Owned By The Devil's Heir

Chapter One – The Devil’s Eyes The night I stepped into the DeLuca mansion, I told myself I didn’t belong there. The chandeliers dripped with diamonds, the marble floors gleamed like mirrors, and everywhere I turned, men in tailored suits and women in dresses worth more than my mother’s car whispered like royalty. I shouldn’t have been there. But Mom had insisted. “Smile, Isabella,” she hissed as we entered through the tall iron doors. Her fingers dug into my arm as if she feared I might bolt. “This is my husband’s world now. Our world.” Our world. The words stung. Two months ago, she had remarried—a businessman named Marco DeLuca. She called him charming. Stable. Wealthy enough to give us a fresh start. But what Mom didn’t say, what no one said out loud, was that Marco’s wealth dripped with blood. The DeLuca family wasn’t just rich. They were feared. And tonight, at their annual gala, I was expected to stand at my mother’s side and pretend I fit in. The room was warm, too warm, with the weight of too many eyes. My simple black dress suddenly felt like a spotlight, my curls falling loose around my shoulders as I tried to shrink into the corner. These people smelled weakness, and I had plenty of it to spare. I was reaching for a glass of champagne when I felt it. A gaze. Heavy. Burning. Slowly, I lifted my eyes—and froze. He was across the room, leaning against the banister of the grand staircase as if the entire mansion belonged to him. Which, in a way, it did. Damian DeLuca. I had heard whispers of him since the wedding. The son. The heir. Ruthless. Dangerous. The Devil’s heir, they called him, because wherever he went, chaos followed. And now, his storm-gray eyes were locked on me. The air thickened. I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around the glass until the stem nearly snapped. My pulse hammered in my throat. I should have looked away. I should have ignored him. But I couldn’t. His gaze held me pinned, as though I were a butterfly on display and he the collector ready to cage me. A slow, predatory smile curved his lips. My stomach flipped. Every instinct screamed to run. But my legs wouldn’t move. I didn’t notice he had crossed the room until his shadow swallowed mine. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His presence felt like smoke and fire wrapping around me. The music, the chatter, the laughter—it all blurred, leaving only the thunder of my heartbeat and the weight of his stare. “You don’t belong here.” His voice was low, rough velvet against my skin. I flinched. “Excuse me?” His lips tilted, not quite a smile, more like a dare. “I said you don’t belong here.” His eyes dragged over me slowly, deliberately, as though memorizing every curve, every breath. “But I think I like that.” My mouth went dry. I had heard about men like Damian—men who didn’t ask, who didn’t wait, who took. Standing this close, I realized the whispers had been mercy. They hadn’t done him justice. “You’re Isabella.” He didn’t phrase it as a question. “Yes,” I whispered, hating the way my voice trembled. “Marco’s stepdaughter.” The word stepdaughter on his lips sounded dangerous, like a forbidden curse. He leaned closer, the faint scent of smoke and leather clinging to him. “Do you know what they call me?” I shook my head. His gaze darkened. “The Devil’s heir.” His breath brushed my ear, making my knees weak. “And now that I’ve seen you, Isabella… you’re mine.” My heart stopped. I opened my mouth to protest, to tell him he was insane, but the music cut suddenly, a bell chiming through the hall to announce Marco’s speech. Applause erupted around us, pulling Damian a step back. But his eyes never left mine, sharp and unyielding, a silent promise burning between us. The applause died, Marco’s voice booming about family and legacy. I heard none of it. All I could feel was Damian’s stare searing through me like fire, claiming me in a room full of strangers. And in that moment, I knew one thing for certain: If I stayed near him, my life would never be the same.