At eighteen, Damian Knight pulled my little sister and me out of the underground market. That was the day I started to love him. That was also the day I started to die for him. Also from that day on, I bled for him. I burned for him. I took the bullets and the blades without a word. On the day I was promoted to underboss of the Knight family. The youngest in Knight history. The only woman. I thought that meant something. Then he brought a girl home. I remember because I'd just walked in from a job. There was still blood on my collar, drying tacky against my throat. He walked in with a girl on his arm instead. “Selene,” he said, looking at my blood‑soaked clothes with disgust, “go clean yourself up. You’re frightening my baby.” That girl became his obsession. His soldiers quietly started calling her Mrs. Knight. Damian took the guns from my hands. Then he tied an apron around my waist — ridiculous — and tightened the bow at the small of my back with hands that didn't tremble at all. From then on, I was her personal servant. When she didn’t want to eat, Damian made me kneel at her feet and feed her bite by bite. Every scar she got, he carved ten more into my skin for failing to protect her. I never cried. I never fought back. Because years ago, he had asked me: “You want to repay me? Do one hundred things for me.” I pulled out the worn notebook. I was looking at the last two lines. Soon, I would owe him nothing. I was carrying a tray of food to Iris Vale’s room when Damian stopped me. “Selene, go get your sister’s bracelet. Iris wants it.” That bracelet was the only thing my parents left for Luna. Luna slept with it under her pillow. He saw my red eyes and his face went dark. “Selene.” When Damian used my full name, it meant he was furious. And everyone in the family knew what happened when he lost his temper. I thought of two days ago, I had refused to hand over my sunglasses to Iris at the riding ground. Damian had me tied behind a Iris's horse and dragged across the field for an afternoon. The way the gravel had felt against my back for an entire afternoon. I turned and went to Luna’s room. I slipped the bracelet onto Iris’s wrist from my younger sister. “It suits you.” Damian smiled, pleased. He pulled Iris against his chest and said, "I have hundreds of men. And not one of them is as obedient as she is." "As long as you keep her happy, Selene, maybe we can still talk about our wedding.” Before I could respond, Iris slammed the bracelet onto the floor. “Damian! You promised you would marry only me!” Tears streamed down her face. Damian’s heart crumbled. He pulled her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom. I fell to my knees and gathered the shattered pieces. My fingers bled. The people around me watched like they were at a show. Even I knew how ridiculous I looked. Last month, I had nearly died on a mission. Damian stood over my hospital bed, tubes running out of every part of my body, and said coldly, “You’ve gotten weak, Selene. A handful of men did this to you? Then again, Iris needs a new maid.” I grabbed the broken pieces tighter. My eyes were redder than the blood on my hands. That night, Luna saw her mother’s bracelet destroyed. She cried until she nearly passed out. I held her and promised, “Just hold on a little longer. We’ll be free soon.” The door was kicked open. Damian stood there, his face dark. “Stop crying! You woke up Iris.” He jerked his head. “Take your sister and go to the house on the west. Now.” Before I could argue, his men shoved us into a car. Luna screamed at him, “Damian! You weren’t like this before— please—!” He froze for a second. The air in the corridor turned to glass. I clamped my hand over Luna’s mouth. Her tears wet my fingers. After Iris came, I had learned to keep my mouth shut. When I begged Damian to come back to the compound, he announced to everyone that I was no longer underboss. All my years of hard work had come to nothing. When I asked Iris not to go to the shooting range for playing, he aimed a gun at my forehead and told me to remember my place. When he was wounded and I brought him soup, he threw the bowl at the door. “Stop caring about me. Iris will get the wrong idea.” But he had been the one to say he loved me first. He had been the one to say he wanted to marry me. I pulled my hand away from Luna’s mouth. She was still crying softly. The house on the west was located in a border zone, right between warring families. A death trap. I jumped out of the car and ran back to the villa. When I knocked on the door, the sounds inside room stopped. A glass bottle shattered against my forehead. I bit down on the pain and bowed. “Miss Vale, I apologize for my sister. I promise she won’t disturb you again.” Damian looked at the blood running down my face. He’s chest rose and fell. “Who are you trying to fool with that pathetic act? People will think Iris was the one who hurt you.” I ignored him and kept apologizing to Iris. Finally, I knelt and pressed my forehead to the floor three times. She smiled. “I’m tired, Damian. Just let her go.” Damian kissed her forehead and shook his head. “You’re too soft, sweetheart. People will walk all over you.” He turned to me. “You care about your sister so much, then you can walk her there yourself.” That night, Luna’s fever hit a hundred and four. I carried her on my back through a blizzard for hours. In the hospital waiting room, I pulled out the notebook and wrote two words under the list. Bracelet. Two more things. Then I would be free.
