THE HUNT
DOVE'S POV
The pasta in front of me smelled like garlic and roasted tomatoes—comfort food—but my stomach was tied in so many knots I could barely swallow a forkful.
"You're doing it again," Shawn said, his voice cutting through the background noise of the crowded Italian bistro.
I blinked, looking up from my plate. "Doing what?"
"Disappearing," he said. He wasn't smiling. He was leaning forward, his elbows on the checkered tablecloth, watching me with that soft, open expression that usually made me feel safe. Tonight, it just made me feel guilty.
"You're physically here, Dove, but your head is somewhere else. Is it the new job?"
I gripped my fork tighter. "No. The job is fine. Great, actually."
"Is it?" Shawn raised an eyebrow. "Because ever since you walked out of that house yesterday, you've been jumpy. If the guy is a creep, you have to tell me. I don't care how much he pays."
"He's not a creep," I lied. The memory of the black velvet box and the garter belt burned in my mind. He's not a creep. He's a predator.
"He's just... strict. Very particular about his laundry. Rich people, you know?"
Shawn sighed, picking up his wine glass. It was the cheap house red, but he held it like it was vintage. "I know. I just worry about you. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Dove. You don't have to carry it alone."
I looked at him. Shawn was good. He was safe. He was the kind of guy who fixed your sink without asking and remembered your favorite ice cream flavor.
"I know," I whispered. "I'm just tired. Honestly."
"Well, wake up," he said, a small, hopeful smile touching his lips. "Because I didn't bring you out just to watch you push rigatoni around a plate. I want to take you somewhere after this."
"Shawn, I have an early shift tomorrow..."
"It's not late," he insisted. "And it's not far. There's a pop-up exhibition at the downtown gallery. Modern art. It's supposed to be pretentious and weird. We can make fun of the paintings we don't understand."
I managed a weak laugh. "Okay. Fine. But only for an hour."
"An hour is all I need," he said. His voice dropped, and his gaze shifted to my lips, then back to my eyes. "I just... I want to spend time with you. Real time. Not just passing each other in the kitchen."
I froze. I knew that look. I knew what was coming. The air between us grew heavy, charged with words he hadn't said yet but desperately wanted to.
"Shawn..."
"Eat your pasta," he interrupted gently, pulling back before I could let him down. "We can talk later."
The gallery was sleek, white, and freezing cold.
It was filled with people who looked like they belonged in magazines—women in silk dresses and men in sharp blazers. Shawn and I, in our jeans and sweaters, stuck out like sore thumbs, but Shawn didn't seem to care.
He was too busy trying to make me laugh.
"Look at this one," he whispered, pointing to a canvas that was entirely white with a single red dot in the center. "Title: The Rage of the Common Man. Price: Fifteen thousand dollars."
"Stop it," I giggled, nudging his arm.
"Someone will hear you."
"Let them hear," he grinned, leaning close to my ear. "It's a dot, Dove. I could do that with a bingo marker."
"You're terrible."
"I'm honest," he corrected. He turned to face me, his smile fading into something more serious. We were standing in a quieter corner of the gallery, away from the main crowd. "I'm glad you came out tonight. Really."
"Me too," I said softly. And I meant it. Being with Shawn was like coming up for air after drowning. It reminded me that there was a normal life outside of Damien Ford's dark, suffocating orbit.
Shawn took a breath, his hand brushing against mine. He didn't pull away. "Dove, about what I was saying earlier. I know things have been crazy with your family, and money, and everything. But... you know I'm here, right? Like, really here."
My heart squeezed. "Shawn..."
"I don't want to push you," he said quickly, looking nervous. "But I think you know how I feel. I've felt this way for a long time."
I did know. And standing there, looking at his kind brown eyes, I wished I could just let myself fall into that safety. But every time I thought about the future, a shadow loomed over it.
"I know," I whispered. "I just... I can't think about anything right now except surviving, Shawn. I'm sorry."
He nodded, masking his disappointment with a brave face. "I get it. Survival first. Romance later."
"Thank you for understanding."
"Always." He cleared his throat, stepping back. "I'm going to hit the restroom real quick. Don't run off with any millionaires while I'm gone."
I forced a smile. "I'll stay right here next to the red dot."
He walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
I turned back to the painting, crossing my arms over my chest to ward off the chill in the room. I tried to focus on the art, tried to empty my mind, but the peace didn't last.
It started as a prickle on the back of my neck.
The fine hairs on my arms stood up. It was an instinctual reaction, primal and immediate. The feeling of being hunted.
I shifted my weight, glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see Shawn coming back.
He wasn't there.
But someone else was.
Across the room, through a gap in the crowd, I saw him.
My heart stopped. It didn't stutter; it just froze in my chest.
Damien.
He was standing near a sculpture, flanked by two older men in expensive grey suits who were talking animatedly. Damien wasn't talking. He was holding a glass of champagne, his other hand in the pocket of his black dress pants. He wore a charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders like armor, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone.
