The Devil's Sanctuary

Saved or not?

The scent of cedarwood and cold iron was the first thing that drifted through the fog of July’s consciousness.

​She opened her eyes to a room bathed in shadows and heavy, masculine opulence. The furniture was all carved from deep, oppressive mahogany, and she was swallowed whole by a king-size bed draped in thick, charcoal-colored sheets. The air in the room was a paradox; it felt inherently dangerous, like stepping into a predator's den, yet it wrapped around her with a strange, protective warmth that kept the Siberian chill at bay.

​Her head throbbed with a vicious, rhythmic ache. Disoriented, July tried to push herself up, but her body violently jolted when a deep, husky baritone sliced through the silence.

​"You're awake."

​It wasn't a question. It was a flat, matter-of-fact statement that carried the same funeral-bell resonance from the auction block.

​July’s gaze snapped toward the sound. The man stood near the edge of the bed, stripped of his charcoal suit and his terrifying devil mask. He wore nothing but a low-slung white towel gripped at his hips. Her breath hitched. His massive 6’7” frame was a canvas of violence and art. Intricate tattoos of twin water dragons coiled tightly around both of his muscular arms, their fierce heads meeting at the center of his broad chest.

From there, a thicket of fiery, thorned roses cascaded down his abdomen, disappearing beneath the towel into his v-line.

​He caught her tracking the ink. A dark, amused glint sparked in his eyes, and he snapped his thick fingers, the sharp sound echoing in the quiet room.

​"Like what you see, scrap?" he teased, his voice dropping an octave.

​Heat flooded July’s cheeks. Shamed by her own boldness, she yanked the heavy sheets tighter against her chest and looked away. "I—I’m sorry," she whispered awkwardly, her voice raw.

​As she pulled the blankets closer, she froze. The fabric shifted against her skin, and a jolt of panic shot through her veins—she wasn't wearing anything underneath. Her mind raced, desperately trying to piece together how she had ended up naked in a stranger's bed. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember the blinding spotlights, the laughter, and the terrifying weight of the Devil's shadow.

​Before she could spiral, the mattress dipped.

​The man squatted by the bedside, bringing his towering frame down to her eye level. His sharp, dark eyes scanned her from head to toe, tracking the angry purple marks left behind by the guards who had thrown her into the shipping crate. He lifted a thick Cuban cigar to his lips, took a slow, deep pull and deliberately blew the thick, aromatic smoke directly into July's face.

​She gasped, coughing softly as she almost choked on the heavy smoke, her eyes watering.

​Through the haze, his large, calloused hand shot out, cupping her face in a iron grip that was surprisingly careful not to squeeze too hard. His gaze narrowed, locking onto her mouth. There, on the corner of her swollen lips, was a nasty split—the parting gift from the announcer who had silenced her cries before the auction.

​The man grunted, a low, animalistic sound of pure fury. His eyes darkened into pitch-black voids, flashing with a sudden, lethal rage as his mind clearly drifted back to the man on the stage.

​Slowly, his thumb swept across the cut on her lips. July flinched, a sharp hiss escaping her teeth as the copper tang of fresh blood bloomed on her tongue. Sensing her pain, his expression hardened, and he gently released her face, wiping the smear of her blood onto his thumb.

​When the mysterious giant stood back up to his full, towering height, the entire atmosphere of the room shifted. The warmth vanished, replaced by a suffocating, heavy danger that made it hard to breathe.

​Looking up at him, the final pieces of July's broken memory suddenly fractured into place.

​Through the haze of her fainting spells back at the rink, she hadn't just fallen. She remembered the blinding rage that had filled the room. She remembered this same giant pulling a sleek, matte-black gun from his jacket, pointing it directly between the eyes of the sneering announcer, and the deafening, thunderous roar of gunshots echoing through the hall.

​He hadn't just bought her. He had bathed the auction block in blood before she ever hit the floor.

The man let out another low grunt. Stepping away from the bed, he reached for a sleek, gold-plated case resting on a mahogany bureau, snapped it open, and pulled out a fresh Cuban cigar. With a crisp flick of a lighter, the tip flared to life. He walked over to the heavy glass doors and threw them open to the night.