The house on the west was far from the family compound. Before dawn the next morning, I was already on my feet, heading back to the villa to prepare Iris’s breakfast. The snow had stopped, but the cold was still brutal. I had barely stepped through the kitchen door when Damian’s men grabbed me. They bound my hands, shoved a gag in my mouth, and threw me into the back of an armored SUV. When they pulled me out, I was kneeling in the middle of a private shooting range. Oak trees bare of leaves. Targets lined up at fifty yards. And at the far end, Damian stood with his arm around Iris, whispering something in her ear. He looked at me like I was livestock. “Go stand over there,” he said, pointing at the target board. My head snapped up. “She’s never handled a gun in her life. I’ll die.” Iris’s face fell. She pressed herself against Damian’s chest. “Damian, Selene's right. I am so useless. Maybe I shouldn’t—” “Don’t say that.” Damian kissed her temple. “You’ll be a marksman. I promise.” Then, over the crown of her head, without looking up “What are you waiting for? When did you start ignoring my orders?" I didn’t move. My old wounds throbbed under the bandages. Every bullet I had ever taken for him seemed to burn again. He saw me shaking. Then he stepped away from Iris, walked across the gravel, and took my jaw in his hand. “If you don’t go, I’ll put Luna out there instead. She owes me a life too.” He meant it. If I refused again, my ten‑year‑old sister would be the next target. I closed my eyes and swallowed the bile in my throat. "She's small. I'm bigger. Miss Vale will have more fun." Damian’s grip loosened. “Good girl.” He turned back to Iris, showing her how to load the revolver. She giggled nervously. “What if I miss, baby? Would you be angry at me?” He spun the chamber, one bullet at a time. “Don’t worry. She won't die. She's taken hundreds of rounds for me. A few from you will barely tickle." Then, the first bullet tore through my knee. I collapsed onto the frozen dirt. I could feel the blood pulsing out of my leg in slow, warm thuds, soaking through the wool of my coat. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard her. Laughing. Damian didn’t even blink. “Again.” The second shot went into my left shoulder. I hit the ground face‑first, gasping. Blood soaked through my white dress. His men exchanged uncertain looks. No one helped me. “Get her up,” Damian said flatly. Two soldiers hauled me to my feet. My legs barely held. Third shot. My left abdomen. I coughed blood onto the snow. Fourth. My right arm. Iris raised the revolver for the fifth time. She was grinning now, her teeth white, her eyes bright. “Enough,” Damian said, taking the gun from her hand. A flicker of jealousy crossed her face, Iris stomped her foot. “But I was just starting to get the feel of it!” He hesitated. Then he glanced at one of his men. “Bring Luna.” “No…” I tried to scream, but the blood in my throat came out as a gurgle. “She’s only ten. She’s still sick. Please…” Damian’s face flickered—for just a moment. Then he turned away. “She’ll be fine. Iris needs more practice.” I watched through a blur of tears as two soldiers dragged my sister onto the range. They had her by the elbows, the way they'd had me. Her bare feet didn't touch the ground between them. She was so small. Her hair was still wet from the fever. She screamed my name. “Selene! Please!” “Selene! Help me—” The revolver fired. Her voice stopped.
