You should’ve known better than to run,”

She gulped, her throat tightening as those threatening and dangerous words left Dallion’s mouth. Her body, seated cross-legged with her injured leg resting across his lap, froze. The moment felt like an eternity before he released her leg, allowing her to pull it back, careful not to make any sudden movements.

A cold sweat trickled down her back, sticking her thin blouse to her skin. His smooth, almost charming tone didn’t mask the threat he had just casually thrown at her. His words hung in the air, heavy with menace, leaving her insides coiled with worry.

Truthfully, Sherry couldn’t figure him out. She had tried to understand Dallion, but the more she observed, the more confusing his character became. A notorious mafia boss, he was feared by all, yet somehow, here she was, caught in his web. He had claimed he knew she wasn’t one of the usual women his men brought in—those marked by the famous Bluebeard—but that didn’t change the fact that he now owned her and he wanted her by his side. Running away? Was far from impossible. She realized now that every word he spoke was calculated and direct, every smile a deception, and Sherry had to tread carefully. He hadn’t bothered feeding her, but he had sought her out.

All her efforts to free herself seemed to be in vain—the desperate escape, the jump from the second-story window of the hotel, and trudging barefeet with a heavy chain on her ankles through the filthy streets of the city—seemed utterly pointless. She had tried, though, hadn’t she? Sherry thought bitterly. Better to try than to sit and weep, waiting for the inevitable. But the more she resisted, the tighter the leash became.

He treated her like property, but minutes ago, he had tended to her wounded leg, removing the glass shards embedded in her foot. None of it made sense. But if there was one thing she was sure of, it was this: running wasn’t an option, not now, not after the threatening promise he made to her.

When the black sedan pulled up in front of the mansion, the driver hit the brakes sharply, the tires screeching. Sherry's jaw clenched as she stepped out of the car. Her breath hitched in her throat as she looked at the towering structure before her. The mansion loomed large against the sky, painted a menacing shade of grey that mirrored the storm clouds above. Thunder cracked in the distance, adding to the eerie atmosphere.

The statues, scattered throughout the manicured grounds, seemed out of place—they were like twisted marble figures with expressions of agony and fear. Their eyes, though made of stone, looked disturbingly real.

She stared at the statues, a man in a sharp black suit emerged from the mansion’s entrance, stepping down to greet Dallion. He took the mob boss’s long, black coat with practiced ease.

While Sherry's eyes continued to roam at the grotesque statues, the butler, Nickison, spoke in a low, almost reverent voice, “Master Dallion, who is that?” He already knew but asked anyway, his voice lined with a hint of curiosity.

Dallion's lips curled into a cold smile, “She’s mine. Clear the room next to mine, Nickison.”

Nickson's gaze shifted from completely lost Sherry to his master. There was no mistaking the ownership in his tone, and while Nickison kept his face expressionless, his eyes gave him away, he had a flicker smile of understanding.

"Would you like her placed in the left or the right wing?" Nickison asked politely, awaiting further instructions.

Dallion paused, as though reconsidering on his earlier instructions, then his smile widened. “On second thought, it won’t be necessary,” he said, his eyes glinting with something sinister.

Dallion blinked, but didn’t question his boss any further. “Yes, Master Dallion. Should I prepare the servants' quarters?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Nickson,” Dallion snapped, his voice turning sharp. He shot a glance at Sherry, his eyes glinting. “She stays with me. My mouse doesn't belong in the open where some wild, stray cats can touch it,” he murmured darkly, turning his full attention back to her.

Sherry swallowed hard under his gaze. She felt like prey, caught by a predator who enjoyed toying with his catch. He made it clear: escape was futile. She was his now. She had run from the city’s darkest underbelly, only to fall right into the jaws of its most ruthless man.

Dallion, now stepping ahead of her, led her inside. The grandeur of the mansion was suffocating, but Sherry's mind was too preoccupied with survival to appreciate its beauty. The maids, who were all dressed in black, moved like shadows, their heads bowed like it was a rule to everyone that wasn't supposed to be broken. Not a single one of them dared to lift their gaze as they passed. There were at least half a dozen of them, cleaning the walls and staircases like ghosts.

“You’re home late,” a sultry voice cut through the stillness, and a woman stepped into the hallway. She couldn’t have been older than thirty. Her sharp cheekbones and blood-red lips made her resemblance to Dallion unmistakable. Her rich, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves.

“Mars,” Dallion greeted the woman with a hint of amusement. She sauntered over, offering him a perfunctory kiss in the air, her eyes gleaming with a predatory glint.

“Mother was asking about you last night.”

“How lucky for me she remembered,” Dallion replied, his voice laced with sarcasm.

“She missed you,” The woman he'd just called Mars continued, her gaze flitting curiosity to Sherry, raising a brow. “Who’s this? You brought home another stray?” Her eyes raked over Sherry's disheveled appearance, her lip curling in mild disgust. “We have enough maids.”

“She’s not a maid,” Dallion said, his tone casual, but his grin was menacing. “She’s my little mouse.”

Sherry felt a chill run through her at the word. She had heard it before, but each time, the venom in his voice made her stomach turn. She fought the urge to react, knowing any resistance would be futile. She was weak, exhausted, and right now her entire body was aching.

Mar's eyes narrowed slightly. She understood all too well what that meant. The poor girl wouldn’t last long. Women who came into Dallion's life rarely did.

Sherry swayed slightly, her vision had started blurring. The exhaustion and the fever that had taken over her began creeping up on her making it hard for her to stand. She could barely keep herself upright, and before she knew it, her legs gave out from beneath her.

Before her body hit the cold marble floor, Dallion's arms were around her, catching her with unnerving speed. His grip was firm and possessive, as if to remind her of who controlled her fate.

“Is she alright?” Mars asked, her voice tinged with feigned concern, though she knew better than to actually care.

Dallion's expression darkened as he pressed a hand to Sherry's forehead. She was burning up. “Nickson,” he barked sending a cold shiver in the entire room, “bring cold water.”

Without another word, he carried her upstairs as though she weighed nothing. Sherry barely registered anything in it, her mind was completely foggy with fever for her to care anyway.

Mars trailed behind, her curiosity piqued. “What are you doing, Dallion? Shouldn’t you call a doctor?”

“For what?” Dallion sneered, “She’s just a stray.”

Mars lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t do anything reckless, Dallion. She’s not like the others.”

Dallion shot her a warning glance. “Don’t tell me how to handle my things, Mars.” His voice was cold, and the look in his eyes made it clear the conversation was over.

Once alone in his huge room, Dallion laid Sherry down in his bed. His normally mocking expression was replaced by something else—something darker. “You should’ve known better than to run,” he muttered to himself. His hand brushed a few strands of hair from her face, his fingers lingering longer than they should have.

Nickison arrived shortly with the water, dipping a cloth into the bowl and handing it to Dallion. The butler’s expression remained neutral, but he couldn’t help but notice the way Dallion looked at her. It was unsettling.