Damian lifted the deprivation hood from the shelf, the black latex unforgiving in his grasp. No eyes, no ears—only Nina's mouth exposed, raw and vulnerable. The sex tool was built for his control.

He watched Nina's chest rise and fall, her breath shallow, her pupils dilated with anticipation as she leaned against the stockade's steel beam.

"Head back," he commanded, allowing no negotiation.

She tipped her face upward, trust and submission exposed in the delicate line of her throat.

Damian fitted the hood over her face, the latex sealing against her skin, molding over her delicate features, cutting off her senses. He pulled the zipper shut at the back of her neck, the metallic hiss slicing the silence.

"Perfect," he whispered into her ear. 

He lifted a pair of gold nipple clamps from the bedside table, rolling the cool metal between his fingers. His gaze darkened as he leaned closer, pressing each biting clip onto her plump, rosy peaks. Her nipples tightened when a breathy gasp escaped her lips.

"Sensitive, kitten?" he asked, giving the chain a slow tug.

"Yes," she breathed. "You know how to frighten me—and turn me on."

"Good girl." Damian slapped her ass cheek, but enough to make her flinch. "Now. All fours."

She followed his command without a word.

He tapped her inner thigh twice. She spread for him, silent. The hood blocked her eyes, but her lips parted on a breath he could hear. He slid her neck and wrists into the cold steel of the stockade, locking her in. The final click was clean. Final.

He reached for the noise-cancelling headset on the shelf. "To heighten your other senses," he murmured as he fitted it snugly over her ears.

Gustav still stood frozen, arms folded tight across his chest. Yet, the twitch in his jaw betrayed him—a slight, involuntary tic when his eyes locked with Damian's dead stare.

Damian closed the distance with slow, calculated steps. The pistol came up smooth from his waistband, pressed flat into Gustav's ribs — hidden from Nina's blind world.

"You gave Nora a journal and a pen," Damian said, his voice clinical. "Stupid move. She's not supposed to have a voice. Not even on paper."

He tilted his head, letting the words settle.

"Imagine if that journal ended up in the wrong hands. The police. Or worse, Nina's. Mike's." A faint smile ghosted his lips. "What do you think they'd make me do to you?"

Gustav's face drained to ash. "Who told you this?"

"I have my sources." Damian pushed the metal harder into his ribs.

Gustav's eyes flicked toward Nina's bound body, then snapped back to Damian.

"Kasper, please. I—I wasn't thinking. The girl looked broken. I felt sorry for her. It was a moment of weakness, and it won't happen again. Tell me what to do. Anything."

Damian gave a slight nod to Nina. The pistol rose slowly, pressed to Gustav's temple now.

"You're going to fuck Nina," he said. "Convince her it's me."

Gustav's voice cracked. "I have a family. A wife."

So do I. You trafficked Chloe like meat.

The words burned at the back of Damian's throat, but he swallowed them. The rage had to wait.

He gave a quiet laugh instead. Cold. Almost amused.

"Do I look like a fucking priest? Do I give a fuck? Do it. No speaking. No hesitation. One wrong move and your brain paints this wall. Clear?"

Sweat glistened on Gustav's brow. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing like it hurt.

Then...

A nod.

Silent. Shaking.

Damian pointed the gun at Gustav's chest as they approached Nina—hooded, bound, and blissfully unaware. She writhed against the stockade, arching with anticipation.

"Where's my sexy boy?" she purred, spreading her knees, her hips twitching in invitation.

Damian brushed his palm across her ass—a signal, not affection. Then, without a word, he cocked his head at Gustav and raised the pistol.

"Unzip," he instructed. "Get hard. Now."

Gustav hesitated, drew a breath, then obeyed. He unzipped the front of the latex. His cock pushed free — thick, rising, clumsy in his shaking grip.

Damian watched, unmoved.

"Do it."

In this room, he was God. And gods do not forgive the weak. Not when their wives were sold like cattle. Not when love was torn from his grip and sold for silver. Every Judas would suffer. 

No mercy.

Just. Like. Saira.

Gustav stepped into position behind Nina, one hand guiding himself. The other trembled slightly at his side. He entered her with a choked grunt, his body shaking with every inch.

Nina moaned, high and needy, grinding her ass cheeks against him.

"Kasper," she gasped. "God, yes. Just like that."

All of it came to play—Nina bound in the stockade, Gustav fucking her with a gun to his skull.

She had no idea.

The slap of flesh echoed—Gustav's balls striking skin with each thrust. Her whimpers spilled out, high and breathless, feral with need. He grunted, low and broken, unable to hold it back. The air hung thick with sweat, sex, and the bite of smoldering sandalwood incense.

"I'm coming!" she cried out. Her voice shattered as her hips drove harder against Gustav.

Damian watched him. Their eyes locked: one man fucking, the other owning it.

Gustav came seconds later, his face contorted, shame etched into the silence of his release. His fingers dug into Nina's waist, clinging like a man about to collapse.

"That's it. Good boy," Damian mocked.

Gustav pulled out, pale-faced. He zipped up and retreated to the corner as if nothing had happened.