​Immediately, a wave of freezing Siberian air rushed into the room, making the shadows dance as the heavy drapes whipped violently. July shuddered, her teeth instantly chattering from the sudden drop in temperature.

​He didn't seem to notice the chill. Standing at the threshold, exhaling a plume of thick smoke into the dark void outside, he spoke without turning around. "You've been unconscious for three days."

​July’s heart leaped into her throat. Three days?

​"You were filthy," he continued, his tone smooth and entirely unbothered. "I had a maid clean you up. On the second day, she was supposed to dress you, but the clothes I ordered didn't fit. You're... stouter than the standard size. The maid had to source another set; they'll arrive in the morning." He took another slow drag of his cigar, his broad shoulders framing the dark night. "And before your mind goes there—nothing happened between us. You're safe."

​July let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, though the word safe felt absurd in a room that smelled of gunpowder and old money. She watched his silhouette as he finished the cigar, casually tossing the glowing butt over the balcony railing into the dark nothingness below.

She couldn't help but wonder if his skin was made of stone; he was still wearing nothing but a single towel, yet he hadn't flinched once against the biting wind.

​When he finally turned back around, the dim light caught his face. Even though July could barely see the sharp lines of his eyes in the gloom, she noticed him stiffen. He was taken aback as he watched her trembling violently under the thick sheets, her small frame curled into a tight ball.

​A sudden realization seemed to hit him. He remembered she had absolutely nothing on underneath the blankets, and the freezing air was currently filling the room.

​"f**k," he muttered under his breath.

​He moved swiftly, his long strides carrying him across the room to a massive walk-in wardrobe. He flung the cabinet doors open, rummaged through the shelves for a second, and pulled out a fresh pair of dark pajamas. Without warning, he tossed them across the room.

​They landed squarely on July's face.

​She quickly pulled the silk fabric down, her eyes widening in sheer disbelief. The chest of the shirt was wide enough to fit two of her, and the pants looked like they could swallow her whole.

They quite clearly belonged to him.

​"Don't be choosy," he growled playfully, noticing her stunned expression. "Put them on."

​July swallowed hard, her face burning.

She gripped the fabric tightly, her voice barely a squeak. "There’s... there’s no underwear."

​The man paused, a ghost of an amused smirk playing on his lips. He turned back to the wardrobe, pulled out a fresh pair of black cotton boxers, and walked over to hand them to her directly. Instead of turning around, he walked back to the balcony doors, shutting them to block out the draft, and leaned his massive frame against the glass. He watched her intently, his dark eyes tracking her every move.

​Blushing furiously, July stayed buried beneath the heavy safety of the blanket. She awkwardly wriggled and kicked her legs under the sheets, struggling to pull the boxers up over her hips before wrestling her arms into the pajama set.

​Though July was a plus-size woman, his clothes were a comedy of scale on her 4'11" frame. The pajama pants pooled heavily around her ankles, and the sleeves completely swallowed her hands, dangling past her fingertips. Yet, as she pulled the collar up, she couldn't deny how incredibly comfortable they were. They were soft, warm, and filled with his intoxicating scent of cedarwood and rich tobacco.

​When she finally emerged from the mountain of blankets, fully dressed, she realized the man had dropped his towel.

​He was already in his own boxers, and July was trapped, entirely unable to look away as he deliberately picked up a plain white tee. It felt like everything slowed down. She watched the fluid, mesmerizing ripple of his back muscles as he raised his arms, the water dragons flexing on his skin as he slid the shirt over his head and pulled it down over his hard abdomen.

​The man cleared his throat, a low, rumbling sound that broke the spell.

​He looked down at her, a wicked, knowing grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "You have a habit of staring at my body, scrap. Should I be worried?"

July tried to lock her gaze with his, but the sheer intensity of his dark eyes was too much. Within a couple of seconds, she flinched and looked down, her fingers tightly knotting into the oversized pajama fabric. She couldn't relax her hands.

​"Where... where am I?" she asked the blankets, her voice trembling.

​"Siberia," he replied smoothly, running a hand through his damp hair. "I’ve been away myself for the last few days and only just got back. I had just stepped out of the shower when you woke up."

