Wicked Master's Trap

Chapter 6

The first light of dawn spilled across the sky, painting the world in hues of gold and rose. Outside, the earth stirred gently, birds roused in their nests, petals unfurled in reverence to the morning sun. But within the stone confines of the Dominic estate's basement, beauty did not reach.

There, on the cold, unforgiving floor, two broken girls lay in a silence untouched by nature’s grace.

A shrill gasp burst from Kiara’s lips as ice-cold water crashed against her fragile frame. Her body convulsed from the shock, the pain in her back flaring white-hot again.

“Get up! Did you forget today’s the young master’s ascension?” Mozelle’s voice snapped like a whip. “Return to your duties. Now! Move!”

Kiara whimpered, her trembling hands pressing against the ground as she tried to lift herself. Her muscles screamed. The torn flesh on her back burned like fire licking across raw skin. Her arms shook violently and then collapsed beneath her, sending her crumpling to the floor once more.

Tears welled in her eyes, falling silently onto the cold stone beneath her. Shame, pain, and fear knotted in her chest. She didn’t want to be beaten again. She wanted to disappear. But her body refused to move, betrayed by its own fragility.

She had always been too small, too delicate for this world of brutality. A flower forced to grow among thorns.

Then, a soft touch.

Arms, just as bruised, just as weak, slid beneath her, trying to lift her. Kiara blinked through the blur in her vision, her gaze landing on the bloodied face of her friend.

Gabrielle.

Still swaying from her own injuries, Gabrielle gritted her teeth and helped Kiara up, cradling her like something precious.

A broken sob escaped Kiara's lips.

Even now, barely able to stand, lashes on her back, blood dried on her skin, Gabrielle was still trying to protect her. Still shielding her, giving her strength when she had none left of her own.

Kiara didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

But her fingers curled into Gabrielle’s torn sleeve, silently holding on to the only piece of warmth left in her world.

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Today, the Dominic estate buzzed with unrestrained energy. Servants scurried across polished marble floors, their footsteps echoing through vast corridors. The grand ceremonial hall brimmed with preparations, silken drapes being drawn, golden chandeliers polished to a gleam, and flower arrangements meticulously perfected to honor the occasion.

Upstairs, in one of the estate’s most opulent chambers, the heavy blackout curtains were swept open by the head butler, Patrick, flooding the room with midday light.

Though not overdone in its décor, the bedroom radiated an effortless, almost intimidating luxury. The muted grays and silvers of the walls shimmered under sunlight, reflecting off glass and crystal, casting fractured rainbows across an enormous bed cloaked in Egyptian cotton and velvet throws. A grand chandelier hung like a crown above, dripping elegance in every detail.

Patrick bowed his head. “Good afternoon, Master Asher.”

Sprawled shirtless across the bed, face turned toward the pillow, Asher barely stirred. The harsh sunlight filtered through the glass balcony doors, illuminating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the hard line of his jaw. His chiseled back flexed slightly as he shifted beneath the sheets.

He groaned. “What time is it?”

“Noon, sir,” Patrick replied evenly. “Your taking-over ceremony is scheduled for two.”

“s**t,” Asher muttered, dragging himself upright. His voice was rough, hoarse from both sleep and the whiskey that had drowned the previous night. He raked a hand through his tousled hair, blinking against the light as he sat on the edge of the bed, the shadows beneath his eyes betraying the long night he’d endured.

Patrick stood patiently by, awaiting further instruction.

“Do you require anything, Master?”

Asher sighed, pressing his fingers to his temples, trying to soothe the throb of an oncoming headache. “No. That’ll be all, Patrick.”

The butler gave a polite nod and exited in silence, leaving Asher alone in his sprawling, sun-drenched chamber. The world outside was prepared to celebrate him.

And yet, all he could think of was the dull ache behind his eyes and the strange hollowness he couldn’t seem to shake.

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“Are you okay, Kiara? Go sit down, I’ll finish your work,” Gabrielle said softly, concern etched across her bruised face as she looked at her pale, trembling friend.

Since returning from the basement, both girls had been given a painkiller, something barely strong enough to dull the agony etched into their bodies. The medicine offered fleeting relief, but for Kiara, the trauma lingered far deeper than the wounds. Her strength was fading. Every time the memory of the whip slashing through the air replayed in her mind, her fragile body would tremble uncontrollably.

“I’m fine, Gabby,” Kiara whispered with a weak smile, trying to ease the ache in her friend's eyes.

But Gabrielle wasn’t convinced. Her throat tightened, and tears welled up as guilt clawed at her chest. “I’m so sorry, Kiara… This is all my fault. If I hadn’t....”

“No,” Kiara cut her off gently, her voice quivering. “Don’t say that, Gabrielle. It was never your fault. We did nothing wrong. And still… they only punished us.”

Her voice cracked at the end, the memory of the cruel night pressing down on her chest like a weight she couldn’t lift.

Gabrielle clenched her fists, a flicker of fire replacing the helplessness in her gaze. “We’ll run away from here. One day. I promise.”

“No,” Kiara whispered in panic, her eyes darting to the shadows around them. “Don’t say that, Gabrielle. If anyone hears us…”

Gabrielle glanced around, then lowered her gaze with a quiet sigh. “I know,” she murmured, brushing away a stray tear before turning back to her chores.

But even as her hands moved mechanically through the motions, her mind was already elsewhere, dreaming of freedom, and of a world where girls like them weren’t punished for simply existing.

