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He was gone when I woke up to my alarm blaring. I would’ve thought I dreamt him being there if my body wasn’t sore and his scent didn’t still cling to my skin. I stared at the ceiling for a full minute before dragging myself out of bed and silencing my cellphone.

My foot hit the duffle bag.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it like it might bite me.

And it might, metaphorically, eventually.

I shouldn’t have taken the money. I knew that.

But the look in his eyes last night—that raw, unflinching determination—made me change my mind.

“No” didn’t exist in his world. Saying it wouldn’t have saved me from him.

So why leave empty-handed? I’d play my part, whatever that would be, until he got tired of me.

Some women got to live soft lives. Women like me didn’t get that luxury. We survived .

I held onto those thoughts all morning.

Through brushing my teeth. Through putting my shoes on. Through packing my lunch and locking the door behind me.

At work, I moved from patient to patient, checked charts, gave meds—like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t let a dangerous man fuck me against a wall and then pay off my student loans.

I even laughed when my coworker Tasha said something about how tired I looked.

After work, I went to the grocery store. I got home around six.

And Priest was standing outside. Next to a moving van.

He looked at me like it was normal being there. In a suit. In the middle of the night. With movers.

I stopped at the curb. “What is this?” He shrugged lazily. “I told you you were moving. I found you a place.”

I started to speak—loudly—then became aware of the movers watching us with half-curious, half-bored expressions and lowered my voice. “Priest. I can’t—”

His stride was long and quick as he closed the space between us.

He wrapped his thick fingers around my wrist and aggressively pulled me forward. I slammed into him. His arms came around me like iron vice, locking me in place. My face ended up pressed flush against the hard planes of his chest, his warmth chasing away the slight chill clinging to my skin.

I stiffened, but he didn’t let go.

“You can, and you will,” he whispered.

I tried to lean back, but his grip stayed firm.

“You really think this is a good idea?” I said, voice tight.

His fingers slid from my wrist to the small of my back—his hand was so hot. “I don’t think. I know.” His lips dipped, grazing the corner of my jaw.

“Don’t act out in front of my men, Little Saint,” he said. “You already said yes to whatever I want when you took my money. In for a penny, in for a pound of flesh.”

A flutter of heat unfurled low in my belly—embarrassing, but involuntary.

I exhaled sharply. “Why does this feel like you own me now?”

His smile was smug and dark. “Little Saint, ownership isn’t the only thing I plan to take...”

My heart sped up. My fight-or-flight kicked in, but I was too proud to beg, too scared to fight, and a body too foolish to run.

He pulled me tighter, like he wanted to fuse us together right there on the sidewalk. I felt his dick on my stomach, every unrelenting inch of him was hard and ready. I hated how my breath caught, the way my clit thumped. There was something wrong with me.

He stepped back and fixed his cuffs. “Go pack what you want to keep. I’ll buy you whatever else. See you inside.” He leaned back in, brushing a kiss just beneath my ear.

Then he turned and walked off, leaving me to follow his orders with my heart hammering in my chest.