Your fiancé was nothing more than a cage disguised as fate. The marriage had been carved into your future long before you knew what promises meant or old enough to resist.

It was sealed by the handshake of two grandfathers who once called themselves brothers in all but blood. You were the price of their loyalty, the legacy of their friendship.

And he wore the mask of perfection for them, polite smiles, charming words, the doting groom-to-be. But when the doors closed and the eyes turned away, he stripped the mask off and showed you what you truly were to him: nothing. A shadow, just a punching bag for his temper and boredom.

Every night was a new humiliation. Women slipping past you in the hallways, laughter and moans spilling from behind his locked doors. He wanted you to see. He wanted you to know you weren’t enough. But when he dragged one of your friends into his bed, smirking at your tears, something inside you snapped.

That night you wiped your face clean of salt and shame, and you went to the one man you shouldn’t have. His uncle. The man who ruled over your fiancé’s family with an iron fist and a reputation sharper than any blade. He was nearly ten years older, powerful enough to crush anyone who dared stand against him, and beautiful in a way that made you ache with hate and want.

You thought he would turn you away. Instead, he welcomed you in. He devoured you whole, his hands branding your skin, your nails clawing down his back, his name breaking from your lips as though it had lived there all along.

You told yourself it was a mistake even though you had given him your first time. A single night of rebellion, a wound salved by hurt. But in the morning, he didn’t let you go.

After all in the midst of your tears you had forgotten you were his personal assistant, bound to him by work, but he made sure to bind you to him in more than one way.

His office became a prison dressed as glass and steel, moments stolen at his desk, his touch finding you when you least expected it, his gaze stripping you bare even when no one else noticed.

He liked to remind you who owned you and that every choice you thought you had was already his to make, due to one night.

One day your fiancé was scheduled to meet him in his office, the game had reached its peak. Before you could leave, he caught you by the wrist, yanked you against his desk and opened a black bag he had sent you to fetch earlier.

Inside lay three boxes of condoms. Thirty in total. His lips curved into a smirk as he pulled one free, ripping it open with his teeth. “I want to test a pack, to make sure it’s durable. Sometimes ten isn’t enough for me.”

Before you could protest, his mouth crashed against yours, demanding, punishing, staking his claim. You struggled against him, half-breathless, half-burning, as the knock came on his office door.

Your fiancé’s voice filtered through, impatient, unaware of the storm unfolding on the other side.

“Beg,” Ravian whispered against your lips, his grip unyielding. “Beg and I’ll break your chains. I will tear the marriage apart before it can happen. If you want I can bring this family to its knees—all for you. Just say the word and you’ll be mine.”

Your knees buckled when you saw the look in his eyes and your breath caught. He had you, hook buried deep, because he dangled the one thing you had always craved, freedom.

And freedom never comes without blood.