​July’s eyes widened slightly. "Is this... your room?" When he didn't deny it, panic flared in her chest. "I can transfer somewhere else. I shouldn't be in your bed—"

​Before she could even swing her legs over the edge of the mattress, the man moved with terrifying, predatory speed. His large hand clamped around her waist, catching her effortlessly. With a single, fluid motion, he manhandled her right back onto the mattress.

​Suddenly, he was hovering directly over her.

​Their faces were mere inches apart. July’s breath caught in her throat, and she instinctively squeezed her eyes shut as his warm breath hit her face. Even though he had just smoked a cigar, he smelled incredibly clean—like expensive mint soap, fresh rain, and raw power.

​He let out another low grunt, his chest expanding against her smaller frame. "Stay," he ordered, his voice a commanding rumble that brooked no argument.

​But as he held her down, the icy chill of her skin registered against his warm palms. He realized he was holding her far too tightly. The moment he released his grip on her wrist, July winced, her face contorting in visible pain from the pressure on her already bruised skin.

​The sight of her hurting seemed to snap him back to reality. His expression hardened, masking whatever thought just crossed his mind.

​"Move over," he commanded bluntly, shifting his weight off her. "Get to the other side of the bed."

​July scrambled as far to the edge as humanly possible. The man lay down on his back, crossing his massive arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. "Sleep," he muttered into the darkness. "And don't bother planning an escape. You won't make it past the front gates alive."

​July lay stiff as a board, her heart hammering against her ribs. She stared at the ceiling, doing everything in her power to shrink herself, making absolute sure not even a millimeter of her clothing made skin contact with the giant beside her.

​As her head sank into the impossibly soft mahogany-framed pillow, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind a hollow, aching emptiness. Her mind drifted thousands of miles away, across the ocean, to her parents in the Philippines. They thought she was safe. She had told them she secured a prestigious job as a teaching assistant at a foreign university, a lie meant to keep them from worrying about their failing hearts. She was supposed to be sending money home for their surgeries.

​Instead, her reality had taken a monstrous plot twist. She had been hunted, drugged, and smuggled by human traffickers.

​A ragged, deep sigh escaped her lips, and the first tear slipped down her cheek, soaking into the expensive pillowcase. Then came another, until silent, heavy tears were streaming down her face. She was so terrified. She was exhausted, her entire body throbbed with deep bruises, and she had never felt more utterly alone in her life. She didn't even know if she would survive to see the next morning.

​All she knew was that the girl who had left home to save her family was now trapped in the deep, freezing heart of the Devil's territory.

When July opened her eyes the next morning, the space beside her was empty, the heavy charcoal sheets cold to the touch. The imposing giant was gone, but in his place on the floor sat a cluster of sleek, high-end paper bags.

Intrigued, she crawled out of the massive bed and peeked inside. Her breath caught. They were filled with dresses, casual shirts, tailored pants, fresh undergarments—all meticulously sourced in her exact size—along with a stack of plush, clean towels.

​Golden sunrays were now cutting through the heavy drapes, illuminating the sheer scale of the bedroom. As July picked up one of the fresh towels, she looked around, a bitter smile touching her lips. This single bedroom was larger than her family's entire house back in the Philippines.

​Anxious to wash away the grime of the last three days, she walked toward a heavy door at the far end of the room, assuming it led to the en-suite. Instead, she pushed it open to find an expansive walk-in wardrobe.

​It was breathtaking. The floor was covered in a plush, dark carpet, and the walls were painted a deep, moody hue. Under soft, recessed lighting, rows of glass cabinets lined the space. On the right side, dozens of sharp, impeccably tailored suits were color-coordinated and hung with military precision. On the left were rows of casual designer shirts and pressed pants. In the very center of the room sat a velvet-lined glass island displaying luxury watches and heavy jewelry. July didn't know anything about high-end brands, but the sheer opulence of everything was undeniable. She turned in a slow circle, completely captivated by the grandeur of his world.

​When she turned back around to leave, she gasped, her forehead colliding directly with a broad, solid chest.

​It was him.

​He towered over her in the doorway, his face entirely void of emotion. "What are you doing in my wardrobe?" ?" he asked, his deep voice echoing in the enclosed space.