I wake up in a bed that costs more than my life, but I feel like a ghost.
Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows—too bright, too cheerful for a house owned by a man like Dante Russo. I spent the morning waiting for the door to open.
Waiting for him to change his mind about his rules.
He never came.
By noon, the silence of the mansion starts to itch.
I've explored the bedroom. The walk-in closet filled with clothes in my exact size—which is a terrifying thought on its own. The marble bathroom. The mirrors that reflect a version of me that doesn't quite feel real.
I'm a bird in a gilded cage.
And I need to know how thick the bars are.
I creep into the hallway. It's quiet. Too quiet. The neutral-faced woman from last night is nowhere to be seen. My bare feet are silent against the cold stone as I reach the grand staircase.
I'm looking for a library.
A kitchen.
An exit.
Instead, I find the heavy oak doors at the end of the north wing.
They're slightly ajar.
One of Dante's rules screams in the back of my head: Don't touch the weapons.
I shouldn't go in.
I should turn around, return to my silk sheets, and wait to be told who I'm allowed to be today.
But I've spent nineteen years obeying men who didn't care if I lived or died.
I push the door open.
The room doesn't look like an armory.
It looks like an office—until I see the glass cases lining the walls. Handguns. Knives with bone handles. Rifles that look like they belong in a war zone.
And in the center of the room—
Dante.
He isn't wearing his suit jacket today. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked by a dark, intricate tattoo that disappears beneath his cuff.
He's cleaning a pistol.
The metallic snick-slide of the weapon is the only sound in the room.
I hold my breath.
Not fast enough.
"You're late," he says without looking up.
"Late for what?" My voice comes out small.
"Your first lesson."
He finally looks at me. His gaze drops to my bare feet before returning to my eyes.
"And you've already broken a rule."
"I didn't touch anything," I say quickly. "The door was open."
Dante sets the gun down on a velvet cloth. He stands, and the sheer size of him fills the space. He walks toward me—not rushed, not angry—and still my body begs me to run.
He stops inches away, forcing me to tilt my head back.
"Curiosity is a death sentence in this house, Nyla."
It's the first time he's said my name.
It sounds like a warning.
And something dangerously close to a promise.
"You said you'd teach me how to survive," I say, gathering what little courage I have. "How can I survive if I don't know what I'm up against?"
Something flickers across his face.
Respect.
Or maybe amusement.
He reaches past me, his arm brushing my shoulder, and shuts the door.
Click.
"Survival isn't about the guns on the wall," he says, leaning back against the door, trapping me in his space. "It's about knowing who holds them. Reading a room before the first shot is fired."
He watches me closely.
"It's about understanding that everyone has a price. And most people will sell you for a lot less than three million."
"Is that why you bought me?" I whisper. "Because I was a bargain?"
His fingers lift, hovering just inches from my jaw—remembering his own rule.
"I bought you because I knew the man who was going to bid after me," he says quietly. "If he had taken you, you wouldn't be standing here asking questions."
His hand drops.
"You wouldn't be standing at all."
He turns and removes a small silver knife from one of the cases, then holds it out to me.
Handle first.
"My rule still stands," he says. "But if you're going to survive in my world, you need to understand what it costs."
I stare at the blade.
Then at him.
"Take it," he commands.
My hand trembles as I reach out. My fingers brush his—warm, rough, steady—as I take the weapon.
His voice drops, low and dangerous.
"Now," Dante says, eyes locked on mine, "show me how you'd kill me."