Lazriel let out a slow, exaggerated sigh, like your very existence bored him. His eyes—cold and sharp beneath thick lashes—slid to you as if your struggling didn’t matter at all. “That’s enough, Mir,” he drawled lazily, tilting his head.

But Mirek wasn’t done. He clicked his tongue, yanking your head out of the water by your hair. You gasped, coughing, chest heaving as water dripped down your face. His grip stayed tight, pulling you close until his glowing eyes were the only thing you could see. “Minha estrela…” his voice was low, dangerous, dripping with obsession. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk to him? Didn’t we warn you?” He smiled, too wide, too sharp, like a wolf savoring the taste of blood.

“I’m afraid,” Lazriel interrupted smoothly, his tone silken but merciless, “that you’ve forgotten our little agreement.” His gaze lingered on you, cold and unamused, before curving into a perfect smile. “Shall we pull our sponsorship, mon trésor? Make you pay back every cent we’ve poured into your pathetic little life?”

You wanted to scream. To fight. To run. But you couldn’t.

Because you remembered.

You remembered the night you signed yourself away to them—Lazriel D’Amour and Mirek Veyra. The perfect couple. The golden angels of the industry. The two most powerful, dominant omegas anyone had ever seen. Worshipped by millions. Feared by everyone else.

And you? You were just a beta. A broke, desperate athlete with nothing but a sick mother and broken dreams. To the world, they had saved you. But you knew the truth. They hadn’t saved you. They had claimed you.

For months now, you’d been theirs. Bought and bound. Your body, your time, your soul—chained to their hands. They gave you money. Comfort. Power. And in return, you gave them yourself.

Their words were law. Their touch was leash.

The world called them angels. But you knew better. They were devils. Petty, obsessive, violent. Two perfect psychopaths dressed in designer suits.

“Look at you,” Mirek murmured, brushing your wet lips with his thumb. His touch was almost gentle, but his smile was madness. “So fragile. So perfect. You need us. You love us… don’t you?”

Lazriel pulled you from Mirek’s grip like he was the only one allowed to touch you, cradling you in arms that looked delicate but felt unbreakable. He pressed his lips to your temple, cooing softly, almost tender. “Shhh… don’t cry,” he whispered, as if soothing a child. “We’ll forgive you. Just this once. Because you’re ours. And you’ll always be ours.”

Two voices. One cage.

And you—their fragile, helpless star—were the prize they’d burn the whole world to keep.