I was wearing Vera Wang, walking toward the man I thought was my savior. Instead, the giant screens at our engagement gala didn't show our "Love Story" montage. They showed my fiancé, Thatcher Montgomery, in a graphic, breathless romp with my younger sister, Bianca, in the very bed I’d bought for our new home. The room went silent. Then the laughter started. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I walked out of the Plaza Hotel and straight into the back of a black Maybach I knew belonged to the devil himself. Killian Blackwood. The man who destroyed my father’s legacy. My family’s greatest enemy. "I need you to ruin them, Killian," I whispered, the rain soaking my white dress. He looked at me with eyes like cold steel and a smirk that promised hell. "I don't do charity, Elowen. You want revenge? You pay with the only thing you have left. You. Every night. Every whim. Total submission until I grow bored of the St. Claire name." I signed my soul away in the back of that car. We aren't lovers. We are a predator and his prey. And tonight, the hunt begins.