I Became His Plaything

His Claim

Damon’s POV

People think power is about money.

They’re wrong.

I was born into money, raised in its gilded cage, and still—I learned fast that it buys comfort, not control.

Control comes from the silence that falls when you walk into a room, from the weight of knowing you can break anyone’s world with a single word.

That’s who I am. Damon Cross.

Not a savior.

Not a saint.

A man who learned that in this city, you either own the darkness or you become its prey.

The night of the auction wasn’t the first time I’d stepped into its underground decadence, but it was the first time something—or other, someone—made me pause.

Katrina.

I hadn’t planned to attend the auction that night. These events were nothing new to me—whispers of broken girls and desperate boys being paraded across velvet stages, traded like rare wine. A playground for men who needed to remind themselves they had power.

I didn’t need reminding.

Yet when the invitation arrived in its heavy envelope, sealed in black wax, something in me itched. The kind of itch you don’t scratch because it burns deeper. I was curious. Curious enough to show my face in a room I had sworn off years ago.

And then I saw her.

Lot Twenty-One.

The moment they dragged her under the golden lights, the air shifted. I’ve seen hundreds of women stand there trembling, trying not to cry, trying not to look at the wolves with their wallets open. But she—she didn’t tremble the same way. She stood with her spine rigid, eyes burning with hatred that didn’t belong in a girl about to be sold.

Hatred. Defiance. Fire.

The auctioneer called her untouched, unbroken, like he was marketing a thoroughbred. I almost laughed.

Untouched? Perhaps. Unbroken? No. She was cracking at the edges already, but not in the way he thought.

I wanted her. Not because she was beautiful—though she was—but because she was dangerous to the fragile order of this room. I wanted to see if that fire could survive under me. Or if I could bend it until it burned for me alone.

So I made one bid. Final. Immovable. And the room knew better than to challenge me.

They dragged her from the stage, her eyes meeting mine only once, a flicker of fury cutting straight through the space between us. She didn’t know it yet, but that was the moment her story became mine.

Katrina’s POV

The gavel’s echo hadn’t faded before hands closed around my arms.

Two guards seized me, their grip bruising, dragging me toward the side stairs. My feet scraped against the stage floor, the silk of my dress tangling between my legs as I stumbled. I twisted, yanking against their hold, but they didn’t so much as flinch.

Applause thundered in the background, a grotesque symphony celebrating my sale. Laughter rolled, glasses clinked, and above it all, the auctioneer’s voice crowed:

“Lot Twenty-One—sold for fifty million to Mr. Damon Cross.”

The name cracked like lightning through the chamber.

I froze mid-struggle, blood running cold. The Devil had a name. Damon Cross.

Even I’d heard it whispered before, back in the world where I still had a future. A billionaire whose empire stretched across industries, untouchable in power and influence. A man rumored to own more than companies—rumored to own people. Ruthless. Uncompromising. Dangerous.

And now… me.

The guards hauled me into the wings, away from the heat of the lights. The velvet curtains swallowed me whole, plunging me into shadows where the applause dulled into a distant roar. My chest heaved, breath ragged, as I clawed at their arms.

“Let go of me!” My voice cracked, splintering on panic. “You can’t—”

They didn’t answer. They only dragged me farther, deeper into the narrow hallway that smelled of dust and perfume and sweat.

Then everything stopped.

The guards halted, stiffening as a shadow stretched across the hall. My body jerked forward, momentum carrying me until I nearly collided with the figure that stepped into view.

Damon Cross.

Up close, he was worse.

Not loud, not gloating, not even smiling. He didn’t need to. His presence filled the narrow space, soaking into my lungs until I couldn’t breathe. He wore a black tailored suit, flawless in its simplicity, but it was the man inside it who made the air bend. Broad shoulders, posture like a blade. His face—cut from stone, each angle precise, merciless.

And his eyes. God help me, his eyes. Dark and bottomless, as if they could peel away layers of me with a glance.