Damian holstered the pistol and spanked Nina's ass. He removed the headset, pulled the hood from her head, and released her from the stockade.

She stood and blinked up at him, flushed and glowing with post-orgasmic bliss.

"Did you enjoy yourself, kitten?" he asked, stroking her damp cheek with two fingers.

She nodded breathlessly. "Yes, sir."

He fastened a leather collar around her throat. The leash clicked into place with a clean, metallic snap.

"Come."

She followed without hesitation, shaped by the shadow of Damian's control.

He tugged the leash, forcing her upright.

"Move closer."

She obeyed. Her inner thighs glistened with cum. Not his.

But she didn't know that.

"That was explosive. Can we do it again?" Nina pleaded.

Damian smiled, yanking the leash hard. "No talking, kitten. It's time to meet Saint Andrew."

He led her to face the cross and spread her wrists and ankles, chaining them so her back arched beautifully.

He lifted a red flogger from the rack, dragging its tails across the slope of her neck and shoulders, trailing down to her buttocks—cruel in its patience. He didn't swing. Not yet. He let the leather flirt with her skin, every breath of contact a promise waiting to be broken.

"You're beautiful like this," he said, his voice thick and dark. "Vulnerable. Completely mine."

The first strike came fast. Then another. And another.

Each lash landed with surgical rhythm—enough to sting, never to break skin. Her whimpers spilled into loud, breathless squeals caught between worship and surrender.

"Please," she begged. "I need the bed."

"You deserve nothing," Damian replied.

He unhooked the restraints, catching her before she could collapse. He spun her around to face him, pressing the back of her palms to the opposite cuffs. Metal snapped shut around her wrists and ankles.

She faced him now, flushed and ruined, her eyes wide with need. She stared at him, her pouty mouth aching for more.

Damian tied a silk blindfold over her eyes, knotting it firmly. "You like me, don't you?" he whispered. "Say it. Say my name."

"Kasper," she breathed. "My Enforcer."

He grabbed a vibrator from the shelf. It buzzed alive in his palm with a flick. He pressed it to her swollen clit and held it there.

She bucked. Twitched. Whimpered.

He didn't stop.

She came fast and hard, screaming his name. Her legs trembled as he pulled the chain connecting the nipple clamps, stretching her until her back arched in raw ecstasy. Mascara streaked in crooked trails below the blindfold. Her cheeks were wet, her mouth parted, and her chin trembling.

Still blindfolded. His to destroy one piece at a time.

He turned to Gustav. "Is there a razor in the bathroom?"

Gustav vanished, silent and obedient. He returned a minute later with a razor for intimate areas and a warm towel.

Damian knelt between Nina's spread legs, the warm cloth in one hand and the blade in the other.

She jerked when the first stroke of the blade dragged against her mound.

"No," she whispered. "Please—"

He didn't answer.

The blade moved in slow, clean passes. No nicks. No blood. Just soft hair scraped away, inch by inch, until her cunt was bare. She trembled harder, legs spread and shaking, as he shaved away the last hairs she had left.

He removed the blindfold.

Nina's eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, catching the low light like glass about to crack. She blinked as her lips parted.

"My husband doesn't like me bare."

Damian studied her—the hesitation in her voice, the flicker of guilt.

"You're the queen of deception," he taunted. "Lie to him. Hide it. Say you've got your period."

She didn't answer. She couldn't.

He leaned in, his mouth grazing her ear. "Remember who your lover is."

He took a pair of scissors from the shelf, flicking them open with a soft, metallic snick. He traced the cold steel along her collarbone, then up her throat, cheek, jawline—watching her flinch under the touch.

"No blood," she pleaded.

"No blood," Damian echoed, giving a twisted smile.

His fingers sank into her hair. He twisted it tight at the base, pulling her head back, exposing her throat.

One clean cut.

The severed chunk fell on the floor.

"Gustav!" she cried, twisting toward the brute like he might save her. He remained motionless.

Damian stepped in close, calm, and silent. He raised the pistol and pressed the muzzle to Gustav's forehead, right between the eyes. 

"He listens to me now."

Damian pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked—sharp, close. Gustav's head snapped back. He crumpled on impact, a dead weight hitting concrete and marble. Blood spread quickly, dark and blooming.

Nina screamed.

The metallic scent of blood and gunpowder clung to the air.

Damian stared down at the body. No regret.

Just silence.

He turned to Nina. "He couldn't protect you. I can."

"Fucking shit, you scare me! Who cares about him? Look at me—look at my hair!" Nina burst out as her trembling fingers brushed the ruined strands.

"You didn't bleed," Damian responded. "Hair? It'll grow back."

After the shock wore off, her voice thinned to a whisper. "You're an enigma. More beautiful and more dangerous than I ever imagined. No scruples. No hesitation. You don't just hurt people. You haunt them."

Her lipstick-smeared mouth parted. "Is that what you'll do to Nora?"

A quiet laugh slipped from Damian as he adjusted the pistol.

"Worse."

"Will you also help Mike with deliveries?"

"Arrange a meeting."

