Page 3 of Sinful Obsession (Broken Vows #3)

CHARLOTTE

HOUSE OF DEVILS.

The name screamed from the massive black banner stretched across the central field of the underground fortress like a brand carved into flesh

It wasn’t a metaphor.

It was an empire of brutality, of fire-forged bloodlines and war-born sons. And now, me.

I stood at the edge of that brutal world, chest bound, hair hacked short with trembling hands and dull scissors.

Dressed in stolen masculinity, skin chafing under layers of disguise and fear, I braced myself for what could be twelve months of hell. I’d packed enough tampons to survive every cycle without suspicion—God willing—and drowned myself in cologne to mask whatever scent might betray me.

Everything inside me screamed to run.

But instead, I inhaled the stale air and stepped forward, boots echoing against cracked concrete.

This place wasn’t sanctioned.

No law governed it.

No emergency line would save you. If you died here—and most would—your body would rot where it fell, your bones crushed beneath newer, stronger contenders.

This was where heirs of the most brutal mafia clans came to prove their worth. Where boys were stripped of comfort, pride, and mercy. Where killers were sharpened.

I chose the House of Devils—a one-year death match between mafia heirs—over becoming a Moretti bride.

At twenty-five, I was old enough to know what marriage to a Moretti meant—and smart enough to run.

I wasn’t sure which fate was slower: becoming their bride or entering a death match built to break monsters.

But if I survive—and win—by the end of the year, I’ll walk away with more than just power. I’ll have enough wealth and respect to strip my father of his title, rewrite my future, and never again be forced into an arranged marriage.

That’s the goal.

So yes, I signed up for this.

Even knowing I might not survive the night—let alone the year.

“Hey,” a voice cut through the dense, metallic air behind me.

I stiffened, fingers clutching my duffel as I turned.

The guy who approached was tall, maybe six feet, muscles bloated from steroids or rage. He gave me a smirk that didn’t touch his eyes.

“You’re...what, 5’5? Maybe? Shortest runt I’ve seen today.” He circled me like a predator sniffing weakness. “Tiniest too. Guess we just saw the first corpse.”

I swallowed hard but didn’t flinch. I’d prepped for this. I had rehearsed slouching my shoulders, stiffening my stride, deepening my voice.

I was Charles now. Not Charlotte. Never Charlotte. Not here.

I gave a tight-lipped smile. “Size isn’t everything.”

His grin widened—vicious, boyish, cruel. Then, without warning, his fist slammed into my face.

Pain exploded behind my eyes. Stars burst in my vision.

I staggered back, hitting the ground with a sickening crack. My nose throbbed. Warm blood poured over my lips.

Great. First hour in and I’m already taking punches. What’s next, a welcome stabbing?

I blinked through the pain, forced myself to breathe, and pushed to my feet.

He wasn’t impressed. “What mafia clan do you belong to, runt?”

I didn’t answer. My eyes scanned the space. Then—there—a rusted basketball pole leaning near one of the walls. I darted for it, grabbed it, and feigned a wild swing.

He dodged.

Big mistake.

I adjusted and slammed the metal rod up under his jaw with every ounce of rage I’d buried since the day my father called me a disappointment for being born a girl.

He howled and fell backward, clutching his mouth. Blood pooled from a split lip—or worse.

“You little—!”

“Enough.”

The voice rolled like thunder—cold, measured, and deadly.

We both froze.

From across the open field, a man approached. Not just any man—tall as a nightmare, shoulders wide, built like the gods of war had carved him from stone. His navy-blue uniform bore five stars on the epaulet. Had to be one of the higher-ups.

His eyes were obsidian ice, cold enough to burn. He had the face of someone who had watched men die and never flinched. Sharp jaw. Cruel mouth. A scar slicing his left brow. He prowled, like a predator who never needed to rush.

Panic rippled through the boy I had just fought.

My throat dried. My feet itched to move.

The man in the five-star uniform didn’t speak again until he stood close enough to steal my breath.

“We have rules here,” he said, his voice a low, resonant growl that vibrated in my bones. “Order is the only thing keeping this place from chaos. Break it again, and you’ll beg for death before I’m done with you.”

His eyes flicked to me, pinning me where I stood. “You’re new, so you get one warning. Don’t waste it.”

“Go,” he commanded, the word a whip-crack.

The boy nodded furiously, wiped his mouth, and took off without a backward glance.

I turned to leave too, heart pounding, body still buzzing from adrenaline—

“Stay. Short one. I’m not finished.”

The words landed like a bullet.

Short one?

God.

Was I really the shortest?

