The Purchase
The first thing she registered was the smell.
Cigars. Blood. And something metallic, like old coins.
Her wrists burned. Wire . Tight.
Autumn’s eyes flew open, and her breath hitched.
He was there. Sitting in the dark. The red glow of his cigar the only light in the room. She couldn’t see his face—just the outline of a man carved from nightmares. Broad shoulders. A shadow with a pulse.
“You’re awake,” he said. His voice was low, ruined from years of giving orders. Or threats. “Good. We need to talk about your father’s debt.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “W-who are you? Where am I?”
He leaned forward. Now she saw him.
Jawline sharp enough to cut. Eyes black, empty. No soul in them. A scar split his left eyebrow.
He smiled. It wasn’t kind.
“I’m Rayn blackwood ,” he said, exhaling smoke. “And as of tonight, Autumn... Mm you belong to me.”
Autumn tried to move her hands. The wire bit deeper. “My father? Where is he?”
Rayn exhaled smoke, slow. “Gone. Left you as payment. Two crores, six months overdue. He said you were worth it.”
Her stomach dropped. “I’m not— you can’t just—”
“I can,” he cut her off. No raise in voice. That was worse. “And I did. Sign the papers, or the wire stays. Your choice.”
Papers. On the table. A marriage contract. Her name already typed in.
Autumn stared at him, tears burning but refusing to fall. “Why me?”
Rayn stood. He was taller than she imagined. Taller than any man had a right to be. He walked to her, grabbed her chin, forced her to look up.
His thumb was calloused. Rough. Dangerous.
“Because,” he whispered, and for the first time his voice wasn’t empty. It was... hungry. “I saw you once. In your father’s bakery. You were laughing. And I decided...”
His grip tightened, just enough to hurt.
“...that if I couldn’t have that laugh, no one would.”
The marriage contract hit Rayn’s chest before falling to the floor. Torn in half.
“No.”
Autumn’s voice shook, but her eyes didn’t. She was terrified—he could smell it on her—but she lifted her chin anyway. “I’m not signing this.”
For a second, the room went dead silent. Even the smoke from Rayn’s cigar stopped moving.
Then he laughed.
Low. Quiet. The kind of laugh that made your skin crawl because it wasn’t happy. It was entertained.
“Good,” Rayn said, crushing the cigar into the glass table. The sound made her flinch. “I hate easy things, Autumn. Easy breaks too fast.”
He stood, walked to the table, and picked up another set of papers. This one wasn’t a contract.
It was thicker. Official. A government seal stamped in red at the top.
Her name was already there. Autumn Next to his. Rayn blackwood The date was today’s. The witness signatures were already done—names she didn’t recognize. The registrar’s stamp was fresh.
“You forced a marriage certificate?” Her voice came out broken.
Rayn tilted his head, studying her like she was something fascinating he’d caught in a trap. “No, little bird. I bought one. Money makes a lot of impossible things very legal.” He dropped the certificate next to the torn contract. “You’re already my wife, Autumn. On paper. In the eyes of the law. The signing is just so you feel like you had a choice.”
The room tilted. Married. She was married to this monster and she didn’t even know it.
He saw the color drain from her face and his expression softened, if you could call it that. It was the difference between a knife and a dagger. Both still killed you.
“Stand up.”
She didn’t move.
He sighed, like she was a child refusing to eat vegetables. In two steps he was in front of her. One quick slice with a knife she didn’t see him pull, and the wire fell away. Blood rushed back to her hands, pins and needles.
Before she could run, his hand wrapped around her arm. Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough to remind her who was in control.
“You have two choices now,” he murmured, pulling her to her feet. His face was inches from hers. She could see the scar now, up close. It was jagged. Old. “The bedroom. Or the basement.”
Her heart was in her throat. “What’s in the basement?”
His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse. It was racing. He smiled at that.
“Things that bite.”
Autumn swallowed. “Bedroom.”
“Smart girl.” He let go, but only to gesture to the door. “Third floor. Last door on the left. No locks on the inside, Autumn. But plenty on the outside.”
She walked, legs shaking, past him. She expected him to grab her again. He didn’t. He just watched.
At the doorway, she stopped. Her voice was barely a whisper. “You can’t just _buy_ a wife.”
Rayn finally looked up from the marriage certificate. His storm-grey eyes found hers. “Can’t I? Check the records tomorrow, if you ever leave this house.”
He picked up the certificate, folded it once, and slid it into his inner jacket pocket. Right over his heart.
“You’re mine, Autumn. The paper just makes it easier to kill anyone who says otherwise.”
The door locked behind her.
Three days.
Three days of silence, except for the lock clicking at dawn and dusk.
Three days of untouched trays left outside her door. Chicken. Bread. Fruit. Water.
Three days of Autumn staring at the ceiling, her stomach eating itself.
The room was beautiful. Cruel in its beauty. Silk sheets. A window that showed the ocean but didn’t open. A bookshelf full of classics she used to love. Jane Eyre. Wuthering Heights Rayn’s idea of a joke, probably.
On the fourth morning, the lock clicked.
She didn’t sit up. She didn’t have the energy.