He looked devastating. Lethal.
And he was looking right at me.
I spun back around, staring at the white canvas, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He can't be here. This is a random gallery. This is a coincidence.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Just ignore him.
He's busy. He didn't see you.
I counted to five and risked a glance.
He was still there. The two men were laughing at something, gesturing wildy. Damien hadn't moved a muscle. His blue eyes were locked onto me across the fifty feet of space, cold and unblinking. He wasn't even pretending to pay attention to his company.
Panic clawed at my throat. I needed Shawn. I needed to leave. Now.
I started to walk, keeping my head down, weaving through the clusters of people. I headed toward the hallway where the restrooms were.
Don't look back. Don't look back.
I looked back.
Damien was gone.
The two men were still there, looking confused, but the spot where Damien had been standing was empty
.
My pulse skyrocketed. I walked faster, practically jogging now. "Shawn?" I whispered, scanning the crowd. "Shawn, where are you?"
I reached the corridor leading to the restrooms. It was dimmer here, quieter.
"Shawn!" I hissed louder.
I spun in a circle, searching.
Suddenly, a hand clamped around my wrist.
It wasn't a gentle touch. It was a vice—hard, hot, and unbreakable.
I gasped, air rushing into my lungs as I was yanked backward. The force hurled me around, spinning me until my back slammed against the wall.
I looked up, terrified.
Damien towered over me.
He was so close I could smell that intoxicating mix of whiskey and expensive cologne. His face was a mask of dark, simmering fury. His blue eyes weren't cold anymore; they were burning.
"Who is he?"
His voice was a low growl, vibrating in his chest.
I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing. "What?"
"The boy," Damien snapped, stepping closer, pinning me with his body without actually touching me. "The one you were laughing with. Who is he?"
I yanked my hand, trying to free my wrist from his grip. He didn't budge. His fingers tightened, possessive and bruising.
"Let go of me!" I hissed, looking around wildly to see if anyone was watching. We were in a blind spot, hidden by a pillar. "You're hurting me."
"Answer the question, Dove."
"It's none of your business!" I shot back, fear making me reckless. "I'm not at work. I'm not wearing your uniform. I'm off the clock, Damien! Who I spend my time with has nothing to do with you."
"You think so?" He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You think you have a life that is separate from me?"
"Yes! I'm your maid, not your property!"
"You are what I say you are."
He leaned down, his face inches from mine. "You looked happy with him. Comfortable."
"He's my friend," I cried, my voice shaking. "He's a good person. Unlike—"
I stopped myself.
"Unlike me?" Damien finished for me. A dark, cruel smirk twisted his lips. "Go on. Say it."
"Let me go," I pleaded, the fight draining out of me as the reality of his size and strength set in. "Please. Shawn is going to come looking for me."
Damien's expression shifted instantly. The smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, dead look that chilled my blood.
"Let him come," he whispered. "I wonder what he'll do when he finds you pinned against a wall by another man. Do you think he'll fight for you, Dove? Do you think he'll survive if he tries?"
My eyes widened. The threat hung in the air.
"Don't," I whispered. "Don't you dare hurt him."
"Then stop testing me," he snarled, releasing my wrist only to slam his hand against the wall beside my head. I flinched, shrinking away.
"I... I wasn't testing you. I just came to an art show."
"You came to look for an escape," he accused. He reached out, his knuckles grazing my cheekbone. The touch was tender, which made it terrifying. "You think that boy offers you a way out? A nice, normal life? Spaghetti dinners and cheap apartments?"
"He's a good man," I said again, though my voice was barely audible.
"He is irrelevant," Damien stated. "And if I see him touching you again—if I see you looking at him the way you looked at him tonight—I will remove the distraction. Permanently."
The breath left my body.
I looked into his eyes and searched for a bluff.
I searched for a shred of humanity that would tell me he was just jealous, just an arrogant rich guy throwing a tantrum.
I found nothing.
I saw only a vast, empty darkness. I saw a man who didn't follow laws, who didn't have a conscience.
"You're crazy," I breathed. "You're actually crazy."
"I am a man who protects what is mine," he corrected.
"I'm not yours!"
" Aren't you?"
He stepped back slightly, adjusting his cuffs, the mask of civility sliding back into place. But the air around him still cracked with violence.
"You took my money, Dove. You signed my contract. You are in my house, handling my clothes, walking through my life." He looked at me with a chilling finality. "Did you really think I let you in because I needed someone to wash dishes?"
My stomach turned over. "I... I just wanted a job. I'm just a maid. That's all I am. Please, Damien. I'm just a maid."
He laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound.
He leaned in one last time, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
"You were never just a maid, tesoro," he whispered, his voice wrapping around me like smoke.
He pulled back, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying promise.
"Go find your boy. Say your goodbyes. Because you belong to the darkness now."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the gallery, leaving me trembling against the cold wall, realizing with absolute horror that I hadn't just been hired.
I had been captured.