sold to the devil

CHAPTER 6

Amanda’s POV

The shadow’s words echoed inside my skull long after they left his mouth.

“You don’t belong here.”

They vibrated in my bones. I pressed back against the headboard, the blankets bunched beneath my fists like something I could climb into and disappear.

“Wh-Who are you?” I whispered again, though I already knew he wasn’t someone I wanted to meet.

He shifted, and the small bit of moonlight that leaked between the curtains caught his jawline—sharp, stubbled, clenched so tightly the muscles jumped beneath the skin. He stepped forward, boots silent against the carpet. He was tall, not as tall as Damon, but broader in the shoulders in a brute kind of way.

His uniform confirmed what I feared. A guard.

But not the one who had escorted me inside earlier. This one looked like he lived in the gym and breathed violence.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he growled, as if I was the trespasser in my own cage.

I swallowed, throat dry. “I didn’t choose—”

“I don’t care,” he snapped, cutting me off. “Women don’t belong in this house. Especially not bought ones.”

My heart stuttered. So he knew.

Everyone here knew.

Heat crawled up my neck, shame and fear mixing like poison.

“I was told to stay in the room,” I managed, trying to keep my voice steady.

He scoffed, stepping deeper into the moonlight. His eyes glinted dark, cold, like he enjoyed the fear rolling off me.

“You really think a locked door protects you here? That man downstairs—” He jerked his head toward the hallway. “—he doesn’t protect things. He destroys them.”

His words were like ice poured down my spine.

“Why are you in here?” I asked, forcing myself not to curl tighter.

His gaze slid over the room, assessing. “Someone needs to make sure you understand your place. Don’t get comfortable. Don’t pretend this is a room. It’s a holding cell with velvet sheets.”

I stiffened. “Then why let me sleep?”

He laughed under his breath, humorless. “Because the master, Damon, wants you functional. But that doesn’t mean the rest of us like it.”

Master. The word twisted my stomach. I hated how casually he said it, how normal it sounded coming from his mouth.

“You don’t know me,” I protested weakly.

“You’re another pretty distraction,” he snapped. “Like the last one.”

That sentence slammed into me.

The last one.

“What happened to her?” I whispered.

His lip curled. For a moment, I thought he might answer. Instead, he leaned in, breath cold.

“You should pray you never find out.”

Silence swelled, thick, suffocating. My heart pounded so loudly I wondered if he could hear it.

“I’ll scream,” I warned, even though I wasn’t sure my voice would hold.

He smirked. “Go ahead. No one will come.”

I froze.

“They’re asleep?” I asked quietly.

“No,” he said, tilting his head. “They just don’t care.”

His words made the air feel thinner.

The guard’s eyes slid to the door, suddenly alert, like he heard something I couldn’t. He shot one last venomous look at me.

“You don’t belong here,” he repeated, voice low and hateful.

Then, without another word, he slipped out of the room. The door clicked quietly shut behind him. No footsteps. No lingering shadow. He vanished like smoke.

I sat frozen for a full minute before my body started shaking. Not the kind of shaking from cold—this was from the realization that I was truly alone in a house full of people.

I exhaled slowly, listening to the silence swallow the room again.

Was he right?

Of course he was. I didn’t belong anywhere. My father had already made that clear when he signed the papers—when he looked at me like a problem he could profit from.

But the guard’s words weren’t what terrified me most.

It was the name he’d dropped:

The last one.

What happened to her?

I tried not to imagine, but the human brain is cruel. It painted pictures anyway. A girl crying in a locked room, begging a closed door. Damon’s cold expression. Silence swallowing her. Maybe she wasn’t alive anymore.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the images away. I wouldn’t become that. I couldn’t.

I crawled across the bed until my back pressed against the wall, knees to my chest. The pillow smelled faintly clean, like lavender and hotel detergent, but it didn’t comfort me.

The house breathed around me. The walls felt alive, like they were listening. I stayed awake long after the guard disappeared, afraid that closing my eyes would make something else appear.

