---
The doorbell rang.
A simple sound.
Harmless.
Ordinary.
But it slammed through me like a bullet.
I froze mid-step, the chipped coffee mug slipping from my hand and shattering on the kitchen floor.
No one rang my doorbell.
Not here.
Not at this hour.
Not when my heart was still recovering from last night.
I stared at the door, willing it to be a mistake.
Maybe it was Mrs. Kapoor from down the hall. Maybe it was a lost delivery guy.
Maybe it was anything except what I feared.
The bell rang again — longer this time.
More insistent.
He found me.
I backed away from the door, pulse hammering, mind racing.
Could I run?
No.
Fourth floor, no fire escape.
Could I hide?
No time.
Could I call someone?
My hands scrambled for my phone — and found nothing.
I had left it on the couch across the room.
Past the door.
Trapped.
A knock followed — three slow, deliberate taps.
And then his voice, low and calm, seeped through the wood like smoke.
"Ashir."
I choked on air.
He knew my name.
Of course he did.
"Open the door."
I didn't move.
The handle rattled.
"Ashir," he said again — softer, but sharper now, like the promise of a blade.
"I won't ask twice."
Every instinct screamed no.
Every instinct screamed run.
But somehow my hand moved — trembling, traitorous — unlocking the door.
It creaked open an inch.
And he was there.
Riven Kai.
Wearing a black leather jacket, rain dripping from his hair, a single silver ring glinting on his finger as he pushed the door fully open.
He didn't wait for permission.
He stepped inside, past me, like he already owned the air I breathed.
I stumbled back as he shut the door with a soft click.
The lock slid into place.
Final.
I was trapped again.
He turned to me — eyes sharp, mouth tilted in a smirk that wasn't kind.
"Smart boy," he murmured.
I couldn't speak.
Couldn't think.
Riven took a slow, surveying look around my pathetic apartment — the cracked walls, the sagging furniture, the damp smell of old rain seeping from the carpet.
His lip curled slightly.
Not in disgust.
In amusement.
"This is where you live?" he asked, voice dripping with fake sympathy.
I bristled — fear mixing with anger.
"You can't just barge in," I snapped, hating the tremor in my voice.
"I'll call the cops."
He laughed.
A real, low laugh — rich and cruel.
"Go ahead," he said, gesturing broadly.
"Call them."
I swallowed.
He stepped closer.
Each step deliberate.
Predator closing in on prey.
"But make sure you tell them everything," he said, voice dropping into something darker.
"Tell them how you saw me put a bullet through another man's skull.
Tell them how you ran instead of reporting it immediately.
Tell them you've been hiding."
He tilted his head, watching me pale.
"You know what that makes you, Ashir?"
He smiled coldly.
"An accomplice."
My legs weakened.
I gripped the edge of the table for balance.
"No," I whispered.
"Yes," he said softly.
He closed the distance between us until the air was thick with him — his scent, his heat, his danger.
"You're already in my world, Ashir," he murmured.
"And in my world, there's only one way to survive."
I looked up at him, hating the panic he must see in my eyes.
"Do what I say," he said.
"Belong to me."
---
For a long moment, silence stretched.
I could hear the rain ticking against the windows.
I could hear my own heart breaking.
"I don't belong to anyone," I managed to say.
It wasn't brave.
It wasn't steady.
But it was mine.
He watched me with a strange expression — not anger, not amusement.
Something else.
Something unreadable.
Without warning, he reached out — quick as a flash — and grabbed my wrist.
I yelped, struggling, but his grip was like iron.
He turned my wrist, exposing the soft, vulnerable skin on the inside.
And before I could react —
He pulled a black marker from his pocket.
In slow, deliberate strokes, he wrote something on my skin.
When he let go, I stared, breathless.
A phone number.
And below it, two words:
MY PROPERTY.
My stomach twisted.
Riven pocketed the marker casually.
"You'll call when you're ready," he said.
I glared up at him, furious, humiliated.
"I won't," I spat.
He leaned in, so close that his nose brushed mine.
My whole body froze.
"You will," he whispered.
"Because you'll realize soon enough — no one else can protect you now."
His eyes gleamed.
"Only me."
---
He stepped back, surveying me like an artist admiring a ruined masterpiece.
Then he turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him without a sound.
Leaving me standing there — alone, shaking, marked.
---
I stared at the number inked across my wrist.
I should wash it off.
Scrub it until the skin peeled.
I should run.
Pack a bag.
Disappear.
But instead I sat down on the floor, knees to my chest, and stared at the door he had just walked through.
And a sick, terrifying part of me whispered:
He could have killed you.
But he didn't.
He chose you.
---
That night, sleep didn't come.
I lay awake, the darkness around me thick and suffocating.
Every creak of the building.
Every gust of wind rattling the window.
Every shift of the shadows —
I imagined him stepping through the darkness.
I imagined his hand around my throat.
His mouth against my ear.
"Mine."
---
Days passed.
I stayed away from the alleys.
Stayed away from anything remotely dangerous.
But no matter how hard I tried to pretend —
No matter how many showers I took —
The black ink on my wrist burned.
Like a brand.
Like a promise.
Like a curse.
---
The nightmares started.
Dreams of silver chains.
Dreams of being dragged into darkness.
Dreams where I wasn't afraid.
Dreams where I wanted it.
---
The worst part wasn't the fear.
It was the craving.
The craving for danger.
For him.
---
By the end of the week, I cracked.
Sitting alone on the bathroom floor, staring at the number, tears blurring my vision —
I picked up my phone.
Hands shaking.
Breath shallow.
And I dialed.
---
The line clicked once.
Twice.
Then his voice answered — dark, amused, waiting.
"Ashir," Riven said softly.
"As expected."
---
[End of Chapter 2]
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