Raven's POV :
The days blurred.
Nights bled into mornings, and sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford.
I fought.
And fought.
And fought.
Illegal underground matches, one after the other. Fist after fist. Blood on my knuckles, bruises on my ribs, a bitter taste of metal on my tongue. But it still wasn't enough.
I kept telling myself it was. That maybe if I just fought harder, if I didn't stop, if I didn't feel—maybe the money would appear.
But the numbers never matched up.
Two million dollars was a mountain. And I was trying to climb it barefoot, bleeding, broken.
Every win brought me closer to the goal and closer to the edge. My body ached in ways I didn't know were possible. My muscles screamed for rest, but my soul screamed louder—for Riot. For justice. For a goddamn miracle.
Each night I came home more hollow than the last.
And now, it was the last night.
The seventh.
I sat on the floor of our—my—living room, surrounded by the silence of defeat. The only sound was the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. I couldn't tell if it was counting down to my destruction or mercy.
I glanced at the torn envelope again—the one Riot left behind with his scribbled apology, as if that erased anything.
My knuckles were swollen. My side throbbed from the last match. I had fought like a demon. And still came up short. By thousands.
There was no one left to beg.
No one to borrow from.
Only him.
And as the clock struck midnight, headlights flooded my street. My stomach dropped.
I didn't need to look to know who it was.
Black cars. Silent engines. A presence that chilled the night air.
Kairus Vasiliev.
A knock came seconds later—firm, precise, like everything else about him. I didn't move at first. My heart thumped erratically, my limbs frozen, my mind screaming.
But eventually, I stood.
I opened the door.
And there he was.
Dressed in black like a shadow, his presence swallowing the doorway. Cold eyes behind expensive glasses. Impossibly calm. Impossibly composed.
And in his gloved hand—a sleek folder.
"A week," he said simply, stepping inside without waiting for permission. "That was the agreement."
I closed the door behind him, swallowing the bitterness lodged in my throat.
"I tried," I said hoarsely. "I fought every night—"
"I didn't ask what you tried," he cut in, voice as sharp as ice. "I only care about the result."
He walked to the center of my living room like he owned it. Like he owned me.
"You're short by six hundred thousand," he said, glancing at the numbers he already somehow had. "No one will lend you that kind of money. Not for free."
He turned to me, gaze sharp. "But I'm feeling generous."
My stomach twisted.
He placed the folder on the table and opened it with precision. A contract. Thick, clean pages. Legal wording that bled like poison.
"This is your way out," he said. "Marry me. For one year. And your brother's debt vanishes."
I couldn't breathe.
I stared at him. At the ink. At the words that would rewrite my life.
"And if I don't?" I whispered.
He smiled. Cold. Empty.
"Then I take payment in blood." He stepped closer. "Yours."
The silence that followed was deafening. I felt the walls close in. My throat burned with unshed screams. My fists clenched with the last strength I had left.
My eyes stayed glued to the folder lying on the table. The contract gleamed under the dim light, each page whispering the same thing:
Trap. Cage. No escape.
I didn't touch it.
I didn't speak.
My heart pounded so loudly, I couldn't hear anything else—except the echo of my brother's voice. The boy I raised after our parents' deaths. The only person I had left. And now… gone.
Killed by his own debt.
And I was next.
Kairus watched me. Patient like a wolf, knowing the lamb would have to step forward eventually. His expression didn't flicker. Not once.
"I'm not marrying a stranger," I said, finally finding my voice. "Especially someone like you."
"No," he replied coolly. "You're marrying a solution."
I shook my head, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. "You're insane."
"I'm pragmatic." He stepped forward. "Your brother died owing me. That debt does not vanish with him. So unless you plan to disappear tonight, this is your only option."
I looked around—at the battered walls of my home, at the couch Riot used to nap on, at the memories that clung to every corner like ghosts. My entire world was crumbling, and the only thing left standing… was him.
I had no one to call.
Nowhere to go.
And no time.
"But why me?" I choked out, staring at him. "Why not just take the money in some other way?My house—"
"You think I need your scraps?" he cut me off sharply. "You have nothing left to offer. Except yourself."
He said it like a transaction. Like a deal struck on a battlefield.
And maybe it was.
My body trembled.
"I need time," I whispered.
"You had a week," he replied coldly. "And now the clock has run out."
The silence stretched unbearably. My lungs wouldn't fill. My fists clenched so tightly they ached. My mind ran in circles—searching, pleading, screaming—for any other door.
There wasn't one.
Tears burned down my cheeks, not from weakness, but from rage.
From defeat.
From the taste of a life I no longer owned.
Kairus stepped back, giving me space. But his gaze never left mine. Not for a second.
So I walked to the table. Slow. Like walking toward a blade.
I stared at the contract again. My name was already typed at the bottom.
All I had to do was sign.
And surrender.
My fingers trembled as I picked up the pen. I paused. Shaking. Dying on the inside.
And then—
I signed.
Letter by letter. Raven Moreno.
Ink spilled across paper.
So did my freedom.
When I looked up, Kairus was already closing the folder with a flick of his wrist.
"You belong to me now," he said, voice calm and final. "Remember that."
He stepped forward.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
My heart stopped as his hand reached out and—without hesitation—wrapped around my neck.
Not tightly.
Just enough to hold.
Just enough to own.
I stiffened, rage flashing in my eyes, but his gaze… it was fire beneath ice.
"You signed your life away, little fighter," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it scraped down my spine like a blade.
I could feel his breath against my lips—calm, cold, unshaken.
"I'll send for you in three days," he said darkly, his thumb grazing the line of my throat with eerie possessiveness. "Wear white."
My jaw clenched. "I hope you choke on your vows."
His lips curved, amused. "Sweetheart, I don't need vows to own you."
Then, without another word, he let go.
He turned, slow and in control, and walked out of the room.
Leaving the scent of expensive cologne, blood, and ruin behind him.
I stood there, trembling—not with fear.
But fury.
Hatred.
And a helplessness that swallowed everything else.
Three days.
I had three days left to be free.
And then I'd belong to the devil.