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Meanwhile, in the grand preeminent hall, the atmosphere brimmed with elegance and anticipation. Exquisite furnishings were arranged with meticulous care, each piece a testament to wealth and taste. Sunlight filtered in through towering windows, allowing the gentle breeze to carry the soft rustle of silk gowns and murmurs of high society. The walls, adorned with priceless original artwork, bore silent witness to the gathering of Menderly’s most influential noblemen and women.

Standing amidst the refined crowd, Mr. Emson Dominic, with a glass of champagne in hand, made his way toward the elevated stage. His silver hair glinted beneath the ornate chandelier, a symbol of the legacy he had built with time and power. Every line on his face spoke of a life lived with pride and dominance.

“Welcome, everyone,” his deep, dignified voice cut through the murmurs, commanding the attention of the room. He raised his glass high, and the crowd followed, lifting their crystal flutes in unison, a traditional gesture of respect and unity in Menderly.

“As many of you already know, today marks a turning point. I, Emson Dominic, hereby announce my retirement as head of the Dominic Empire. From this day forward, my son, Asher Dominic, will carry forward the legacy as its new leader.”

A wave of applause and enthusiastic cheers rippled through the hall. All eyes turned toward the man now standing at the center, Asher Dominic. Clad in a tailored black tuxedo, he exuded power and precision, his sharp features and poised stance radiating quiet dominance. The noble guests bowed in reverence, acknowledging the rise of a new ruler.

“Congratulations, man,” Zander said, stepping onto the porch where Asher stood, a cigar between his fingers, the smoke curling into the warm afternoon air.

Asher gave a curt nod, acknowledging his cousin’s presence without looking at him.

“Well,” Zander continued with a smirk, “seems like everyone inside is either looking for you, or more like, trying to throw their daughters at you.”

Asher let out a groan, dragging another puff from his cigar.

It was true. The room had been filled with eager men parading their daughters in front of him like trophies, all vying for a place in the Dominic bloodline. Dresses too tight, smiles too practiced, eyes too desperate.

But none of them held a flicker of what he wanted. None of them was her.

His little one.

She wasn’t like the rest, wasn’t polished or bold or desperate. She was delicate. Innocent. Pure. Untouched by the filth of this world.

And it was that very purity that haunted him. Possessed him.

He had tasted lust a hundred times before, easy, forgettable, meaningless.

But ever since laying eyes on her again, grown and fragile, no one else existed. No one else could.

“What about you?” Asher asked, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “Aren’t you going to f**k any of them?”

Zander scoffed, running a hand through his tousled hair. “You already know who I want to devour right now.”

Asher raised a brow. “You’re seriously set on that young girl?”

Zander chuckled darkly. “Don’t pretend you’re some moral saint. I’ve seen the way your eyes linger on that black-haired little thing. It’s not exactly noble, cousin.”

Asher’s jaw clenched, his cigar pausing at his lips as he shot Zander a warning glare.

But before another word could be exchanged, Zander tilted his chin toward the open garden steps.

“Hey… isn’t that your girl?”

Asher’s head snapped in the direction Zander pointed. His heart stuttered in his chest.

There she was.

His little one.

She was walking with unsteady steps, fragile and unsure, like a baby bird trying to move after a storm. Something was wrong. Her skin looked ghostly pale, drained of all color. That soft glow she always carried was gone.

Zander gave a low whistle. “No offense, but she’s too delicate for a man like you. You’d break her in half.”

Asher didn’t hear him. His mind was spinning.

She wasn’t like this yesterday.

What the hell happened to her?

Then, like a slow-motion nightmare, he saw her stumble. Her small hands shot to her back as she crumpled to the ground in pain.

The cigar slipped from Asher’s fingers, falling to the marble floor unnoticed.

Zander was still talking, but Asher no longer heard a word.

His feet were already moving, fast, purposeful, toward the trembling figure on the ground.

Toward his girl.

Meanwhile, poor Kiara struggled to her feet, her limbs trembling from exhaustion and pain. She wiped her sweaty palms on her apron and began walking toward the laundry room, dragging her sore body forward step by step.

Just as she reached the door, a hand shot out from the shadows and yanked her inside. Before she could scream, strong arms wrapped tightly around her waist, spinning her around.

Her breath caught.

“Master…?” she whispered, her voice shaking as her eyes locked with the man who haunted her dreams, Asher Dominic.

His grip tightened around her waist, pulling her flush against him. When his eyes roamed over her delicate face, they stilled on the faint but visible handprint marring her cheek. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring.

She gasped when his thumb brushed across her lower lip, and though the touch was gentle, his eyes were anything but. They were burning, cold, calculated, and furious.

“Who did this to you?” he growled, the low timbre of his voice rumbling through her bones.

Kiara couldn't answer. Her voice had vanished. Her fear... it returned tenfold, mingled now with something else, confusion, anticipation… helplessness.

Without a word, Asher turned her around in one swift motion. She let out a startled breath, her small hands pushing against his chest, but he was immovable.

“Please, Master… don’t,” she pleaded, sensing his hand at the zipper of her uniform.

“Don’t move,” he said coldly, low and sharp like the edge of a blade.

Kiara froze. His voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. Asher was a man who commanded obedience without shouting. He always had.

He slowly pulled the zipper down, the sound slicing through the silence. She squeezed her eyes shut, trembling beneath his touch.

When the fabric slipped from her back, his entire body went still.

Anger ignited in his veins.

Her back was covered in dark bruises, red lash marks, and welts, fresh and cruel. She winced when his fingers brushed lightly against one.

He inhaled sharply, as if holding himself back from shattering the room.

His voice was a whisper, raw and furious. “Who did this to you, little one?”

Kiara didn’t reply. She couldn’t.

But Asher had seen enough.

Whoever laid a hand on her would soon pay the price.