TRAPPED WITH THE DEVIL: MY FATHER'S BEST FRIEND

I woke to a knock at my door.

Sharp. Professional.

Not Dominic.

"Come in," I called, my voice still rough with sleep.

Helen entered, carrying a silver tray. On it sat a single envelope, cream-colored and embossed with initials I recognized.

D.S.

"Mr. Sterling asked me to deliver this," she said, setting the tray on the desk by the window. "Breakfast will be ready in thirty minutes."

She left before I could respond.

I stared at the envelope for a long moment before I opened it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. Typed. Formal.

RESIDENCY TERMS AND CONDITIONS

My stomach dropped.

I read.

1. Miss Vance is not permitted to leave the estate grounds without prior approval from Mr. Sterling and accompaniment by designated security personnel.

2. Miss Vance will surrender all personal communication devices. Approved communication will be monitored and facilitated by estate staff.

3. Miss Vance is prohibited from engaging in romantic or intimate relationships with any individual outside of this arrangement.

4. Miss Vance will attend all meals with Mr. Sterling unless otherwise excused.

5. Violation of these terms will result in immediate disciplinary action at Mr. Sterling's discretion.

My hands shook as I read it again.

And again.

This wasn't protection.

This was ownership.

I crumpled the paper in my fist and threw it across the room.

---

Breakfast was tense.

I sat across from Dominic in a smaller dining room, sunlight streaming through the windows, making everything look deceptively peaceful.

He looked immaculate, as always. Three-piece suit. Not a hair out of place.

I wore the same jeans and t-shirt I'd arrived in.

A small rebellion.

"You received the terms," he said. Not a question.

"I read your little manifesto," I replied coldly. "You forgot to include 'Miss Vance shall bow when entering a room.'"

His jaw tightened. "This isn't a joke, Aria."

"Neither is my life," I shot back. "You can't just-just lock me up and dictate how I live."

"I can," he said calmly. "And I will."

"The no dating rule?" I laughed bitterly. "I'm twenty-one years old. You can't-"

"I can." His eyes darkened. "And you will comply."

"Or what?"

He set down his coffee cup with deliberate precision. "Or I stop protecting your father."

The air left my lungs.

"You're bluffing."

"Try me."

We stared at each other across the table, and I realized with horrifying clarity that he wasn't bluffing. He would do it. He would let Kane tear my father apart if I defied him.

"You're a monster," I whispered.

"We've established that." He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "But I'm a monster who keeps you alive. Remember that."

"The cameras," I said, changing tactics. "Helen said there are cameras everywhere."

"Security measures."

"In my bedroom?"

"No." His voice was firm. "Your bedroom and bathroom are private."

I blinked, surprised.

"I'm not a voyeur, Aria," he continued. "I'm protecting you. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

His eyes flashed. "Yes."

Silence stretched between us.

"The no dating rule," I said finally. "Why?"

"Because I don't share."

My breath caught. "I'm not yours to share."

He stood, and suddenly he was beside my chair, leaning down, his hands gripping the armrests on either side of me.

Caging me in.

"Aren't you?" he murmured, his face inches from mine. "You're living in my house. Eating my food. Wearing the bracelet I returned to you."

"Because you forced me to."

"And yet," he said softly, "when I kissed you that night, you didn't pull away."

Heat flooded my face. "That was before I knew-"

"Before you knew I wanted you?" He tilted his head. "Or before you knew you wanted me back?"

"I don't want you."

"Liar."

His thumb brushed my jaw, and I hated that my body leaned into the touch before I could stop myself.

"Here's the rule, Aria," he said, his voice dropping lower. "You don't date. You don't smile at other men. You don't let them touch you. Because every breath you take under this roof belongs to me."

"That's insane."

"That's the deal."

He straightened and walked toward the door.

"Dominic-"

He paused, glancing back.

"What if I break your rules?" I asked.

His smile was cold. "Then I'll remind you who you belong to."

And he left.

---

I spent the rest of the day exploring the estate.

Or trying to.

Every hallway had cameras. Every exit had guards. The pool, the library, the gardens-all beautiful. All monitored.

I was a bird in a gilded cage.

By evening, I retreated to my room, exhausted and furious.

I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and tried not to think about the way Dominic had looked at me.

The way I had almost leaned into his touch.

I hated him.

I had to hate him.

---

The gunshot woke me at 2 a.m.

I bolted upright, heart hammering.

Then-shouting. The crash of something heavy. Footsteps pounding down the hallway.

I threw off the covers and ran to the door, flinging it open.

Helen was in the hallway, her face pale.

"What's happening?" I demanded.

"Miss Vance, please return to your-"

Another crash.

I pushed past her and ran toward the noise.

It led me to Dominic's office on the first floor.

The door was ajar.

I shoved it open.

And froze.

Dominic sat slumped in his desk chair, his white shirt soaked red. His jacket was discarded on the floor, and his hand pressed against his side, blood seeping between his fingers.

