Bound to the Demon's Obsession (When a demon wants you, escape is not an option)

The Deal of Shadows The rain fell harder that night, beating against the cracked windows of the Hayes mansion. What was once a place of warmth and laughter had turned into a cold, crumbling prison for Isabella Hayes. She sat quietly on the edge of her bed, fingers tightening around the hem of her worn dress, listening to the muffled voices echoing from the drawing room below. Voices that carried greed. Voices that carried betrayal. Her stepmother’s laughter rang out—sharp, shrill, cutting through Isabella’s heart like a blade. “Two million in cash. Tonight. She’s yours.” Isabella froze. She had heard many cruel things from her stepmother over the years, but this was different. This was final. Her breath caught when another voice answered. Deep. Cold. Unforgiving. “I don’t pay for broken things, Mrs. Hayes.” The sound of that voice sent a shiver racing down Isabella’s spine. It wasn’t just the tone—it was the power behind it. Whoever that man was, he wasn’t someone you could negotiate with. Her stepmother’s fake laugh tried to cover the tension. “She’s not broken. She’s young, untouched, and obedient. She’ll do as you say.” Isabella’s nails dug into her palm until they hurt. Obedient? Untouched? She felt like an object being placed on a shelf for a stranger to purchase. She wanted to run—God, she wanted to run—but her body wouldn’t move. Her father’s portrait on the wall stared down at her, a reminder of the man who used to protect her. If he were alive, this would never be happening. “Bring her down,” the man’s voice commanded. Her chest tightened. No. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. But heavy footsteps approached her door. It swung open, and one of the maids—loyal to her stepmother—stepped inside. “Miss… your presence is required downstairs.” Her presence. Required. Like she was some offering to a god. With trembling legs, Isabella stood. Each step toward the drawing room felt like walking toward her execution. The air shifted the moment she entered. And then she saw him. Damian Blackwood. He sat in the center of the room, dressed in a black suit tailored to perfection, his aura colder than the storm outside. He didn’t need to move to command attention; his presence filled every corner. His dark eyes lifted, locking onto hers, and for the first time in her life Isabella understood what fear truly meant. He didn’t look at her like a man looks at a woman. He looked at her like a predator sizing up his prey. Her stepmother clapped her hands together as if presenting a prize. “Here she is. Pure, untouched, just as I promised.” Isabella’s voice cracked. “I’m not—” “Silence.” Damian’s voice cut through her words like ice. One word, and she felt stripped of every defense. Her stepmother smirked. “She’s perfect for you. And with this marriage, your business will gain… benefits.” Marriage. The word hit Isabella like a slap. Her heart pounded in her chest, so loud she was sure they could hear it. She wanted to scream, to run, to fight—but her stepmother’s grip tightened painfully on her arm, forcing her forward until she stood directly in front of Damian Blackwood. He rose from his seat. Taller than she imagined. Broader. His presence swallowed hers whole. His hand reached out, cold fingers lifting her chin until her eyes met his. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. “Isabella Hayes,” he murmured, her name rolling off his tongue like a verdict. “You belong to me now.” Her lips parted, trembling. “I don’t belong to anyone.” Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. For a brief moment, she thought she saw amusement, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “We’ll see about that,” he said darkly. --- The storm had grown louder, rattling the windows as if the house itself wanted to warn her. But no warning could save Isabella now. Damian’s grip on her chin loosened, yet the weight of his presence never faded. He looked at her stepmother, his jaw tightening. “The contract will be signed tomorrow. But she leaves with me tonight.” Her stepmother’s smile widened greedily. “Of course, Mr. Blackwood. She’s yours.” Yours. The word echoed inside Isabella’s head, twisting her stomach. She wanted to scream that she wasn’t property, that she wasn’t some commodity to be bought and sold. But her stepmother’s nails dug into her arm, silencing her before she could speak. Damian noticed. His gaze flicked to the bruising hold on Isabella’s skin, and for a fleeting second, a shadow of displeasure crossed his features. Then it vanished, replaced by the same cold mask. “Get your things,” he ordered. “I—” Isabella started, her voice trembling. “You won’t need much,” he cut in, sharp as a blade. “Where you’re going, everything will be provided.” Her stepmother released her arm with a shove, as if Isabella were nothing more than a rag doll. “Go on, child. Don’t keep your husband waiting.” Husband. The word felt like poison. Isabella’s chest tightened, but she forced herself up the stairs, her legs moving on instinct. She grabbed a small bag—just a few clothes, her father’s old watch, and a tattered notebook filled with his handwriting. She held the watch tightly, whispering, I wish you were here, Father. When she returned downstairs, Damian was already standing near the door, his tall frame cloaked in shadows. A sleek black car waited outside, headlights cutting through the rain. “Move,” he said simply. Isabella’s stepmother waved happily as though sending her off to a fairy tale. “Don’t forget us when you’re rich, Isabella!” Isabella wanted to spit out words of hate, but her throat burned with unshed tears. She walked past Damian, her bag clutched tightly, stepping into the storm. The rain drenched her instantly, cold and merciless. But Damian’s hand was suddenly at her back, guiding her firmly toward the car. Not gentle. Not rough. Just inescapable. The door opened, and she slid inside the leather-scented interior. Damian followed, shutting the world outside with one firm click. Silence filled the space, broken only by the sound of rain on the roof. Isabella pressed herself against the far corner, trying to put distance between them. Damian, however, sat with the calmness of a man who already owned everything in the room—including her. “Where are you taking me?” she asked finally, her voice breaking. His gaze flicked toward her, unreadable. “Home.” “This isn’t right. You can’t just—” “I can,” he interrupted smoothly, his voice low and absolute. “And I will. You’ll learn quickly, Isabella. My word is law.” Her stomach twisted. “You think money gives you the right to ruin lives?” He leaned closer, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Money doesn’t give me power, Isabella. I am power.” She swallowed hard, her body betraying her by trembling. But inside, her heart screamed with defiance. “You’ll regret this.” His smirk vanished, replaced with something darker—something dangerous. He reached out suddenly, his fingers capturing her wrist. Not painfully, but with an authority that made her pulse race. He studied the delicate line of her veins, as if memorizing her fragility. “No, Isabella,” he murmured, his voice dangerously soft. “You’ll regret it if you fight me.” The car pulled up to towering iron gates, guarded by men in black. They swung open instantly at Damian’s arrival, revealing an estate so massive it looked like a fortress. The mansion rose high against the storm, a palace of stone and shadows. The car stopped, and Damian stepped out first, his presence commanding even the storm itself to bend around him. He turned, extending his hand—not as a gentleman, but as a master expecting obedience. Isabella stared at it, her heart pounding. “Get out,” he said, his tone making it clear she had no choice. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his. His palm was warm, steady, terrifyingly certain. He pulled her out effortlessly, leading her up the marble steps. The doors opened, revealing a grand hall lit by chandeliers. Cold. Beautiful. Empty. “This is where you’ll live now,” Damian said, his deep voice echoing in the silence. “My home. Your cage.” Her chest tightened. “I won’t stay here. I’ll find a way out.” He stepped closer, his height dwarfing hers, his shadow swallowing her whole. His hand lifted again, brushing against her cheek—not tenderly, but as if staking a claim. “You’re mine, Isabella,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. “Run if you want. Fight if you want. But you’ll always end up here… with me.” Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The storm outside crashed against the windows, but nothing was louder than the pounding of her heart. And in that moment, Isabella Hayes realized the truth. Her stepmother hadn’t sold her into a marriage. She had been sold into a cage of obsession. ---