IN THE PALM OF HIS HANDS

Aria paced the luxurious bedroom like a caged animal.

The room was enormous-easily four times the size of her entire apartment back home. Her bare feet sank into a thick cream-colored carpet that felt like walking on clouds. The walls were painted a deep charcoal grey, accented with gold trim that caught the firelight. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling-not crystal like the one in the foyer, but wrought iron and black metal, dripping with candles that flickered with real flames, not electric bulbs.

The bed dominated the center of the room. It was king-sized, maybe larger, with a towering headboard upholstered in dark velvet. The sheets were black silk, cool and slippery to the touch, arranged with precision that spoke of professional housekeeping. Four velvet pillows in shades of grey and burgundy were stacked against the headboard, plump and untouched. A cream-colored throw blanket was folded at the foot of the bed, monogrammed with a gold "V" that caught the firelight.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, overlooking the vast estate grounds. The glass was tinted dark, turning the night outside into something even deeper and more mysterious. Beyond the glass, Aria could see the manicured gardens she had glimpsed upon arrival-bare winter trees reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers, hedges trimmed into sharp geometric shapes, and in the distance, the iron gates that had closed behind her, trapping her inside.

A marble bathroom was visible through an open door to her left-white and gold, with a freestanding tub large enough for two people, a walk-in shower with multiple showerheads, and a vanity covered in expensive-looking bottles she couldn't identify. She hadn't dared enter it yet. It felt too intimate, too permanent.

In the corner, a walk-in closet stood with its door slightly ajar. Through the crack, she could see rows of clothes already hanging inside-dresses, blouses, coats, all in dark colors, all clearly purchased for her. Someone had prepared this room for her arrival. Someone had known she was coming.

The thought made her skin crawl.

She tried the door again.

Locked.

Of course it was locked. The knob didn't even turn. She pressed her ear against the wood and heard nothing-no footsteps, no voices, just the heavy silence of a house that swallowed sound whole.

She moved to the windows next, running her fingers along the frames. The glass was thick-reinforced, she realized. Bulletproof, probably. She found a small latch and pushed. The window opened about two inches, letting in a cold draft that smelled of winter earth and pine, but no farther. There was a mechanism preventing it from opening more. Childproof, she thought bitterly. Or prisoner-proof.

She looked down. The drop was two stories onto stone patio. Even if she could somehow break the reinforced glass-which she couldn't-she would break her legs on impact. And even if she survived that, armed guards patrolled below. She could see them now, three men in black coats walking in slow circles, flashlights sweeping across the grounds.

Dogs too. Massive beasts-German shepherds or something larger, their dark shapes moving alongside the guards. One of them looked up at the window and growled, a low rumble that reached her even through the glass.

Aria stepped back.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. Her hands were shaking. Her wrists were still raw from where the silk tie had bound them-Damon had removed it before leaving her here, but the phantom sensation remained.

"Think, Aria. Think," she whispered to herself, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. The chill seeped into her skin, grounding her.

Seven days until the wedding. Seven days to find a way out.

But how? She was trapped in a fortress. No phone. No computer. No shoes. No money. No friends who even knew where she was. Her father had sold her and walked away. Her mother has long abandoned her. Her coworkers at the café would assume she had simply stopped showing up, like so many broke college students before her.

No one was coming to save her.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. She sank onto the velvet chaise lounge near the window, her legs suddenly unable to hold her weight.

Her mind kept replaying the scene in the foyer.

Valentina's hatred. The way the redhead's tears had cut through her expensive makeup. The desperation in her voice when she said I love you, Damon. And Damon's response-cold, dismissive, final. Like discarding a worn-out shirt.

What we had was sex, Valentina. Good sex. Nothing more.

Eight months of intimacy, and he had ended it in thirty seconds without a flicker of remorse.

And that growl.

Aria closed her eyes, remembering the sound. It had come from deep in his chest, rumbling like distant thunder. Not human. Not even close to human. It had vibrated through the marble floor, through the walls, through her own bones. And his eyes-for just a split second, they had glowed. A pale, luminous white that had no place in a human face.