Three of his men stood around him, arguing.

"-need to get you to a hospital-"

"No hospitals," Dominic gritted out. "Kane has people there."

"Then let us call a private-"

"No."

His eyes flicked up.

And locked on mine.

"Get out," he said.

I didn't move.

"Aria. Leave."

Instead, I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.

"Everyone out," I said.

The men stared at me.

"Now," I snapped, using the voice I'd learned in the ER when patients were bleeding out and people were panicking. "Out."

They looked at Dominic.

He nodded, and they filed out reluctantly.

The door clicked shut.

We were alone.

"You should go," Dominic said, his voice strained.

"Shut up," I replied.

I crossed to him, my hands already moving, assessing. I pulled his hand away from the wound.

A gunshot. Entry wound on his left side, just above his hip. No exit wound.

Shit.

"The bullet's still in," I said. "You need a hospital."

"No hospitals."

"Dominic-"

"No."

I looked into his eyes, and I saw something I hadn't seen before.

Fear.

Not of the bullet.

Of being vulnerable.

"Fine," I said. "Then you're going to have to trust me."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I'm a nursing student, and I've done this before," I said. "And because you're bleeding out on your overpriced leather chair."

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

"Do it," he said.

I moved fast.

"I need supplies. Medical kit. Sterilization equipment. Sutures."

"Bathroom. Cabinet under the sink."

I ran.

When I returned, arms full of supplies, Dominic had removed his shirt.

My breath caught.

He was-God.

Muscle and scars and tan skin slick with blood.

Focus, Aria.

I set the supplies on the desk and pulled on gloves.

"This is going to hurt," I warned.

"I've had worse."

I cleaned the wound first, my hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. The bullet was lodged shallow-lucky. If it had gone deeper...

I didn't let myself think about it.

"I need to extract the bullet," I said. "I don't have anesthesia."

"Do it."

I met his eyes. "Dominic-"

"Do it, Aria."

I nodded.

I used forceps, working carefully, my fingers slick with his blood. His breath hissed through his teeth, his hand gripping the armrest so hard his knuckles went white.

But he didn't make a sound.

"Got it," I whispered, dropping the bullet into a dish.

I cleaned the wound again, working quickly. Then I threaded the suture needle.

"This will hurt more," I said.

His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.

Not hard. Just-holding.

"You're good at this," he said, his voice rough.

"I've had practice."

"Where?"

"The ER. Gunshot wounds come in every weekend."

He was quiet for a moment, watching me.

"You're not scared," he observed.

"I'm terrified," I admitted. "But I'm not going to let you die."

Something shifted in his expression.

"Why?"

I paused, the needle hovering over his skin.

Why?

Because despite everything, despite the rules and the cage and the control, I didn't want him dead.

"Because I'm a nurse," I said finally. "It's what I do."

I started stitching.

His hand stayed on my wrist, his thumb tracing small circles on my pulse point.

"Aria."

"Hmm?"

"I knew."

I looked up. "Knew what?"

His eyes were dark. Glassy with pain or something else.

"I knew who you were," he said quietly. "Before the club."

My hands stilled.

"What?"

"I've known you since you were little" he continued, his voice almost detached. "Your father used to bring you to my office. You always had a textbook under your arm."

My heart slammed against my ribs.

"You-you've been watching me?"

"Not watching," he said. "Noticing."

"That's the same thing."

"No." His grip on my wrist tightened slightly. "It's not."

I should have pulled away.

I should have demanded answers.

But I didn't.

I finished the stitches in silence, my mind reeling.

When I tied off the last suture, I finally looked at him.

"Why didn't you say anything? At the club?"

His eyes met mine.

"Because I wanted one night where you looked at me like I wasn't your father's friend," he said. "One night where you were just a girl. And I was just a man."

The air between us felt electric.

Dangerous.

"And now?" I whispered.

His hand slid from my wrist to my jaw, tilting my face up.

"Now," he murmured, "you're mine."

He pulled me closer, and I didn't resist.

His forehead rested against mine, his breath warm on my lips.

"You should run from me, Aria," he said softly.

"I know."

"But you won't."

"No."

His thumb traced my lower lip, and I shivered.

"Good girl," he whispered.

And then he kissed me.

Not like at the club.

Not claiming or branding.

This kiss was something darker.

Desperate.

A man who had bled and been stitched back together by the woman he wanted more than his next breath.

When he pulled back, my hands were fisted in his hair, and his blood was smeared on my shirt.

"Go to bed, Aria," he said, his voice wrecked.

"You need to rest-"

"Go."

It wasn't a suggestion.

I stood on shaking legs, gathering the supplies.

At the door, I paused.

"Dominic?"

"Yes?"

"Don't get shot again."

His laugh was low and pained. "I'll try."

I left him there, bleeding and beautiful and more dangerous than any bullet.

And I knew, with terrifying certainty, that I was falling for the man who owned me.

I was so screwed.