Chapter 1: The Devil in Her Bones

There’s a strange kind of silence that lives in trauma.

Aira Velyn wore it like perfume.

She walked through the courthouse lobby like a ghost carved from steel—back straight, hair in a tight braid, black suit tailored like armor. Her heels were silent. Her face was colder than the winter outside. To the world, she was a decorated trauma surgeon testifying in a high-profile organized crime case.

To him?

She was a threat.

Or a challenge.

Or maybe something he couldn’t quite name—but wanted to own anyway.

Kade Thorne leaned back in the leather bench like it was his throne, fingers laced, tattoo ink curling up his neck, and an expression so unreadable it felt dangerous. Black suit. No tie. A single silver ring on his index finger.

The moment she entered the courtroom, his eyes locked on her. Not with the curiosity of a man watching. With the hunger of a man waiting.

Aira ignored him. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. She was used to being watched. After all, she'd spent most of her childhood being watched by monsters in her own home.

The only difference was—this monster wore his darkness with pride.

Her testimony was brutal. Clean. Precise.

She never stuttered.

Not when she described the injuries of the man who tried to kill a detective. Not when she outlined how her medical records were tampered with. Not even when they mentioned the Thorne Syndicate.

But Kade? He smiled once.

Just once.

When she said: “I don’t fear people who hide behind power.”

That night, Aira locked her apartment door three times instead of two.

And still—when she turned on the lights—he was there.

Sitting on her kitchen counter like he belonged there. Like it was his space.

"How did you get in?" she hissed, heart slamming against her ribs.

He tilted his head, that scar on his jaw catching the dim light.

"How many locks did you use?"

Her breath caught.

"You’re insane."

“No,” he said, voice low, magnetic, dangerous. “I’m in control. There's a difference.”

She grabbed the knife off the counter, but he didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. Just watched her with those glacial eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet, here I am,” he murmured. “Watching over the woman who just declared war on me in court.”

“You think I’m scared?”

“I think you’ve been scared your whole life. And I think you’re tired of pretending otherwise.”

That’s when something cracked in her. Just a flicker. A tremor in her fingers.

He saw it.

Stood up.

Closed the distance.

"You hate me," he whispered, voice grazing her skin like fire. "Good. That means you'll think of me when you try to sleep. And you won’t sleep, Aira. Not until I say you can."

He reached out and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"You’re strong. But strength gets lonely, doesn’t it?"

She clenched her jaw. Didn’t say a word. He smirked.

Then he left.

But on her counter, he left something behind.

A small black box.

Inside: a necklace. Silver chain. A pendant shaped like a thorned rose. Sharp enough to draw blood.

And a note, handwritten in inky black.

" You’ll wear this. Not because I asked. But because you like being claimed—even if you’d rather die than admit it"

—K.T.

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