Zion hated the smell of money. Especially when it came from the man who once broke him, and now wanted to own him.
The office was cold. Too clean, too quiet. Except for the ticking of Rayven Cruz's Rolex as he leaned back, calm as a devil in a tailored suit.
"You knew this was coming," Rayven said, his voice smooth but sharp. "Your father borrowed from the wrong people. I paid it off."
"I never asked you to!" Zion snapped, fists trembling. "I'd rather be in the streets than owe you."
Rayven stood. Walked over slowly, like a predator savoring the moment.
"You don't just owe me, Zion. You belong to me now."
His fingers brushed Zion's jaw, forcefully soft.
"You'll live in my house. Obey my rules. Sleep in my bed—"
"Go to hell!"
Rayven laughed low, dark. "Baby, I've been there. I brought souvenirs."
He leaned in, lips close enough to taste Zion's rage.
"You can hate me, curse me, fight me. But you will never leave me. Not again."
Zion's eyes burned. "What is this to you? A sick game?"
Rayven's smile vanished. "It's not a game, Zion. It's a warning."
He pulled Zion into a brutal hug, arms like chains.
"You're mine. And I don't share what's mine."