Eventually exhaustion tugged at my skull. My limbs grew heavy, eyelids droopy. I didn’t mean to sleep—I just folded into it, slowly, like drowning.

---

Light stabbed my eyes when morning finally broke. I gasped and sat upright, breathing fast, heartbeat slamming against my ribs. Sunlight leaked through the curtains in thin, sharp lines.

For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. Then the heavy dread landed on my chest.

The mansion.

The auction.

Damon.

It wasn’t a dream.

I rubbed my wrists, remembering the bruises forming there. My stomach tightened painfully. I didn’t know how long I’d slept, but morning had claimed the room.

Someone knocked.

A gasp tore from my throat.

The door opened without waiting for my answer.

A woman entered—tall, thin, dressed in black again, her hair coiled neatly behind her head. Her posture was perfect, chin slightly lifted, gaze empty.

The same maid from last night.

“You’re awake,” she said, voice even, as if speaking to furniture.

I nodded cautiously.

“You will eat. Then you will be examined.”

The words took a second to settle. My eyebrows knit. “Examined?”

She blinked once, impassive. “Master’s orders.”

My stomach twisted. “What does that mean?”

She didn’t elaborate. Instead, she stepped aside and gestured to a tray on a small table near the door. Toast, eggs, and something herbal steaming in a cup.

My body betrayed me. I realized how empty I felt, how my stomach burned from hunger. But suspicion anchored my feet.

“Is it safe?” I whispered.

She paused. “It is food.”

That wasn’t an answer. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t starve myself into freedom. So I stood slowly and approached the tray.

The maid watched me eat without blinking, like she was evaluating how I chewed. My hands trembled around the fork. The taste felt distant, like my tongue wasn’t connected correctly. I forced myself to swallow.

When I finished, she took the tray and sets of plates and returned them to the hallway. Then she turned to me again.

“Come,” she instructed.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to leave the room,” I said carefully.

“You are escorted.” Her voice didn’t care.

Relief wasn’t what I felt.

Being escorted is what prisoners get.

She led me down the hallway, her steps soft, precise. Mine sounded too loud. The house was breathtaking—marble floors, tall ceilings carved with gold patterns, walls lined with dark framed paintings.

But no matter how beautiful something is, if you don’t choose it…

…it becomes a threat.

The farther we walked, the colder the air grew. It felt like descending into the belly of something asleep.

We stopped at a medical-like room—white walls, cabinets lined with equipment. A woman in a lab coat waited inside.

Panic spread through my chest. “Examine me how?”

The maid stayed silent.

The woman in the coat approached—her eyes soft, brown, sympathetic.

“Don’t worry,” she said gently. “Just physical checks. Master needs to ensure you’re healthy.”

Healthy… for what?

I sat stiffly on the exam table. The examination was clinical but invasive—she checked my eyes, pulse, bruises, weight. When her fingers brushed the bruises on my wrists, she frowned.

“You were handled aggressively?”

I swallowed. “At the auction.”

She hummed quietly, scribbling something on a clipboard.

“The master will want to hear about that,” she murmured.

Fear prickled. Damon cared about bruises? Why?

When she finished, she offered a tiny smile. “All done.”

Relief loosened my spine a fraction. The maid gestured to follow. I hopped down and trailed her back through twisting corridors. We passed a room with closed double doors. Voices drifted through—deep male voices, discussing shipments, territory, danger.

Mafia business, I realized.

The maid noticed my curiosity and snapped quietly, “Eyes forward.”

I stiffened and obeyed.

The house wasn’t alive—it was haunted by men.

We reached my room again. The maid opened the door. I stepped inside. She didn’t.

“You are to remain here unless summoned.” She paused, gaze narrowing ever so slightly. “There is a guard outside.”

My heart sank. The resentful one? Or another?

“Which guard?” I whispered.

“Alex,” she said curtly.

A new name. Good or bad?

Before I could ask, she closed the door, locking me in with a soft click.

I stood frozen in the middle of the room. Trapped again.