Nina exhaled a sound caught between a moan and a sigh of surrender.

He let it hang. Watched her. Every tremor, every weakness, every lie she told with her body.

"Tomorrow night," she promised. "After you've finished with Nora."

"Good. I'll bring my gear for the girl, but I'll also use yours. And condoms. I won't father her bastards."

He said it like Kasper would—merciless. But underneath it, he knew the truth: Chloe couldn't carry a child. Not yet. Not after what Lucifer did to her. Not with her body bruised from his hands. Not with her mind flinching in the dark.

She needed safety, not consequences. He protected her by pretending not to care.

Nina tried to smirk, but faltered. "How do you like your angel? Natural, trimmed, adorned... or bare?"

His gaze dropped to the skin between her thighs—shaved smooth, still pink.

"Bare," he said. "Clean. Obedient. Just like what's mine."

***

"I hate you!"

Chloe's voice shattered the silence in the room, piercing the final chord of Beethoven's "Für Elise."

Lucifer lifted his hands off the grand piano. He turned slowly, the image of composure in his designer clothing—the crisp Gucci shirt she'd ironed, the shoes she'd polished, the belt she'd fastened around his waist. His golden hair was combed to perfection, his face carved in symmetry and lies.

He smiled.

To anyone else, he was beauty incarnate.

To her, he was hell dressed in Gucci.

Jo had called him Satan. She'd upgraded it. He was Lucifer.

Her stomach twisted at the thought of Nuk, and the ache never left. Chloe had written her last note and shoved it in her pocket: He should've been an artist, not a psycho killer. Today, Lucifer reminded her of Hitler.

She stormed across the room and slammed her hand on his, shattering the piano's silence.

"Nuk loved you, but you threw her off a cliff. How could you?"

Lucifer's fingers slipped, discordant notes crashing against the keys. He seized her wrist and twisted it hard.

"You little bitch," he snarled. "Interrupting a masterpiece. Do you know what you just ruined? 'Für Elise' begins with a binary refrain, fluid and pure. You wouldn't understand. You're a stupid whore."

"Hit me. Hurt me. I don't care. I'll still stand. I'll still fight. I'm Chloe. Not Nora."

He smiled again. That soft, sick grin like nothing had happened.

"'Für Elise' is divine. Did you know the climax hits at the golden ratio? Of course you don't. Why am I explaining art to a slut? A mouth made for cock, and little else."

Chloe gritted her teeth, her eyes never leaving his. "I regret opening up to you the first time. Every time after that? You forced me. That's rape."

"Your body wanted me. You should be grateful."

Her voice shook. "You led me to believe Damian forgot me when we first had sex."

"He did."

"You're a liar. So what's your plan, huh? Are you going to kill me? Cut out my tongue?"

"I have someone else for that."

"You said you're sending me to The Enforcer at a place called Paradise tomorrow night. And if I fight back?"

He shrugged. "You'll learn obedience. Or? He'll break your neck."

She lifted her chin. "I'd rather die in his hands than submit to you."

Lucifer's smile thinned.

"I can always buy another," he hissed. "Nina knows where to look, and her business stays buried for a reason. Her husband is the chief of police. Harald Lund."

Chloe's chest rose and fell, fury and dread coiling like barbed wire.

She bolted for the door, gripping the frame before slamming it behind her. She laughed—not with humor, but spite.

"By the way," she shouted through the door. "I prefer 'Moonlight Sonata.' It bleeds with pain. Real pain."

She remembered why. It was Damian's piece. The one he played on his phone's Spotify app on the night he chained her to the mirror plank in their sex room. The night she gave him everything.

The whip. The clamps. The leash. The way he whispered her name—Chun Hua.

She remembered whimpering in his arms, how he held her afterward, how he carried her naked body into the shower when the sub drop began to hit. How he took her to the guesthouse. Lit the lanterns in the Chinese garden. Took off his clothes and bared his soul to her.

They lay on the futon as "Moonlight Sonata" played again from his phone. He kissed behind her ear, whispered sweet words in Mandarin, and adored her with soft touches.

He branded her name on his chest days later.

His tattoo.

春华.

"I'll always carry you in my heart," Damian had whispered.

Now? Lucifer was sending her to be destroyed by The Enforcer. No safe word. No aftercare. Just pain.

But she'd passed her journal to Jo. Every guilty name. Every bruise. Every secret exposed in ink.

Jo had promised help was coming.

She believed him. She believed Damian would find her.

She believed Sofia was raising hell.

She had to.

She wasn't allowed to die. Not today, not tomorrow.

Not while Nuk deserved justice.

Not while Dawn needed her mother.

Chloe was determined to survive The Enforcer, no matter how frightened she was.

She believed Damian still carried her in his heart. He must still love her.

She had faith in him.

***

A/N: I hate spoiling things, but I promise that Chloe and Dami will meet again tomorrow night. Damian has a plan...😈

What songs inspire you with this story?

For this chapter, mine are: "Southbound" by Artemas; and "One of the Girls" by The Weeknd, Jennie, and Lily-Rose Depp.

Time for bed. Have a good night/evening/morning/day... ❤️