sold to the devil

CHAPTER 4

Damon’s POV

The room reeked of smoke, sweat, and cheap power. I hated places like this. But sometimes business dragged me where I didn’t want to be. Tonight was one of those nights.

The auction was loud. Men laughed too hard, whispered too much, waved their money around like they owned the world. I sat in the shadows, letting them play their games. They knew me. That was enough. I didn’t need to raise my voice or throw my weight around. Damon Volkov’s name already carried its own weight.

I didn’t touch the drink in front of me. Didn’t even glance at the girls paraded on stage. My condition had long made sure of that. Skin-to-skin contact left me burning, sick. A weakness no man like me could afford. So I stayed away. Women weren’t comfort. They were risk.

I almost left.

Then she walked in.

Amanda.

She looked different. Not dressed up like the others, but that only made her stand out more. Her hair fell in loose waves, unpolished yet elegant, as if the world hadn’t managed to tame it. Her lips carried no paint, but their natural curve was enough to draw the eye. And her eyes—clear, luminous, holding both fragility and fire—didn’t plead for attention. They commanded it.

But when she lifted her chin, I saw something else. A kind of sharpness beneath the fear.

The men noticed too. Their whispers grew. The bidding started fast, hands lifting, numbers climbing. I stayed quiet. Watched her.

She didn’t cower like the rest. She stood stiff, her gaze sweeping the room. When it landed on me, she froze. Not long, but long enough.

Most girls dropped their eyes the second I looked at them. She didn’t. She tried to hold it, though I saw the crack in her. Fear, grief, stubbornness. All tangled together.

That was when I heard my own voice cut through the room.

“Two million.”

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t thought out. The words just came, final and sharp.

The room fell silent. The auctioneer blinked. Nobody dared push higher.

“Sold,” he said.

Just like that, it was done.

My jaw tightened. I didn’t like the word mine. I didn’t want the word. But there it was, written across the silence.

The guards led her off the stage. She stumbled once but kept walking. No begging, no tears. She wasn’t broken. Not yet.

Interesting.

I stood, leaving the untouched whiskey behind. My men moved with me, clearing the way as I walked out. The whispers followed, but I ignored them.

In the back hall, the guards held her. One of them gripped her arm too hard. She winced.

“Let her go,” I said.

The guard froze. Released her. He didn’t meet my eyes. He knew better.

Amanda looked at me then, up close. Her eyes weren’t as empty as I expected. She was studying me, like she was trying to see what kind of man had just bought her.

I didn’t give her that chance. “Come.”

She obeyed without a word.

We walked through the dim corridor, past the smell of dust and damp wood. Outside, the night was sharp, clean. My car waited, black and armored. I opened the door. She hesitated, then slid inside.

Good. She didn’t fight.

The car moved through the city. She sat rigid, hands knotted in her lap. She didn’t look at me. Not once.

Silence filled the space. I liked silence. But this one felt heavier than usual.

I told myself it didn’t matter. She was another transaction. A way to remind people that Damon Volkov still owned the room, even in silence. Nothing more.

Yet my mind wouldn’t let go of her eyes. The way they had locked on mine. The way they had held just long enough.

I hated it.

I poured myself a drink from the car’s bar, though I didn’t touch it. My throat was dry, but I wasn’t thirsty.

She shifted once, her legs brushing against each other nervously, but she didn’t speak. Brave? Or numb? Hard to tell.

The city lights thinned. Roads grew darker. My estate loomed at the river’s edge, hidden by iron gates and trees. A fortress. A cage.

The gates opened as we approached. Guards bowed their heads as we passed. The car stopped at the front steps.

She stepped out slowly, staring up at the house. Her lips parted slightly. Dread. Not awe.

Good. She should dread it.

Inside, the halls were cold stone and marble. No warmth. No softness. Comfort was for men who needed lies. I didn’t.

She followed me, her heels clicking on the floor. At the stairs, I turned.

“This house has rules,” I said. My voice was even, sharp. “You’ll learn them. Break them, and you’ll regret it.”

She swallowed hard but stayed quiet.

“One more thing,” I added, stepping closer but not too close. “You do not touch me. Ever. Understand?”

Her brows furrowed, confusion flickering in her eyes, but she nodded.

Good.

I called for a maid. A woman dressed in black appeared instantly. “Take her to the guest room,” I ordered.

Amanda followed her without looking back. Her steps were stiff, heavy.

I stayed where I was, hands tight at my sides.

This was a mistake. I didn’t want this. Didn’t need it. She was a complication I hadn’t asked for.

But I couldn’t erase the image of her on that stage. The way she looked at me like I wasn’t just another faceless monster in the dark.

I told myself it was nothing. Control. Strategy. A reminder to the room that Damon Volkov couldn’t be outbid.

But as her footsteps disappeared up the stairs, I knew that was a lie.

And the worst part was, I didn’t know why.

I poured myself another drink. Lifted it.

For the first time in years, my hand wasn't steady