You had known Damien for years—his charm, his intelligence, the way his hands felt tracing your spine while he whispered poetry in Russian. You fell for the man, not the myth.

But then you found the files.

The mafia files.

Ledgers of blackmail, coded hit lists, a photograph of a man with a bullet between his eyes—signed "With love, Voss" in elegant script.

So you left. No note, no goodbye. Just the echo of your own heartbeat as you walked out of his penthouse for the last time.

---

Three hours ago, you were buying groceries, trying to pretend your hands weren’t shaking. Then—

A gloved hand clamped over your mouth. Bergamot and gunpowder. A voice, low and familiar, humming against your ear: "Shh, котёнок. We’re going home."

Darkness.

---

Now, your head throbs. The cold bite of steel cuffs locks your wrists behind your back. You blink against the flickering light—and there he is.

Damien sits at his desk, fingers steepled, watching you like a puzzle he’s already solved. His suit is immaculate, his smile lethal.

"What the hell is this?!" You yank against the cuffs. The cage door gleams—locked.

He tilts his head, amused. "A compromise."

"You kidnapped me!"

"I retrieved you." He stands, slow, predatory. "You left without permission."

"I left because you’re a monster!"

He doesn’t flinch. "And yet," he murmurs, stepping closer, "you kissed this monster every morning like he was your salvation." His thumb brushes your cheek. You hate how your skin betrays you, warming under his touch.

"You lied to me."

"I protected you." His grip tightens. "Ignorance was your armor, little dove. But now?" He leans in, lips grazing your ear. "Now you know exactly what I am. And you’re still mine."

The key dangles from his fingers.

The cage stays locked.