Something inside me snapped quietly. I wasn’t an object. They couldn’t just keep me in cages and rooms and beds like I was a possession.

I paced. Back and forth. Footsteps soft, breath harsh. The room suddenly felt smaller, walls pressing inward, ceiling lowering.

Minutes bled into an hour. I didn’t sit. Couldn’t.

Eventually, footsteps stopped outside my door. Keys jingled. My lungs froze.

The doorknob turned.

I braced, heart hammering.

But when the door opened, it wasn’t Damon.

And it wasn’t the shadow-guard.

It was the one called Alex. Clean uniform. Neutral expression.

He stood tall, arms folded. “Master wants to see you.”

My stomach dropped. Not here. Not now.

“Wh-why?” I stammered.

His jaw twitched. “Don’t ask questions. Follow.”

Fear clawed at my throat, but refusing wasn’t an option. I followed him out, each step heavy as stone.

He didn’t speak as we descended the grand staircase. My breath caught in my throat—the house was far more alive during the day. Guards moved like shadows, staff murmured, phones rang. It felt like stepping into the bloodstream of something massive.

We stopped at those double doors I’d passed earlier. Alex knocked once, then opened them.

Damon stood at the far end of a long conference table. Sunlight hit him from behind, turning him into a silhouette of sharp edges and cold lines. His suit was crisp, his posture rigid. His eyes flicked to me, unreadable.

My pulse stuttered.

“Sit,” he said.

I slid into the chair furthest from him. My fingers dug into the armrests.

He studied me with a clinical calm, like he was reading a file. “You slept.”

It wasn’t a question.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” His tone didn’t match the word. It was too flat, almost irritated.

“I heard you had a visitor last night.”

Cold swept through my chest. Alex stiffened near the door.

How did he know?

“I…” My voice trembled. “Someone was in my room.”

Damon’s jaw flexed. A vein ticked in his neck. For the first time, his calm cracked, even if only for one heartbeat.

“Describe him.”

I swallowed. “Tall. Broad. Dark hair. He said I don’t belong here. He—”

“Did he touch you?”

The question cracked like a whip. His voice dropped low, dangerous.

“No,” I whispered.

His shoulders eased one fraction.

“Good,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to me.

He tapped a finger once against the table. “He will be dealt with.”

A chill crawled up my spine. Dealt with how? Killed? Hurt? Because of me?

My throat tightened. “I don’t want anyone to—”

“You don’t want anything,” Damon interrupted, gaze cold. “You are here under my terms.”

I flinched. Heat burned behind my eyes.

“Why?” The word escaped without permission. “Why buy me? Why bring me here? What am I supposed to do?”

Silence snapped across the room.

He stared at me for a long, suffocating second. Something flickered behind his eyes—not desire, not cruelty…something exhausted. Broken. But it vanished quickly.

“You do nothing,” he answered quietly. “You obey. And you do not touch me.”

That last command sharpened the air between us until it cut.

“Why?” I whispered.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Because I said so.”

That wasn’t true. Something deeper, darker coiled around the word.

His allergy. His trauma.

Pain flickered across his expression, quick and unguarded, like a wound that never healed.

He noticed me noticing and looked away sharply. “Alex. Escort her back.”

Panic shot through me. Back. The room. Alone again.

“Wait,” I blurted. “Please—just tell me what you want from me.”

Damon went very still. The silence crackled.

He stepped closer, stopping just far enough to obey his own rule. Coldness radiated from him.

“What I want,” he said softly, “is silence.”

The words punched through me. Silence. Thehead-on thing that swallowed every cry I’d ever made in my father’s house.

Alex tugged my arm lightly—not rough, just insistent. I stood on shaking legs and followed.

The hallways blurred. My breath trembled. By the time I reached my room again, tears had pooled at my lash line. Not falling. Just waiting.

Alex opened the door. “You stay here.”

I nodded. He shut it behind me.

The lock clicked.

Again.

I sank onto the bed, hands shaking. My pulse thundered.

Silence filled the room like water, rising, rising—

I couldn’t drown in it again.