The guards released me instantly, retreating a step back. Even they, hulking and armed, bowed their heads before him.

I stood trapped between them, trembling, every nerve screaming at me to run. But Damon didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He only looked at me.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. My pulse thundered in my ears, my fists clenched so tightly my nails dug crescents into my skin.

Finally, he stepped forward.

One step. Two. Slow, deliberate, each one a reminder that the ground beneath me belonged to him now.

When he stopped, he was only inches away. Close enough for me to see the flecks of obsidian in his irises, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.

“You,” he said softly, the word sliding over my skin like silk and steel, “belong to me.”

I flinched. My mouth opened, some protest clawing its way up, but his hand moved first. Fingers brushed my jaw—not rough, not cruel, but terrifying in their control. He tilted my chin up, forcing my gaze to lock with his.

“Fifty million,” he murmured, eyes unblinking. “That’s what your freedom costs. That’s the price I paid to make sure no other man would ever touch you.”

My throat worked, but no sound came.

His thumb traced my cheek, deceptively gentle, before he released me. The absence of his touch was almost worse than its presence.

He turned to the guards, his voice colder than winter. “She comes with me. No one touches her again.”

They nodded instantly, as though their lives depended on it.

Damon’s gaze flicked back to me. “Walk.”

I didn’t move. My legs felt frozen, nailed to the floor. .

His lips curved—not into a smile, but something sharper, crueler. “Or I’ll carry you.”

Heat crawled up my neck, fury mixing with fear. My chest heaved, but I forced my feet forward.

Damon fell into stride beside me, his hand ghosting near my back, not touching but close enough that I could feel the threat in it. A silent reminder: I belonged to him now.

The hallway opened into a private chamber. Dim lights glowed over velvet walls and polished floors. A single desk sat in the center, papers stacked neatly, a heavy briefcase resting on top.

Damon strode forward, signed something with a stroke of his pen, and slid a thick envelope across the desk. The auctioneer, waiting nervously, snatched it up with greedy hands, bowing low.

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Cross,” he simpered.

Damon didn’t respond. His gaze was already back on me, pinning me in place.

“You’re dismissed,” he told the auctioneer. The man scuttled away, vanishing like smoke.

And then it was just us.

My breath hitched. I stumbled back a step, but Damon closed the distance easily, his shadow swallowing mine.

“Do you understand what happened out there?” His voice was low, steady.

I shook my head, panic clawing at my chest. “You bought me. That’s all.”

He leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear.

“No,” he whispered. “I chose you.”

The words slithered into me, leaving a trail of ice and fire. My knees trembled.

Before I could beg or curse or scream, Damon straightened. His eyes flicked down my body, not lewd, not hurried. Just assessing. Measuring. As though cataloging every inch for later use.

He turned toward the door, his voice final.

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

The door shut behind us with a hollow click. The sound sealed my fate as neatly as the gavel had.

I stood frozen in the dim chamber, while Damon slipped his hands into his pockets.

“Why me?” The question ripped out of me, hoarse and trembling.

His gaze flicked to mine, steady and unreadable. “Because you looked at me.”

I shook my head violently. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” he cut in, voice quiet but absolute. “When the others saw prey, you looked at me like you’d rather die than kneel. That,” his eyes narrowed, burning into me, “is why.”

Heat prickled behind my eyes. Rage, shame, fear—all tangled together. “You think I’ll play along? That I’ll just accept this?”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It wasn’t kindness. It was a warning. “You’ll fight. I expect you to. But every battle you pick, every strike you land…” He stepped closer until his breath brushed mine. “…will only prove how much you already belong to me.”

I backed into the wall, my chest heaving. “You don’t own me.”

His hand braced beside my head, caging me without touching. “No,” he murmured. “Not yet. But soon.”

He pulled back at last, his composure chilling in its calm. At the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“Remember”, he said softly. “You were never being sold. You were being chosen.”

And then he was gone, leaving me shaking in the silence, the echo of his claim wrapped around me tighter than any chain.