Page 121 of The Owner's Temptation

Okay, maybe that’s dramatic. Technically, I walked into the Masquerade on my own.

Technically, I knelt in front of the Devil on purpose. But the part where I was thrown over the shoulder of a security guard like a duffel bag? That was not voluntary.

The moment the doors closed behind him, the guard carried me down ten flights like I weighed nothing and tossed me into the backseat of a matte-black SUV with windows so dark I couldn’t see a damn thing. No explanation. No instructions.

Just slammed the door shut and disappeared.

I didn’t bother asking questions. No one answered me the first three times I tried.

At a red light, I reached for the handle, a surge of rebellion in my veins…until I remembered I was barefoot, wearing a sheer nightie with no bra. Not exactly ideal attire for a dramatic escape through Manhattan.

So, I stayed put. Stewed. Simmered.

And thirty minutes later, the car turned into a gated driveway so long I couldn’t see the house until it crested into view. A sprawling, single-story estate appeared like something out of Architectural Digest—dark slate exterior, rich wood accents, sharp lines and clean elegance that made my breath hitch.

Modern. Minimalist. Masculine.

The Devil’s house.

The driver finally opened the door, barely looking at me. “Go inside. The door’s open.”

Then he shut it behind me, and a loud beep followed by the click of a lock echoed behind my back.

I spun and yanked on the handle. Nothing.

The door was locked. From the outside.

I’m stuck here. Trapped. In someone’s fortress, dressed like a fantasy and completely alone.

My voice carries down the empty entryway. “Hello?”

Silence.

I try another door. Locked.

Another. Locked.

One opens—just a crack—and reveals a pristine garage with three sleek cars inside. Midnight black, blood red, gunmetal gray. They gleam under soft overhead lights like predators resting before the next hunt.

The rest of the house is eerily quiet. No music. No ticking clock. No signs of life.

I find a bathroom. Freshen up. Splash cold water on my face and fix the smudged liner under my eyes.

The kitchen is stocked—everything arranged with meticulous precision I would expect from him. I grab a bottle of water, cracking the cap as I wander further down the hallway near the garage.

That’s when I see the last door.

It’s different from the others. Thicker. Heavier.

I hesitate for a second before reaching for the handle.

It’s unlocked.

And the second it swings open, I gasp—because I know exactly what I’ve found.

The Devil’s den.

His personal pleasure room.

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