I forced myself up and went to the window. The curtains were heavy, thick. I slid them open an inch. A garden sprawled below—beautiful, blooming, surrounded by high walls topped with razor wire glinting viciously in the sun.

No escape.

A shout echoed faintly outside—from the training yard. Men fighting, practicing, sparring. This house wasn’t a home. It was headquarters. A war camp.

And I was dropped in the center.

I paced again. My body refused to be still. Words chased themselves through my head.

You don’t belong here.

The last one.

Examined.

Obey.

Silence.

Something was building. Cracks in the floorboards of this place. I felt them like tremors. Like something was going to break.

Hours passed. The light faded. My door remained locked.

But hunger gnawed, and thirst dried my throat. Eventually, the maid returned with dinner. She didn’t speak. I didn’t either. Our silence was agreement.

When she left, I ate slowly, forcing it down past the lump in my throat.

Night fell fully. Shadows pooled in corners again. I curled up under the blanket but kept my eyes open.

This room wasn’t safe.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged me under again.

---

Sometime deep in the night, whispering pulled me back up.

At first, I thought it was the dream clinging to me. But no—the sound came from inside the room.

My eyes snapped open.

The window curtains swayed gently—not enough to be wind. Something moved behind them, shape elongated by moonlight.

My breath froze.

Someone. Again.

I opened my mouth to scream—but a hand clamped over it from behind.

I thrashed wildly—only to slam into a chest.

A voice hissed at my ear:

“Quiet, little bird. You’ll wake the house.”

The resentful guard. Again.

His grip tightened. “I warned you. You don’t belong.”

My pulse exploded. Tears sprang to my eyes.

He dragged me off the bed, pinning me against the wall.

“You think he bought you to protect you?” he snarled. “You’re bait. You’re a test. You’re nothing.”

I shoved against him, but he was solid stone.

Suddenly, footsteps thundered down the hallway.

The guard’s head snapped toward the door.

The lock slid.

The guard pushed off me and bolted toward the window—fast, panicked. He landed one foot on the dresser, launched himself up, shoved the window open, and slipped through into the night.

The door burst open.

Damon stood there.

Breathing. Hard.

His eyes swept the room—landing on me, trembling against the wall.

He stepped forward, stopping in front of me—too close, but not touching. His breath came sharp, strained.

“What did he do to you?” he demanded.

I shook my head, voice breaking. “He said I don’t belong. He—he came back.”

Damon’s expression twisted. Anger. Fear. Something haunted.

He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening. “He won’t get the chance again.”

My voice trembled. “Why is he here? Why aren’t I protected?”

Silence stretched.

Damon’s eyes locked onto mine, dark and heavy.

“You are,” he said quietly. “You just don’t know what from.”

My breath hitched. “From what?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you know what happens,” he murmured, voice low, “to anyone who touches what’s mine?”

His words shattered through my ribs.

Mine.

Before I could speak, he stepped back—and something flickered across his face. Pain. Physical. Emotional. His pupils dilated, breath sharp.

He was too close.

His allergy. His trauma. My presence set off something in him.

He staggered one step away, breathing shakily.

“Get some rest,” he rasped. “Your guard detail doubles from now on.”

He turned. At the threshold, he paused.

“And Amanda?” he added softly, without looking back.

“Yes?” My voice barely existed.

“I didn’t buy you for silence,” he whispered.

Then he left.

The door locked.

My heart hammered so hard it hurt.

I sank to the floor, fingers clutching the sheets.

I didn’t buy you for silence.

If not silence… then what?

Outside, somewhere in the garden, a scream cut through the night. Short. Choked.

Then silence fell heavier.

And in the morning…

…the guard who’d visited my room was nowhere to be seen.

Not on duty.

Not outside my door.

Not in the house.

No one asked where he went. No one spoke his name again.

Not even Damon.

They erased him.

I swallowed, dread blooming like poison.

This house didn’t just breathe.

It fed.

And I realized—too late—there was something worse than being trapped.

Being wanted.