Page 3

ALLURE

It’s been several hours since the man who brought the tiger cub left, and now, like always, I’m the one stuck taking care of it—on top of all of Boaz’s other pets.

Of course.

Because when something precious enters this house, it’s my job to keep it breathing. My job to polish it, feed it, keep it obedient until he decides what to do with it. Until he decides how to ruin it.

The tiger is so small now. Too small. Its paws are too big for its skinny legs, its ribs flutter every time it breathes, like even sleeping is a fight.

They shoved it into a crate like it’s a kitten, not a predator.

But in a few months? It’ll outgrow this metal box.

Its teeth will lengthen, sharpen. Its claws will harden into weapons.

The creature they see as a prize today will become a nightmare they can't cage later.

God, I hope I’m gone before that happens.

This wild animal belongs in the jungle, living freely. Not in some mob boss’s compound.

But maybe it’ll wake up one night, wild and furious, and tear Boaz’s smug face off before anyone can shoot it down. Maybe it’ll be free for a split second, even if it dies for it. Even if it gets put down.

Even one second of real freedom would be worth it.

That thought slices through me harder than I expect, making my throat burn. Because how long have I been dreaming of the same thing?

I’ve been trying to escape Boaz for years.

Plotting in the quiet hours. Praying when I’m sure nobody’s listening.

Memorizing the guard rotations, the codes, the new security tech he brags about after every upgrade.

Watching every window, every lock, every camera like my life depends on it—because it does.

And every time I think I’ve found a crack in his armor, a way out?—

Something shifts.

A new face shows up.

A door that used to be easy suddenly needs a different keycode.

A window that used to creak open suddenly reinforced with steel.

Boaz always stays five steps ahead. Like he knows my heartbeats better than I do. Like he hears my silent prayers and laughs before they even reach heaven.

Always Boaz.

But tonight... something feels different.

Like the house is holding its breath.

Like something cracked in the foundation when he came.

I can’t stop thinking about him.

The man who brought the cub.

Tall. Broad. Dark-skinned. Tattoos snaking up his arms and neck, stories inked into his skin that I’d never be brave enough to ask about. His mouth gleamed with gold grills when he spoke—like he dared the world to tell him he didn’t belong.

He moved through Boaz’s fortress the way a fire moves through dry grass—quiet, controlled, inevitable.

And his eyes...

They didn’t devour me like Boaz’s men.

Didn’t strip me bare like a prize they planned to buy.

They just... saw me.

Not the Virgin.

Not the obedient shadow wrapped in white.

Not the empty smile and the bowed head Boaz trained me to perfect.

Me.

That terrified me more than anything else ever has.

Because men who see you? Really see you?

They’re dangerous.

They peel away the masks you need to survive. They make you remember you’re human—and remembering hurts more than forgetting ever did.

And a man like that?

He’s not here to save anyone.

Men like him don’t carry salvation.

They carry storms.

They tear down the world you know—and they don’t apologize for the wreckage they leave behind.

Still...

My body betrayed me the second he looked at me.

My blood warmed under my skin, fast and stupid.

My breath stopped when our fingers brushed over the rim of his glass.

Some part of me, buried deep and long starved—the part Boaz hadn’t fully managed to kill—stirred awake.

Hungry.

Hopeful.

Alive.

It terrified me. More than Boaz. More than the guns. More than the cages.

Because I know what hope does in this house.

Hope builds you up just high enough so that the fall shatters every piece you have left.

I can’t let it grow.

I can’t let it root itself inside me.

I can’t afford hope.

Not here.

Hope is the most dangerous thing you can have in this house.

Because if you believe—even for a second—that someone might come for you,

That someone might see you as more than a pet,

That someone might tear these walls down?

It’ll kill you faster than Boaz ever could.

And worse?

You’ll beg for it.

“Virgin!”

Boaz’s voice cuts through the night, sharp as a whip, slicing the fragile peace I had managed to wrap around myself.

I flinch automatically, muscles clenching before my mind can even catch up.

It’s a reflex now—like breathing, like blinking.

My body moves faster than my thoughts when it comes to him.

I hate that he calls me that. But I’d also hate if he used my real name.

I grab my hijab from the hook by the door, fingers fumbling as I wrap it around my head, each movement too fast, too frantic. My stomach twists into tight, painful knots. Boaz doesn’t tolerate delays. Not without consequences. Not without blood.

The room I leave behind isn’t a room at all.

It’s a cage pretending to be paradise. A gilded lie dressed in luxury.

Everything is white—curtains, bedding, the velvet armchair no one sits in, the dresser no one touches.

White walls, white carpet, white ceiling.

Blinding and sterile, like being trapped inside a cloud you can’t breathe in.

Boaz says white represents virtue. Cleanliness.

Innocence. But to me? It represents control and blandness.

It’s like an eraser that got rid of all that made me — me.

I slip into the hallway, barefoot, the marble floor icy against my skin. The air hums with tension, thick and heavy, pressing against my chest until it’s hard to draw a full breath. The house feels alive tonight—watching, listening, waiting.

When I reach his quarters, Boaz is sprawled across his oversized bed like some bloated king from an old, dying empire.

Silk pajamas cling to his thick frame, his belly pushing stubbornly against the fabric.

He’s still wearing sunglasses, even in the dark, because he thinks it makes him look powerful. Mysterious. Above consequence.

He smells like sweat and expensive cologne layered too thick, trying to smother the body odor underneath. I lower my eyes automatically, shoulders tight, every muscle in my body wound too tight to be safe. Silent. Invisible. That’s how you survive here.

"Go fetch me a nightcap," he says, waving a lazy hand like a Roman emperor demanding wine and grapes. "Bring me one of the pets."