I woke up in a hospital bed. For a moment I didn't know where I was. Tubes ran into my arms. The heart monitor beeped a slow, steady rhythm. Every inch of my body felt like it had been set on fire and stamped out half‑way. “Luna!” I shot upright. My elbow caught the edge of a tray, and a bowl of broth went flying. Soup splashed across the floor. Damian stood at the foot of the bed, wiping his sleeve. His face was tight, but not with anger—something else. Something I hadn’t seen in a long time. I grabbed his wrist with the little strength I had left. “Where is she? Take me to her.” “She’s alive,” he said quietly. He didn’t pull away. “She’s in surgery. You’ll see her when she’s stable.” “Surgery?” My voice cracked. “You put a ten‑year‑old girl on a firing range. You let that woman—” “Iris didn’t know the gun was loaded with real rounds.” His jaw tightened. “It was a mistake.” “A mistake.” I laughed. It came out like a sob. He knelt beside the bed and picked up a new bowl of soup from the nightstand. “You need to eat. You lost a lot of blood.” I turned my head away. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t throw the bowl. He just sat there, holding it, waiting. For three days, he stayed. He brought me photographs of Luna in her hospital bed—bandaged, unconscious, but alive. He spoon‑fed me broth when I refused to eat. When I pressed my lips shut, he drank the soup himself and kissed me, forcing it down my throat. I wiped my lips on the back of my hand. I tore the bowl out of his grip and finished it myself. He blinked, surprised. Then, slowly, he smiled. He didn't say anything. For three days, he was the man I had fallen in love with. I let myself believe him. --- Iris Vale came to visit on the fourth day. She walked into my room in a pale pink dress, her hair curled, her cheeks flushed. She looked like she had just come from a garden party, not from nearly murdering a child. She stood up suddenly when saw me open eyes. Smoothed her dress slowly. And picked up the small crystal vase from my bedside — the one Damian had refilled with white roses every morning for four days. It hit the floor and shattered. She gasped —and pressed her palm down hard against the shards. I watched her do it. I watched her watch *me* do it. By the time she lifted her hand, her palm was a mess of bright red and broken crystal, and her cheeks were already wet with tears she had not had two seconds ago. "*Selene!*" she sobbed. "Why would you push me —Damian, help—" The door burst open. Damian saw the glass first. Then Iris. On her knees. Bleeding into the rug. Then me. Half-upright in the hospital bed. Bandaged. Still hooked to the IV. Hands empty. “What happened?” He rushed to her side. The man who had spent four days holding my hand at night vanished-*that* man came back. Damian’s head snapped toward me. "Selene Ashford. Have you lost your mind?" He pulled Iris into his arms, her cheek against his collar, his palm cradling the back of her head. His eyes — over the crown of her hair — were murderous. “Apologize to her.” I stared at him. “I didn’t do anything.” Iris pulled at his sleeve. “Damian, please don’t be angry with her. She’s so sick.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re too soft.” "Have I spoiled you?" he said, low. "Have I been too soft with you lately? You think you can defy me now?" I didn’t move. His voice went cold. “If you don't want me to pull the plug on Luna's ventilator, you will kneel.”
My hand, gripping the bed rail, went white at the knuckles. Under the hospital gown, my nails sank into the soft skin of my own palm. I slid off the bed and onto the cold tile floor. The kindness of the last four days collapsed in on itself. It had never been kindness. Iris watched me from the safety of his arms. Her lips curved—just a little. “Say you’re sorry,” Damian said. “I’m sorry.” My voice was flat. He frowned. “Kneel lower.” I pressed my forehead to the ground. “Say it again.” “I’m sorry.” “Again.” “I’m sorry.” I lost count of how many times I said it until the inside of my throat was raw. He didn’t tell me to stop. He just stood there, holding Iris, stroking her hair, while I knelt at their feet like a dog. When he finally looked down at me, his eyes were empty. “Get out.” I stayed on the floor. He picked Iris up and carried her out of the room, murmuring about getting her hand stitched. The door swung shut behind them. I crawled to the nightstand and pulled out my notebook. I stayed on my knees in the floor. I didn't get up until I was sure his footsteps had faded all the way down the corridor. When I finally did, my legs would not quite hold me. I caught the edge of the bed with both hands. A single shard of crystal had embedded itself in my knee. I pulled it out without looking. The blood that ran down my shin was the same color as the blood Iris had smeared across her palm. The same color, exactly. It almost made me laugh. I limped to the wardrobe. I opened the bottom drawer. Under a folded sweater, wrapped in a square of black silk, was the notebook. I sat down on the floor with it in my lap. My hand was shaking so badly the pen wouldn't write at first. I had to brace my wrist against my thigh. Below the line that said *the pearls*, I wrote two words. *Be a human taget.* Then, on the line below that — in handwriting that no longer looked like mine — The door creaked. "What are you doing?" I went still. The doorframe shifted behind me — and I felt a peple shadow fall across the back of my neck like a blade. I closed the notebook. I didn't have to turn around to know who it was.
