Page 114 of The Owner's Temptation

Lucian won’t touch me—won’t break his own rules, no matter how desperately I want him to.

But the Devil? The Devil watches me like I’m something he’s already claimed. And maybe that’s the difference. Lucian trains me. The Devil wants to ruin me.

So if Lucian won’t give me what I need, maybehewill.

Inside the locker room reserved for Companions, I find what I need: the black rabbit mask that’s become second skin at this place.

I pull it over my face, then strip off the simple black mini dress I wore here, revealing what I chose to wear underneath.

A sheer black gown clings to every inch of my skin like water. There’s no lining, no bra—just black lace panties. My breasts are fully visible through the fabric, nipples already tight from the cool air and what I know I’m about to do. I step out of my heels and hand them off to the attendant.

I want to be barefoot.

Grounded.

Ready.

And then I ascend.

Floor after floor slips past me like levels of some sinful video game. I don’t stop onLust. I don’t pause forGluttony. I don’t even breathe when I passWrath.

Because I’m not here for them.

I’m going to the top.

The Devil’s Playground.

When the doors open, the world slows.

It’s quieter up here. Still. Like the air itself knows to behave.

The lighting is dim but warm, flickering from sconces mounted against black stone walls. There’s no music. No moans. No chaos like on the lower levels. This floor isn’t about indulgence. It’s about power. And every inch of it leads to the man who commands it.

The Devil.

He sits on a throne of black leather and brushed steel at the far end of the room, backlit by shadows and firelight. He wears only black pants, his broad chest bare, every tattoo more sin than ink.

His mask—smooth, angular, cut like horns—is the only thing hiding him. Like the sheer magnitude of his presence could ever be hidden beneath anything.

My pulse stutters.

And then accelerates.

He sees me instantly.

And he doesn’t move.

Just raises a hand.

One simple flick of his fingers.

Come.

And I do.

My body moves without hesitation, hips swaying, nerves electric, but my steps sure. When I reach the edge of the throne platform, I don’t speak.

I kneel.

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