HIS BROKEN SAINT

CHAPTER 2: THE PENTHOUSE RULES

The alley was still wet behind them. Rain kept falling as Damien Cross opened the Bentley door.

“Get in,” he said. Not a request.

Elias Wanjiku obeyed. The leather seat was cold against his soaked shirt. The door locked with a sound like a prison cell closing.

Damien Cross slid in beside him. He didn’t look at Elias. He just reached into the inside pocket of his black suit and pulled out a folded contract. A gold pen was clipped to it.

He placed both on the seat between them.

“Read it,” Damien Cross said. His voice was low. Final.

Elias Wanjiku stared at the paper. His hands shook. *2.4 million shillings. His father’s debt.* The number glowed like a threat. At the bottom, bold black letters: _“I, Elias Wanjiku, agree to become the property of Damien Cross until debt is repaid in full. Duration: 1 year.”_

One year. His freedom, sold.

He’d already sold the house his father left him. Sold the furniture. Sold his father’s watch. Still not enough. Now he had nothing. No home. Just this alley and the rain.

“I… I don’t have a pen,” Elias Wanjiku whispered.

Damien Cross clicked the gold pen once. The sound cut through the car like a gunshot. He held it out, handle first.

“You do now.”

Elias Wanjiku took it. Metal cold against his fingers. His father’s debt. His last chance.

Slowly… he signed. Elias Wanjiku. The ink bled into the paper like a wound he couldn’t take back.

Damien Cross took the contract back without looking at it. He tucked it into his jacket like it was a receipt for coffee.

The Bentley started moving. City lights blurred past the tinted windows.

“2.4 million for a boy with nothing left to lose,” Damien Cross murmured. “Bad investment. Unless I get returns.”

Elias Wanjiku’s throat closed. “What… what do you want?”

Damien Cross turned to face him fully. Legs spread. One arm draped over the seat behind Elias. Claiming space.

“Obedience. Rule one.” His finger tapped Elias Wanjiku’s knee once. Hard. “You live in my penthouse. With me. Starting tonight.”

Elias Wanjiku’s head snapped up. He had nowhere else to go anyway. No house. No bed. Just the alley.

“Rule two.” Damien Cross’s mouth didn’t smile. “You don’t leave unless I say you can. You don’t speak unless I ask you a question. You don’t look at anyone else. Understand?”

“That’s not—”

“Rule three.” Damien Cross cut him off, voice sharp. “You call me Sir. Every time. In public, in private. Always.”

Elias Wanjiku stared at his lap. Saint. That’s what his mother called him before she died too. Now it feels like a joke.

Damien Cross reached out. His fingers tilted Elias Wanjiku’s chin up. Thumb brushed over his bottom lip. Rough. Possessive.

“You wanted salvation,” Damien Cross whispered. “This is it. My terms.”

“Control your breathing,” he ordered. “Now. Good boy. That’s it.”

The Bentley stopped. Glass doors opened ahead. A building that touched the clouds.

Damien Cross stepped out first. No umbrella. No help.

“Eyes on the floor,” he said over his shoulder as they walked to the entrance. “Good boy. Now step inside.”

The elevator doors closed. Only the two of them. Mirrors on every wall. Elias Wanjiku couldn’t escape his own reflection. Torn shirt. Bowed head. Pet. Homeless.

Damien Cross pressed a button. Floor 88. The elevator started rising. No sound except Elias Wanjiku’s breathing and the soft beep of each floor. 20... 50... 80...

Damien Cross didn’t look at him. He just straightened his cufflinks. Like he was preparing for a board meeting.

The doors opened. His penthouse was all glass and black marble. Cold. Empty. Just like him.

Damien Cross stepped out. Then turned back. Grey eyes locked on Elias Wanjiku.

“Kneel.”