My blood turns cold.

I freeze for just a second—just long enough for my lungs to tighten painfully—then pivot without a word. No questions. No hesitation. Obedience is survival.

My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to beat its way free from my chest. I move through the hallways on autopilot, gliding across marble floors like a ghost. I've trained myself to move without sound, without drawing attention, without breathing too loud.

The service staircase waits for me at the far end of the hall—a narrow, steep tunnel that curves downward into the belly of the house. It was built to be unseen. A passage meant for shame, not sunlight.

The wood creaks faintly under my bare feet as I descend. Every step is familiar. Every step feels heavier.

At the bottom, I reach for the light switch with a hand that no longer trembles—because what’s the point? Fear has long since curdled into something quieter. Something heavier.

The light floods the basement. And there they are.

Seven cages line the far wall, perfectly spaced like exhibits in a museum.

Each one is a glass enclosure—no bars, no chains.

Just glass walls, white bedding, a faux-fur rug that looks soft from a distance but feels like sandpaper up close.

Sterile. Clinical. Beautiful, if you’re blind enough to mistake captivity for care.

Inside each one lies a woman. Young. Beautiful. Broken. Boaz’s sacred pets. His trophies.

They lie curled on their beds, motionless but awake. Dolls on display. Puppets with their strings cut. Some stare blankly at the ceiling. Some close their eyes and pretend to sleep. Some clutch their knees like it’ll keep them from shattering completely.

The air smells thick with bleach and expensive perfume. He tries to mask the stink of sorrow, but it bleeds through no matter how hard the housekeepers scrubs. I am not among them. Not because he sees me as better. No.

Because I am damaged.

Because once, long ago, a burn marred my arm—a blemish on Boaz’s sick fantasy of flawless beauty. To him, I was tarnished merchandise. Unfit for display. So he made me something else instead.

The caretaker. The jailer. The servant. A different kind of prisoner, but no less caged.

Tonight, it’s Kierra’s turn.

She’s been here for three years.

Three endless, bleeding years.

Her hair is still soft and honey-brown, falling in gentle waves, but the light in her hazel eyes has long since died. She was sixteen when she arrived. Barely older than I was when Boaz bought me. A virgin, of course. That had been stripped from her fast enough.

I unlock her cage slowly, my movements deliberate and careful, as if being too fast might shatter her completely. She stands stiffly, arms folded across her chest, wearing nothing but the blankness that comes from too much pain.

I guide her to the bathroom. She moves like a doll with too many broken joints, walking only because she’s been trained to. I draw her a bath — warm, laced with rose oil, Boaz’s favorite.

I bathe her gently, touching her only where necessary. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't cry. She doesn't even shiver. She has transcended pain. Or maybe she has fallen so deep into it, she can no longer find her way back.

When she’s clean, I dry her with the softest towel money can buy, then massage rose oil into her skin, careful, mechanical, distant. I wrap her in a silk robe that costs more than the life she had before this place swallowed her.

She doesn’t resist.

She doesn’t live.

She exists.

That's all we’re allowed to do here.

We walk back upstairs together, our steps silent and synchronized like two ghosts. As we pass the pool area, something catches my eye—a scuff mark on the marble, a crack in the perfection Boaz worships so obsessively.

I know what caused it.

Him.

Earlier tonight, I'd hidden behind one of the ornate pillars and watched it unfold.

Boaz had left Riot alone at the pool, trusting his guards to keep things in order.

Avi, Boaz’s spoiled son, had slithered over—arrogant, drunk on power he hadn’t earned.

I saw Avi lean too close. Heard his laugh, oily and fake, slithering across the patio like a snake in dry grass.

And then Riot smiled—slow and dangerous—the way a wolf smiles right before it sinks its teeth into your throat.

He mouthed the bait, and Avi—stupid, greedy Avi—took it.

“Nig—”

Riot’s fist moved faster than my eyes could follow. One moment, Avi was standing. The next, he was on the marble, gasping like a landed fish, clutching at his throat.

Guns were drawn in an instant, tension thick enough to choke on. The guards barked orders. Red laser dots painted Riot’s chest.

And still—he didn’t flinch.

He just stood there.

Calm.

Untouchable.

Daring the world to try him.

And me?

I had to bite the inside of my cheek so hard it bled just to stop from laughing at Avi and gasping for Riot.

For the first time since I’d been trapped here—since Boaz stole my life and renamed me—I saw it.

That one of the Haim’s could bleed.

They could be humiliated. Challenged. Knocked to their knees by someone who didn’t worship him. Someone who looked at his empire and laughed.

Hope flickered in my chest. Tiny. Traitorous.

I crushed it immediately.

Hope was a razor blade—sharp enough to slice you open from the inside out.

I can’t afford hope.

Not here.

Not yet.

Kierra’s hand trembles slightly. Without thinking, I reach out and squeeze it.

She squeezes back—a faint echo of humanity neither of us is supposed to have left.

The door to Boaz’s room swings open. He’s waiting, grinning like he just won a prize he didn’t deserve.

I hand her over like a lamb to slaughter.

The door slams shut behind her with a sound that feels too loud, too final.

The lock clicks.

I stand there for a moment longer, breathing through my teeth, fighting the urge to scream until my throat rips open.

Downstairs, the tiger cub stirs in its crate, a soft, helpless sound that vibrates through the floor.

Caged.

Trapped.

Waiting.

Just like me.

But that man—the one with the shimmering smile and the storm in his eyes?

He made a promise without speaking a single word.

One day soon, blood will be spilled in this house.

And for the first time in years...

I want to be here to see it.