The Devil

Dante Valentino leaned against the doorframe, his sharp gaze cutting through the dimly lit room. His eyes roamed over the girl standing before him. She was young—too young, if he were to be honest. Fragile, delicate, like porcelain that could shatter with the slightest touch.

He didn't care for weak things. Weakness was something he despised. In this world of power, fear, and blood, he had no time for softness. And yet, there was something about her that pulled at the edges of his control.

Her skin was pale, nearly translucent in the harsh light of the room, and her hair—a mess of dark curls—fell in a cascade over her shoulders. She barely lifted her head when she entered the room, eyes glued to the floor, as if she were afraid of what she might see.

His gaze narrowed. She was so obviously terrified, her body rigid, hands clasped together as if to hold herself together. It was a familiar sight—he had seen fear in the eyes of many before, but something about her was different.

Dante wasn't sure what it was. She wasn't his type. He didn't need some trembling, pretty thing to distract him. He had the world at his feet, and he didn't need a woman to complicate it. Still, his gaze lingered on her as she shifted nervously, her bare feet silent against the cold marble floor.

She was a contract, an agreement made long before her birth. Her father had fallen into debt, and her stepparents, greedy and desperate, had sold her to him for a price. Money, control, power.

She was just another pawn.

But God, how fragile she seemed.

A soft breath escaped her lips as her wide, terrified eyes flickered up to meet him for the briefest of moments. There was a raw vulnerability there, an innocence that shouldn't belong in the world Dante had built for himself. He didn't deal in innocence. He didn't deal in weakness.

Yet, his mind couldn't quite erase the image of her—small, shaking, barely holding herself together.

"I hope you're not planning on crying," Dante's voice was cold, businesslike, but even to his own ears, it sounded detached. He couldn't afford to let her see the stirrings of something else that had risen within him—a stirring he refused to acknowledge.

Luna flinched, the slight movement of her body a clear sign of the fear she tried so hard to hide. Her head dipped even lower, and she pressed her hands tighter together, as if trying to hold herself from falling apart.

"No, sir," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Dante studied her, intrigued by the fact that she wasn't on her knees, begging. She wasn't pleading for mercy. Instead, she stood there, trembling, her fear palpable but contained. The moment made him feel something that should have been buried long ago—a pang of something soft. Something he hadn't allowed himself to feel for years.

It disgusted him.

She was nothing more than a bargain. He had bought her, and that made her his property—no emotions, no attachments.

"Good," he said, keeping his tone flat, his eyes still locked on her. "You don't need to be reminded of your place."

Her eyes flinched again at his words, but she nodded, as if she had learned the hard way not to defy anyone who held power over her.

Dante straightened from the doorframe, his gaze shifting over her form. He was supposed to look at her like any other business transaction, but there was a flicker—something raw and real—in her frightened expression that caught him off guard. It was that vulnerability he couldn't quite look away from.

She was a pawn. That's all she was.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder—just for a moment—how long it would take before the light in those wide eyes dimmed completely. How long it would take before he broke her completely, until she was just like the others—empty, numb, ready to obey.

It didn't matter. He didn't care.

But why, then, did his chest feel like it was tightening every time she shifted her gaze, every time she flinched?

Luna was his now.

He would own her, and she would become another part of his empire—her beauty, her fear, and whatever was left of her innocence would all belong to him.

He turned on his heel, signaling for her to follow.

"Come with me," he said coldly, his voice a command, not a request.

She hesitated, just for a moment, before she did as told. Step by step, she followed him into the next room, her fragile presence hanging in the air like a delicate whisper.

Dante didn't look back.

Not yet.

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