Etoile

Etoile shivered as she walked along the dark, deserted backstreet. The wheels of her suitcase rattled over uneven pavement, each clatter echoing in the dead silence. She would be glad when she finally reached home. A few days away had been nice, but tonight the thought of her own bed felt like salvation.

Cold droplets hit her cheeks—rain, or maybe sleet; the air was frigid enough to burn. She paused to tug her coat and scarf tighter around her neck.

That was when someone slammed into her from behind.

She hit the ground so hard the breath exploded out of her. Panic burst through her chest. Etoile tried to push herself up, but a heavy boot dug into her back, grinding her down. She screamed, raw and frightened, thrashing against the weight. Her hands scraped the freezing ground as she clawed blindly for anything—anything at all—that she could use as a weapon.

Her fingers brushed something sharp. She grabbed it without thinking. Pain tore through her glove as the object sliced deep into her palm, warm blood instantly soaking the wool, but she held onto it like a lifeline.

“Hurry up and send the damn photo,” a voice growled above her.

Heart hammering, she twisted her arm back and stabbed upward with everything she had. The shard met flesh—she felt the jolt of impact—and someone yelped. The pressure on her back lifted for a heartbeat.

She seized the moment.

Screaming, she tried to scramble to her feet and run. A bright flash exploded in her face, blinding her even through the rain. The world turned white for an instant. She staggered upright, disoriented and desperate—only for a brutal hand to clamp onto her shoulder. A kick to the backs of her knees collapsed her legs, sending her crashing down again. Another sharp kick slammed into her spine, forcing her flat against the pavement. The boot returned to her back, harder this time.

“Bitch cut me! Get that glass off her, will ya?”

A second attacker drove their boot into her hand. The shard dug deeper, carving her palm open. Etoile cried out, dropping the glass as her fingers gave way. Their boot came down on her hand again, pinning it painfully against the cold road.

She screamed for help, but her voice vanished into the empty street. No doors opened. No lights flicked on. No one was coming. She cursed herself—this stupid route home, always empty, always faster. She had taken it a hundred times without fear.

Not tonight.

“Did you send the fucking photo or not?”

“Yeah, just waiting for a response… There. Got it—yes, it’s her.”

A rough hand seized her hair through her hood, yanking her head back as another shoved a rancid black fabric bag over it, smothering her in darkness and the stench of old sweat.

Before she could draw another breath, something jabbed into the side of her neck—sharp, cold, final.

Her screams died in her throat as the world snapped shut around her and vanished.

The Procurer sat at his desk in a large, luxurious office, its polished surfaces gleaming under the low amber lights. Reading business contracts was the bane of his existence, but he never skipped a line. In his line of work, missing a detail could mean disaster. And disaster was something he delivered—not suffered.

His phone pinged.

He picked it up and stared at the photograph of the latest target. It looked like her, but guessing was unacceptable. He opened a secure folder on his laptop, pulled up the reference image, and compared the two. The resemblance struck him immediately—eerily exact. Same red hair. Same shape of the jaw. Same defiant spark in the eyes.

A predatory smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He typed his confirmation: It’s her.

He stood, stretching slowly, vertebrae popping one by one. His broad, muscular shoulders strained against the white silk of his shirt as he lifted his arms overhead. At six-foot-five, he dominated every room he walked into. Strength radiated from him, but it was the cold glint in his mahogany-brown eyes that truly unsettled people. Even hardened criminals hesitated when those eyes landed on them. In his business, intimidation wasn’t an asset—it was a requirement. The weak didn’t last long.

Running a hand through his short, wavy black hair, he crossed the room to a sideboard and poured himself a whiskey. The amber liquid caught the light like molten fire.

He returned to his desk and took a slow sip of the single malt he favoured. The warmth spread down his throat as he opened his humidor, retrieving a cigar with a flick of his wrist. Once lit, its tip glowed like a watching eye. Smoke curled upward in a slow, sinuous dance.

A moment to savour the evening’s success. A moment to enjoy the calm that came after the violence, never before.

He’d never ordered a girl for himself before. It was a line he hadn’t intended to cross. But the moment he saw the red-headed beauty’s photograph, something dark and long-dormant stirred inside him—an urge he recognized instantly. A hunger. A desire to possess.

He had procured women many times—for clients who wanted someone specific, or more annoyingly, someone “of a type.” The latter were always trouble; their indecision made the risk of backing out alarmingly high. He preferred clients with precision. Precision meant commitment. And everyone knew that changing your mind carried a 100% penalty. No refunds. Not in this business. Abduction required resources, manpower, and money; wavering was an expensive mistake.

His phone pinged again.

He glanced down. It was her identification.

Etoile Helena Maddox. Pretty name. Age 22. British national. Red hair. Green eyes. Five-foot-four. Master’s student at Goldsmiths. British Library cardholder. Two debit cards, three credit cards.

Beautiful. Intelligent. Ambitious. A fascinating combination. The smart ones fought harder. Broke slower.

He felt another slow smile form.

He typed his final instruction: Take her to my personal warehouse. Prepare for transport.

She was jolted awake, her body lurching sideways. For a disoriented moment she wondered if the plane had hit turbulence—had she fallen asleep on the flight home?

But when she opened her eyes, she saw nothing. Blackness. Thick, suffocating.

Something was over her head.

And then the memories slammed back—the attack, the flash, the hood, the cold foot on her spine.