The things I become when the moon-

Valentina hadn't finished that sentence. Damon had silenced her with a look, with that growl, with that inhuman glow. But Aria had heard enough.

When the moon.

She looked out the window at the night sky. The moon hung low and heavy, nearly full, casting silver light across the estate grounds. It was beautiful and cold and somehow threatening.

What happened when the moon was full?

What was Damon Voss?

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Aria spun around, heart hammering against her ribs. She stood up quickly, her bare feet sinking into the carpet, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

The door opened.

A middle-aged woman entered carrying a silver tray. She was short and plump, with grey-streaked brown hair pulled into a severe bun and a face that had learned long ago to show nothing. She wore a crisp black uniform-a knee-length dress, white apron, sensible flats. A small name tag pinned to her chest read Mrs. Harlow.

She didn't meet Aria's eyes.

"Master Damon says you must eat," the woman said quietly, her voice flat and professional. She walked to a small table near the window-a round marble surface with two velvet chairs-and set the tray down with careful precision.

Aria looked at the tray. There was grilled salmon drizzled with some kind of lemon sauce, roasted vegetables glistening with olive oil, a small bowl of wild rice, a basket of warm bread rolls, and a glass of deep red wine. A silver pitcher of water sat beside it, condensation beading on its surface.

The smell made her stomach clench with hunger. She hadn't eaten since breakfast-a single piece of toast and half a banana, scarfed down between study sessions.

"I'm not eating anything he gives me," Aria snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. The words came out harsher than she intended, but she didn't soften them. "Tell him to let me go. Tell him I want to go home."

Mrs. Harlow finally looked at her.

There was pity in the woman's eyes-deep, sad, knowing pity. The kind of look that said I've seen this before. I've seen girls like you before. I know how this ends.

"It's better if you don't fight him, miss," she said quietly. "No one wins against Master Voss. I've worked in this house for twelve years. I've seen strong people come through those doors. Angry people. Desperate people." She shook her head slowly. "None of them left the way they came in."

She bowed slightly-a small, deferential motion-and walked toward the door.

"Mrs. Harlow," Aria called out before the woman could leave.

She paused but didn't turn around.

"Please," Aria said, hating how small her voice sounded. "Is there anyone who can help me? Anyone at all?"

Mrs. Harlow was silent for a long moment. Then she said, very softly, "There is no help here, miss. Only survival."

She left, and the lock clicked behind her.

Aria stared at the food.

Her stomach growled again, loud in the silence. She hated herself for it-hated that her body still wanted things, still needed things, still refused to give up even when her mind was screaming in despair.

She sat down on the velvet chair and picked up the fork.

The salmon melted on her tongue. The vegetables were perfectly roasted, caramelized at the edges. The rice was fluffy and seasoned with something herbal and fragrant. She ate everything. Every bite. She drank the water in three long gulps and stared at the wine before pushing it aside.

She wouldn't drink his wine. That felt like acceptance.

But she ate his food.

And she hated herself for that too.

An hour passed. Maybe two. Aria lost track of time.

She had moved to the bed, sitting on the edge of the black silk sheets, her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. She was waiting. She didn't know for what, exactly-for the sun to rise? For a miracle? For the nightmare to end?

The lock clicked.

Aria's whole body went rigid.

Damon stepped inside.

He had changed out of his suit. Now he wore a simple black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing powerful forearms corded with muscle and dark ink. Tattoos covered his left arm from wrist to elbow-intricate patterns she couldn't decipher in the low light, whorls and lines and symbols that seemed to move when she blinked. His feet were bare, she noticed with surprise. Large, with well-defined arches and clean nails. Even his feet looked dangerous, somehow.

His black hair was slightly damp, as if he had just showered. A single drop of water clung to his temple, catching the firelight before sliding down his jaw.