My stomach twisted. Of course I was. Compared to him—this towering beast in a five-star uniform—and the rest of the hulking, rage-born heirs wandering the grounds, I probably looked like a fucking malnourished twelve-year-old.

Great.

Exactly the kind of attention I’d wanted to avoid.

He hadn’t even looked at the boy darting away. His voice was quiet, unhurried, but it sliced through the space with terrifying precision.

His eyes were on me.

I straightened my back and nodded, forcing my jaw to stay tight even as fear rattled through my ribs.

He studied me with a gaze that cut past skin and disguise.

“Your name?” he asked, voice low but commanding—like someone who expected obedience without question.

My heart thundered.

“Charles,” I said, the lie smooth on my tongue. I’d chosen it for its closeness to Charlotte , a lifeline to my true self in this snake pit.

He stepped closer, his boots echoing on the concrete. “Charles,” he repeated, the name a challenge in his mouth. “Have you killed before?”

“Of course,” I lied, lifting my chin to meet his gaze.

His gaze dropped to my hands—trembling at my sides despite the bravado in my voice.

He moved faster than I expected, his hand engulfing mine, his grip firm yet careful.

His touch sent a jolt through me, “Your hands are too soft, Charles,” he said, his voice low, but laced with danger.

My body went rigid.

He brushed his thumb across my knuckles. “Not the hands of a killer. It’s not too late to walk away.”

I tried to tug my hand back, but he didn’t release it.

“I’m not leaving,” I said, too fast.

His eyes found mine again.

Then lower.

His head tilted slightly, like he was smelling me.

“You smell feminine.” he murmured, his voice a dark velvet that wrapped around me.

My heart stuttered.

Despite my disguise, he saw something.

I forced a laugh. “I get that a lot.”

He didn’t blink. Instead, he leaned in slowly.

“Even your voice,” he said. “It’s soft. Like you’re trying to sound tougher than you are. Almost works. But not enough.”

My lungs burned. I stepped back like I hadn’t just felt his heat crawl across my skin.

“I’ve watched people kill and be killed for glory. Seen monsters made, boys broken. I can spot the ones who won’t last a week.”

His fingers lingered. Anchoring me in place.

“You’ll die here, Charles.”

I swallowed, heartbeat pounding like war drums in my chest. But I didn’t look away.

“Then I’ll die trying.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. His grip loosened, but his gaze didn’t.

“Let’s see how long you last,” he said, stepping back with cool indifference.

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that when the bodies start piling up,” he said, stepping back, his voice stripped of emotion. “Get to your Den.”

I held my ground, pulse wild beneath the surface. “I won’t be an easy target, sir.”

His mouth twitched. “Whatever fantasy brought you here will get you killed. If not by the hands of your colleagues, then surely by the hand of the devil himself.”

He paused. “Cassian.”

The name hit me like a shockwave. Cassian.

It wasn’t just a name; it was a trigger, a spark igniting something buried deep in the fog of my mind.

My breath caught, and for a fleeting moment, flashes of memory—or something like memories—flickered in my head.

A shadowed figure, tall and lethal, his face obscured but his presence suffocating.

A voice, low and commanding, laced with a cruelty that made my skin crawl.

My heart raced, the images sharp but fragmented, like shards of a dream I couldn’t grasp.

Three years of my life were missing, a black hole in my memory, and that name—Cassian—felt like a key to something I wasn’t ready to unlock.

Then, just as suddenly, the flashes vanished, leaving my mind blank, my chest tight with a dread I couldn’t name.

The man in the five-star uniform narrowed his eyes, catching the flicker of shock on my face.

He closed the space between us, grip firm as he drew me forward—not tender. Controlled. Like everything about him.

“Or,” he said, his voice dropping—dark, dangerous—“I take you to my quarters. Appoint you as my bodyguard. It might buy you time. No one survives this place by luck. Especially not the weak. And people die in their sleep.”

The offer hit harder than I expected. For a flicker of a second, it tempted me. Safety, even temporary, was a powerful thing.

But why would he help me? We were strangers. I’d done nothing to earn an edge, let alone protection. And in a place like this, favors came with knives hidden behind them.

But I hadn’t clawed my way into this nightmare to be someone’s charity case. And certainly not his.

“I should report to my assigned quarters,” I said quietly, trying to keep the defiance buried beneath the formality.

“Dmitri,” he said then—his name, not an introduction, but a warning.

I stopped.

Turned just enough to meet his eyes. “Understood, Sir Dmitri,” I said, each word respectful but not submissive.

A smirk threatened, but I swallowed it down and walked away, fast. Spine stiff.