The stench of the fabric flooded her nose: sweat, mildew, fear. She wasn’t on a plane. She wasn’t anywhere safe. She was in a moving vehicle—its engine rumbling beneath her—and she was lying on a hard metal floor.

She tried to shift, but pain flared white-hot through her wrists and ankles. Bound. Tight.

“She’s come to, boss. Should I leave her, or give her another dose?” a voice muttered close to her ear. Too close. He was in the back of the van with her.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

She cursed herself. The short route home. The empty alleyways. She’d always felt safe there; she knew every turn, every shortcut. But she should have been afraid. She hadn’t been safe at all, and now she was trussed up like a turkey in a van that reeked of stale sweat, cigarettes, and something metallic—Blood. Her stomach twisted. She shivered despite herself.

The van hit a bump—or maybe a pothole—and her body pitched sideways again. She groaned as her shoulders wrenched painfully with her hands tied behind her back.

“Yeah, give her another shot,” a second voice called from the front. “We’re going to his personal warehouse. Bit farther than planned.”

“Right-o,” the man beside her said, far too casually.

Panic shot through her. “You don’t have to dose me,” she blurted, words tripping over themselves as she fought for breath under the hood. “I—I’ll behave. I won’t make a noi—argh—”

A needle jabbed into her arm. Ice spreading under her skin. Thoughts dissolving like ink in water.

And then— nothing.

The man in the front seat checked the rearview mirror, watching her body go slack.

“That should keep her under until we get there,” he said.

The driver grunted, eyes fixed on the road. “Good. Last thing we need is her waking up screaming again.”

The van rumbled on, engine growling as it left the city streets behind. The streetlights grew fewer, the roads narrower. The farther they drove, the quieter the world became—as though sound itself refused to follow them.

In the back, the second man nudged her leg with his boot.

“Tiny thing, ain’t she?” he muttered. “Hard to believe someone’d pay that much for her.”

The driver snorted. “It’s not the size. It’s who she is. And she’s the one the boss wants.”

The man in the back shifted, uneasy. “Still weird, though. He doesn’t usually… pick one out for himself.”

The driver shrugged. “Did you see how fast he replied? Didn’t even hesitate. Must’ve liked what he saw in the picture.”

“Yeah,” the man murmured. “Almost like he’d been waiting for her.”

A beat of silence.

“Just shut up and keep an eye on her,” the driver muttered over the steady hum of tires on asphalt.

The intercom buzzed on his desk. “Yes?” he answered, voice smooth, controlled.

“What time will you need the helicopter this evening, Mr. Magnuson?”

“Give me half an hour and I’ll be up. And we’re going to the estate tonight, not the penthouse, Palmer.”

“Understood, sir. We’ll be ready.”

The line clicked off.

He gathered the contracts strewn across his desk, aligning each page with meticulous precision. Then he crossed the room to an original Picasso mounted on the far wall. Sliding the painting aside revealed a heavy steel safe. Magnuson unlocked it with a coded turn of the dial and placed the documents inside before sealing it again. The painting glided back into place as though nothing had ever moved.

He returned to his desk, but his gaze was restless—sharp, hungry.

He wanted to leave now. He should have told Palmer ten minutes instead of thirty. But he still had emails to answer, enough to justify the wait. It was impatience—his impatience—that strained against him.

And he was not an impatient man. Quite the opposite. He had built a reputation on slow, deliberate cruelty—on drawing things out just to watch others unravel. But tonight, there was an itch under his skin. A low, persistent thrum of anticipation he couldn’t quiet.

The girl. Etoile.

He would not be satisfied until she was under his roof.

For months he had overseen the renovations buried beneath his estate. He had been exacting—relentless—with the builders. They had delivered. The basement had transformed into a flawless facsimile of a medieval dungeon: stone walls, iron rings bolted into the masonry, a slitted window that admitted only a thin blade of light. A metal bed anchored to the wall. Shackles waiting.

Waiting for her.

He pictured her there already, chained, breath sharp and fast against her pale throat, eyes bright with the fire he had seen even in photographs. Small fists clenched, ready to fight despite the futility.

A slow smirk curved his mouth.

There were many ways to break a spirit. Many tasks he intended for her. Many roles she would learn to perform. Some practical. Some… more intimate. A long game he had every intention of savouring.

He checked the time. Enough imagining. Work first.

Magnuson sat, finished the last swallow of whiskey, and turned to the glowing monitor. His fingertips flew over the keyboard as he dispatched replies to a dozen emails, each message crisp, decisive, final. When the last was sent, he closed the laptop, slid it into his briefcase, and stood.

His suit jacket settled over his shoulders like armor. He slipped his phone into the inside pocket and strode toward the private elevator.

Moments later he emerged on the rooftop helipad. The helicopter was ready, rotors ticking lazily as the crew completed final checks. Palmer stepped forward, a thumb drive in hand.

“Full background file on Miss Maddox, sir. Everything we could gather.”

Magnuson accepted it with a nod. “Efficient, as always.”

He walked toward the waiting aircraft—an Airbus H125—and climbed in without looking back. Seconds later the rotors roared to life, and the helicopter lifted into the night sky, rising above the glittering sprawl of central London.

Ahead lay darkness. And beyond it, the sprawling estate in the Oxfordshire countryside—and the girl he intended to claim.

Dear Reader - thank you for your interest in my latest book. Usually I add two chapters a day. You can join me as the story unravels or wait until the book is finished, whichever is better for you. But thank you so much for reading thusfar!