His silver-grey eyes scanned her from head to toe-taking in her tear-stained face, her clenched hands, her rigid posture.

"You ate," he noted. His voice was soft, almost pleased.

"I was hungry," Aria replied coldly. "That doesn't mean I've accepted any of this."

Damon closed the door behind him and leaned against it, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his shoulders, and Aria looked away, refusing to notice.

"You will," he said. "In time."

"Why me?" The question burst out of her before she could stop it. She stood up, her hands shaking at her sides. "You could have taken the money another way. You could have done something else. Why force me into marriage? I'm nobody. I have nothing. I'm a broke college student who works at a café and lives in a slum. What could you possibly want with someone like me?"

Damon pushed off the door and walked toward her.

Each step was slow. Deliberate. Predatory. His bare feet made no sound on the thick carpet, but his presence filled the room, pressing against her from all sides.

She wanted to retreat. Every instinct screamed at her to back away, to put distance between them. But she forced herself to stand her ground, her chin lifted, her eyes meeting his.

He stopped inches away. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that she could see the tiny flecks of blue in his silver irises. Close enough that she could smell him-sandalwood and smoke and something wilder underneath, like forests after rain.

"Because I saw your picture," he said quietly. "In the file my men brought me. And something... called to me."

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm-surprisingly warm-and he wasn't wearing his gloves. She saw his hands for the first time. They were large, with long fingers and clean nails, but scarred-small white lines crossing his knuckles, a larger mark across his palm.

"Your father doesn't have the money he owes me," Damon continued. "But he does have something valuable."

"People aren't property," Aria hissed.

"You are now." His thumb brushed her cheekbone, feather-light. "You're mine, Aria. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

She jerked her face away from his touch. "I won't be your wife. I won't warm your bed like Valentina or whoever else you've used and thrown away. I don't care how much you threaten me. I won't-"

A dark smile tugged at Damon's lips. It wasn't amused. It was hungry.

"Valentina was a distraction," he said. "A warm body. Nothing more. You..." He leaned closer, his face inches from hers. His breath was warm on her lips. He inhaled slowly, deliberately, as if scenting her. "You're different."

Aria shoved at his chest with both hands.

It was like pushing against a brick wall. He didn't move. Didn't even sway. Her hands pressed against the warm fabric of his shirt, feeling the hard muscle beneath, and he simply stood there, watching her with those glowing silver eyes.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice shaking.

Damon caught her wrists-gently, but firmly. His fingers wrapped around her thin bones, holding her hands against his chest.

"Careful, little wolf," he murmured. "My patience has limits."

Little wolf.

The name again.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" she whispered.

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Something ancient and primal. Something that wasn't entirely human. His grip on her wrists tightened slightly, and she saw his pupils dilate, expanding until his silver irises were nearly swallowed by black.

Then he released her.

He stepped back, turned away, and walked toward the window. He stood with his back to her, staring out at the night sky, at the moon hanging low and heavy.

"You'll find out soon enough," he murmured. "The wedding will be in seven days. The dress designers will come tomorrow. Pick whatever you want."

"I'm not marrying you in seven days," Aria said through gritted teeth.

Damon turned back to her.

The softness was gone. The flicker of humanity was gone. In its place was the cold, ruthless mafia king who had burst through her apartment door and destroyed her life.

"You will," he said. "Or I'll have your father delivered to you in pieces. A finger a day, starting with the one he used to sign you away. Your choice, Aria."

She went pale. Her stomach turned to ice.

"You're a monster," she breathed.

Damon walked toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, his back still to her.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I am."

He left.

The lock clicked.

And Aria was alone.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands.

Seven days.

She had one week to find a way out of this nightmare.

But deep down, as the fire crackled and the moon rose higher and the guards' flashlights swept across the grounds below, a terrifying thought crept into her mind.

What if there was no escape from Damon Voss?

And worse-what kind of monster was he really hiding beneath that beautiful, ruthless face?

She looked out the window at the nearly full moon.

And shivered.