I shoved the notebook back into the drawer, but he had already seen it. Damian leaned against the doorframe and gave a soft, dismissive snort. "Writing in your little book again? More of that self-pitying garbage?" He stepped past me, bent down, and picked up the bracelet Iris had dropped on the floor. "Tomorrow you're going dress shopping with her," he said without looking up. "You've been a bride-to-be before. Help her pick something." He walked out. I stared at the door for a long time after it closed. A few months ago, I had said I wanted to try on wedding dresses. Just once. Just to feel what it was like. Damian had given me a dozen reasons why we couldn't. Too busy. Too dangerous. Too early. Soon. I let out a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. Then I nodded, slowly, to no one. --- The next morning, Damian sent a car for me. I was still weak from surgery, still bleeding through my bandages. But the soldiers who came to my room didn’t care. They pulled me into the back seat and drove me to a bridal boutique in the old quarter of Verenza City. Iris was already there, standing in front of a three‑way mirror in a white gown. Damian sat in a velvet chair by the window, watching her spin. The shop assistants whispered behind their hands. “Look at her face. You’d think she was picking out funeral clothes.” “She’s the Don’s mistress, I heard. The other one.” “A mistress? With a face like that?” I said nothing. I walked to the rack and started sliding hangers. Iris tried on one dress after another. Damian used words I had never heard him speak to anyone. It seems he used all the words of praise he had here. She threw the fifth dress on the floor in a heap of white silk and pearls and turned to me with a little pout. “I’m tired. Selene, you try it on. Show me how it looks.” Before Damian could protest, I picked up the gown and walked into the fitting room. --- When I pulled back the curtain, the room went silent. The dress was white—the same white as Iris’s. But on me, it was different. The fabric clung to my body, and my body was a map of violence. Black bruises covered my arms. Three fresh bullet wounds on my left shoulder, still seeping red through the bandages. A long, jagged scar across my right side where a knife had opened me up two years ago. Iris backed away, her hand over her mouth. “What is that? Damian, it’s hideous. I’m going to be sick.” Damian’s face went dark. “What are you standing there for? Cover yourself up.” I didn’t move. “Are you deaf?” He stood up, his chair scraping against the marble floor. “You’re disgusting. Put your clothes back on.” I turned and walked back into the fitting room. The fabric pulled against my wounds. It hurt. Everything hurt. I peeled off the gown and put on my own clothes—the same gray sweater, the same worn boots. When I came out, Iris had already moved on to accessories. In the end, she couldn’t choose. Damian bought every dress in the boutique. I picked up a small pink dress from the children’s section. A gift for Luna, when she finally woke up. Iris snatched it from my hand. “Buying this?” She smiled. "To burn at her grave?"
My blood went cold. “What did you say?” She pulled out her phone and opened her photo gallery. One image after another. Luna on the range. Luna on the ground. Luna’s small body covered in blood. “I only shot her once,” Iris said, scrolling slowly. “She was quiet after that. Much better behaved than you. One more bullet and she would have been completely silent.” I went still. "The last shot was Damian's." Her mouth curved up. "She was crying, calling him *brother, please* — and he just pulled the trigger. So cold. So beautiful. I finally understood why he likes guns so much." I lunged. My hands closed around her throat. I slammed her against the wall and lifted her off the floor. She clawed at my arms, her face turning red. “Selene!” Damian’s voice roared from somewhere behind me. I didn’t let go. The shop assistants screamed. I heard chairs overturn. Then Damian’s boot connected with my ribs, and I flew sideways into a display rack. Glass shattered around me. He had a gun in his hand, pointed at my forehead. "Selene Ashford." His voice was very cold. "Have you lost your mind?" He was shaking with rage. "All she did was call you ugly, and you try to kill her? I’ve been too soft with you.” Iris was sobbing on the floor. Damian knelt beside her, cradling her against his chest. I spat blood onto the tiles. “She killed my sister.” “Your sister is alive,” he snapped. “Barely. And if you ever raise a hand to Iris again, I’ll make sure Luna stays that way.” I stared at him. At the gun in his hand. At the woman in his arms, who was smiling over his shoulder. "Then kill me." My voice cracked. "Do it. Damian." His finger twitched on the trigger. I watched his face—waiting for the bullet. Then his eyes found my face — really found it, tears and blood and all — and his whole body locked up. Instead, he shoved the gun back into his holster. “Get her back to the compound. Lock her in the basement.” Soldiers grabbed me by the arms. I didn’t fight. As they dragged me out, Damian called after me, “I’ll deal with you after the wedding.” I didn’t look back. --- I thought he would tear me apart. I had seen him take a man's hand off at the wrist for less. Instead he locked me in the basement. No one came to see me. No food. No water. Just the dripping of a leaky pipe somewhere above my head and the rustle of rats in the corners. I sat on the cold concrete floor with the bag of broken pearls in my lap and let the tears come. After a while, I started to laugh. Damian. Damian Knight. I was sorry. I was sorry I hadn't run sooner. I was sorry I'd ever taken his hand in the back of that car. I was sorry I had spent seven years writing his name across my own heart in scar tissue with the other way. Most of all — I was sorry I had let him save me. Maybe Luna would still be whole. Maybe she would have grown up in some quiet little town somewhere, in a house with a yard, with a mother who lived through a fever, with knees that had never known what a bullet felt like. I heard that the soldiers outside the door whispered to each other. *He's busy with the wedding.* *Reception's tomorrow. Roses just got delivered.* I curled tighter around the pearls. Tomorrow. He was marrying her tomorrow.
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