reflected power and control, draped with thick, velvet curtains that gave the room an eerie sense of intimacy and isolation. A cold breeze slipped in from an open window, causing her body to shiver beneath the heavy, silk comforter. She tried to sit up, but her head pounded like a war drum, the aftereffects of whatever drugs or alcohol they had pumped into her system still trapping her down.

Looking around, she noted the luxurious surroundings—a room fit for a mafia king, not a common girl like her. The two golden chandeliers hanging low from the ceiling provided just enough light to cast long shadows across the room, flickering candles and the glow of a fireplace adding warmth to the otherwise cold atmosphere.

A chill ran through her as her gaze dropped to the ground. There was a velvet carpet, that was thick and soft beneath her, it should have offered her the comfort she really much yearned for, but it did nothing but to ease her growing panic. She attempted to move her legs, only to be met with resistance. Confusion clouded her thoughts as she looked down, gasping in horror as she saw the cold, iron chain wrapped around her ankle, binding her to one of the bedposts.

A flood of memories rushed back to her—her desperate run through the city streets, the sound of heavy footsteps chasing her down, the abrupt stop as something—no, someone—had grabbed her from behind. And then the man's body near the maniac that had bought her, meeting Mars or whatever he'd called her before she collapsed.

The door to the room swung open with a creak, startling her back to the present. Her heart raced as a tall figure stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a deliberate click it was no mistake it was him, the very man she didn't want to be near. Dallion. He moved with the confidence of someone who owned everything and everyone in his sight. Dressed sharply in a tailored black suit, his cold, calculating eyes landed on her, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

"You're awake," his deep voice purred as he approached the bed. "pets... are always so fragile. You know, Sherry, you should've stayed put. Running from me only made things worse for yourself."

Sherry glared at him, her mouth dry, while her throat aching from lack of water. "If you hadn’t threatened me in the first place, maybe I wouldn’t have to run."

Her voice wavered but she forced herself to maintain eye contact with him, refusing to let fear control her. Dallion chuckled darkly, the sound of his chuckle sending a fresh wave of chills down her spine.

"Are you still fighting back? I see." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, silver key. With deliberate slowness, he unlocked the chain from the bedpost, though he left the cold metal cuff tight around her ankle. "I admire your spirit, but you're mine now. You do as I say, or you'll find out just how quickly things can go from bad to worse."

She swallowed hard, unwilling to push him further. Dallion was known as the most dangerous man in the underworld, the kind of man people only whispered about. The head of the infamous Cross family, he had more blood on his hands than anyone could count. And now she was trapped in his world.

"I need to use the bathroom," she whispered, the humiliation of asking for permission stinging at her pride. But there was no way around it. The chain around her ankle wasn’t just for show.

Dallion tilted his head, regarding her for a moment before nodding. "Go on."

When he didn’t move, Sherry struggled to her feet, the chain dragging behind her as she made her way to the adjoining bathroom he'd pointed earlier. Her legs were weak, and every step was a reminder of the brutal chase since her aunt May and uncle Larry betrayed her and her capture. She knew Dallion was watching her every movement, his dark gaze lingering on her like a predator sizing up its prey. Once behind the curtain, she released a shaky breath, closing her eyes and fighting back tears.

What had her foster family gotten her into?

While Sherry was in the bathroom, a knock came at the door. She heard the voice of another man—Dallion's butler, Nickson. His voice was soft, respectful, the kind of tone you use when addressing someone who could end your life in a heartbeat.

"Master Dallion, the food has been prepared. Shall I bring it to her now?"

"She’s awake," Dallion replied, his voice carrying through the room. "But I’m not sure if she’ll even be able to stomach it. It would be a shame if she couldn’t eat in her current state. What a waste of my time it would be."

Nickison hesitated, as if weighing his next words carefully. "It’s a simple meal, sir. A light broth—something that won’t upset her stomach."

There was a brief silence, followed by Dallion's soft chuckle. "You know little pets better than I do, Nickson. What do you suggest? Her fever hasn’t broken."

Nickison, though a butler and an advisor to Dallion, was known for his practical handling of household affairs, he was often dealing with the family’s less savory operations in the city. "A cloth bath with cold water should help bring the fever down, while we call for a doctor."

Dallion scoffed, "Doctors are useless. The local ones barely know how to keep themselves alive, let alone a human they’ve never met. No need for their incompetence here."

As Sherry returned to the room, Dallion's gaze instantly locked onto her. His eyes swept over her, taking in her disheveled state, the marks of restraint, the subtle flush of fever still tinting her cheeks. He rose from his seat, moving toward her with slow, calculated steps, a dark smile creeping onto his face.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice low and teasing. "Still burning up, I see. Maybe Nickson's right. A cold cloth bath might help." His fingers reached out, brushing a lock of her hair from her face. The simple touch sent shivers through her body, though not entirely from fear.

"I’m fine," Sherry snapped, wrapping the blanket tighter around her as she dragged herself back toward the bed, the chain clinking with every step. "No need for your help."

"Is that so?" Dallion eyes gleamed with amusement. "Well then, since you’re feeling better, it’s time to get back to what I brought you here for, to carry on your duties of taking care of me. Why don’t you start by unbuttoning my shirt?"

Sherry's breath hitched, her pulse quickening as she stared at him in disbelief. His eyes held a predatory glint, daring her to defy him. She knew what he was asking. And she knew she had no choice but to obey him.

The game he had prepared in his mind for her has only just begun.