Raven's POV :
I didn't know hell came wrapped in white silk and scented candles.
The moment I stepped inside his mansion, it felt like stepping into a dream twisted wrong. Everything was white—pristine, silent, cold. The floors gleamed like they'd never known dirt. The glass railings and ivory furniture looked like they belonged in a showroom, not a home. A fountain danced outside in the front courtyard, its soft trickle mocking the chaos pulsing in my chest.
I didn't belong here. And I sure as hell didn't belong to him.
Kairus walked ahead like a ghost in human skin—tall, composed, terrifyingly silent. The back of his suit was flawless, like everything about him. But behind that flawlessness, I felt something else. Something darker. Unforgiving.
He stopped by a sleek door and turned to face me.
"This is your room."
Not ours.
Of course not. He wouldn't share space, not with the woman he just bought like a debt-bound possession.
I crossed my arms, jaw set tight. "What next? A tour of my gilded prison?"
He opened the door. The room was luxurious, no doubt—spacious, white as everything else, with a bed that could swallow me whole. And yet, it felt like it was watching me. Like I didn't own a single breath in this place.
He didn't step inside.
"I brought you here to explain the terms."
I turned to him slowly. "Terms?"
"One year," he said flatly. "That's the deal. You stay married to me, fulfill your role. Smile where needed. Look pretty. Obey."
"Obey?" I echoed, voice sharp.
His eyes met mine. Cold steel. "You don't have to love me. But you will listen. No sneaking out. No contacting anyone about our arrangement. And if I tell you to warm my bed—"
"Stop." I stepped toward him. "You think you can treat me like a body on a leash?"
"You agreed to this," he reminded me, voice calm but final.
I leaned in, chest burning. "I agreed to repay my brother's debt. Not be your—your doll."
He didn't move. He didn't flinch.
"You'll wear the ring," he said next, reaching into his coat pocket.
It glinted—a beautiful band, diamond with a subtle black sheen, cruelly elegant. He stepped close, so close I could smell the sharp notes of his cologne.
"This ring," he said, sliding it onto my finger, "is yours. And only yours."
I stared at it. It fit perfectly. Too perfectly.
His voice dipped lower, colder. "Don't take it off."
I blinked. "Or what?"
"There's a mechanism inside. It reacts to force. If you try to remove it," his lips curved slightly, "you'll feel pain."
"You're kidding."
"I never joke, Raven."
I stared at him, breath caught between fury and disbelief. "You designed a ring that hurts when removed?"
"To keep what's mine in place."
I jerked my hand back like it burned—but the ring remained. No matter how hard I tugged, it wouldn't budge.
"You're insane," I whispered, heart thudding.
He stepped forward, closer than comfort. One hand reached up—not to touch gently, but to grip my chin. Firm. Possessive.
"I'm your husband now," he murmured, eyes burning into mine. "You'll follow my rules. And you'll remember—this isn't love. It's control. Bought. Sealed. Signed."
I slapped his hand away and leaned in until our foreheads nearly touched.
"I'm not something to be owned," I spat. "You may have bought my time, Kairus Vasiliev, but you'll never have me."
The air between us trembled—tight, electric, dangerous.
"We'll see. "
I thought he'd leave. That he'd walk out the door like every cold bastard who ever thought they had the last word.
But he didn't.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
The air between us went still, like the silence before a lightning strike. His eyes—ocean blue and void of light—dragged down my body, then back to my face like a challenge. I could smell the desire and want on him, thick and choking.
"You still don't get it, do you?" His voice was low, dark velvet stretched over a blade.
My breath caught as he reached down, fingers brushing the slit of my wedding dress.
I flinched. Not out of fear.
Out of fury.
But his fingers didn't tremble.
He traced slowly along the bare skin of my thigh, cold rings grazing fire-hot nerves, his touch deliberate—measured, like he owned every inch of it.Like he had all the time in the world to teach me my place.
"You wear my name," he murmured, eyes fixed on mine.
I clenched my jaw. "That name means nothing."
He moved faster then—one hand tightening around my throat, the other still resting against my leg. His grip wasn't brutal. But it wasn't gentle, either. It was a warning.
That I was in his house. Wearing his ring. Bound to his contract.
And yet, the fire in me didn't dim.
"I am not an object to be owned," I hissed, leaning into his face. My words were blades. "And I sure as hell don't belong to you."
His lips curled. Not into a smile—but something darker. Possession. Hunger. Madness barely restrained.
"No," he said softly, his breath ghosting against my cheek. "You're not an object. You're something far more dangerous."
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
"You're art. The kind that doesn't belong in museums. The kind that breaks men."
His grip on my throat tightened, just slightly.
"My butterfly," he whispered. "Babochka."
I shivered.
Not because the nickname was tender—but because it wasn't. It sounded like a noose dressed in lace. A threat spoken through silk.
"If you ever try to fly from me," he murmured, dragging his fingers down my neck, "I'll pin your wings myself."
My jaw clenched. My fists curled. Rage built in my chest, but under it, something deeper stirred.
He was a storm. And I hated how my body listened to its thunder.
Still, I held my chin high. Still, I looked him in the eye.
I wasn't his. Not yet.
But babochka or not, I had no illusions—I was already in the cage.
Then suddenly , his fingers found the zipper of my gown—his wedding gift, no doubt made to his taste: silk, body-hugging, high slit, sinful.
The sound of the zipper descending filled the silence. Slow. Intentional. The cold air kissed the newly exposed skin of my back as the dress loosened, slipping an inch… then two… then three.
Each second stretched forever.
"Kairus," I warned, my voice laced with venom.
But that name meant nothing to him in that moment.
His fingers trailed with the movement, lingering too long, grazing the hollow of my spine until the zipper stopped just above the small of my back—dangerously low.
My breath caught, heart thudding in my throat.
And then—
He let go.
The warmth of his hand vanished.
I spun around in time to see him walk away, no guilt, no hesitation—just that damn smirk tugging at the edge of his lips, as if he already knew how much control he had over me.
He didn't look back.
"Get some rest, babochka," he said before disappearing through the door, his voice maddeningly calm. "We begin our married life tomorrow."
The door clicked shut behind him.
I stood there, trembling—not with fear. But with heat. With confusion.
I hated him.
I hated how he touched me like I belonged to him. I hated how my body didn't protest.