Footsteps. Not the maid’s soft ones. These were heavier. Slower. Certain.
Rayn.
He didn’t speak. The tray hit the bedside table, harder than necessary. The smell of stew made her mouth water, and she hated herself for it.
“Eat.”
One word. An order.
Autumn turned her face to the wall. Her lips were cracked. “No.”
Silence. Then the bed dipped. He was sitting next to her. Too close. She could feel the heat from his body.
He didn’t touch her. Not yet.
“You think this is defiance?” His voice was quiet. Almost... curious. “You think starving yourself hurts me?”
She said nothing.
A rustle. Then something cold pressed to her lips. A spoon.
“Open your mouth, Autumn.”
She jerked her head away. The spoon clattered. Rayn losses his temper but somehow he was trying to control
Wrong move.
His hand shot out, grabbing her jaw. Not cruel, but firm. Unmovable. He forced her to face him.
Up close, he looked worse. Tired. There were dark circles under those storm eyes. Like he hadn’t slept either.
“You will eat,” he said, each word deliberate. “Because if you die in this room, I will burn this whole city down. And I’ll start with your father’s bakery.”
Her eyes flew wide. “You wouldn’t—”
“I would.” He dipped the spoon into the stew again. Brought it to her lips. “Now. Be a good girl. For once.”
Tears slipped down her temples. From hunger. From rage. From fear. She hated him. She hated that part of her _wanted_ to give in, just to make the ache stop.
She parted her lips.
The stew was warm. Salty. It hurt going down.
He fed her three spoonfuls. Slow. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world. Which he did.
When she turned her head, done, he set the bowl aside. He didn’t let go of her jaw. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, wiping a drop she missed.
He stared at his thumb. Then, without breaking eye contact, he put it in his mouth.
Autumn froze.
Rayn’s eyes darkened. “You taste like defiance, little bird.” He leaned in, his breath on her ear. “I’m starting to think I’ll keep you hungry more often.”
He stood, picking up the tray. At the door, he stopped.
“You have blood on your wrists again. From the wire.” He nodded to her hands. She’d been picking at the scabs. “Next time you hurt yourself, I’ll hurt someone else. Understand?”
The door locked.
Autumn looked at her wrists Autumn stared at the half-empty bowl. Her heart was still racing from his thumb. From his words.
I’m starting to think I’ll keep you hungry more often.
She threw the bowl. It shattered against the wall, stew painting the white silk wallpaper brown.
Five minutes later, the lock clicked again.
Rayn didn’t knock. He never did.
He saw the mess. Saw her breathing hard, shards at her feet. He didn’t get angry. Worse—he looked pleased.
“Temper,” he said, stepping over the broken ceramic. “I was wondering where you hid it.”
“Get out,” she spat.
He ignored her. Crounched down, picking up the largest shard. He tested the edge with his finger. A drop of blood welled up instantly.
Autumn’s stomach turned. Not at the blood. At how he didn’t even flinch.
“You want to hurt something?” He stood, holding the shard out to her. Handle first. “Hurt me.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“You want to fight. So fight.” He grabbed her wrist, forced the shard into her palm, curled her fingers around it. Then he pressed the point to his own throat. Right over his pulse. “Here. One quick push. I bleed out in three minutes. You’re free.”
His pulse jumped under the glass. Fast. Alive. Nothing like his dead eyes.
“Do it, Autumn.” His voice was a whisper. A dare. “Show me you’re not weak.”
Her hand shook violently. She could do it. She _should_ do it. This man bought her. Caged her.
But her fingers wouldn’t move.
“You can’t,” he murmured, and there was something almost... sad in his voice. “Because you don’t want me dead. You want me to _stop_. There’s a difference.”
He took the shard from her limp hand. Threw it across the room. Then, before she could react, he backed her against the wall. One hand on either side of her head. Caging her.
His body wasn’t touching hers. But the heat was there. The threat was there. The scent of him—cigar and rain and something dangerous—was everywhere.
“You’re shaking,” he said, eyes dropping to her mouth. “From fear? Or because you finally realize who’s in this room with you?”
“I hate you,” she breathed.
“I know.” His gaze fell to her neck, where her pulse was visible. “Your body hates me too. It’s beating so fast it might give out.”
His head dipped. Not to kiss her. He wouldn’t. Not yet. He stopped with his lips a breath away from her throat. She felt his breath. Felt him inhale, like he was memorizing her scent.
“If you throw another bowl,” he whispered against her skin, not touching, “I’ll tie your hands to the headboard. And I’ll feed you myself. Every. Single. Meal.”
He pulled back. His eyes were black now, storm gone. Just endless night.
“Sleep, little bird. You’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, we see how long you can go without water.”
The door locked.
Autumn slid to the floor, her legs giving out.
Her hand went to her throat. To the spot he almost touched.
It was burning.
Day five. No water.
Her tongue was sandpaper. Her lips cracked and bleed when she spoke.
Rayn came at noon. With a glass of water. Condensation dripped down the sides.
He sat on the bed. Set the glass on the nightstand. Didn’t say a word.
Autumn didn’t look at him. She looked at the water.
“Drink,” he said finally.
She shook her head. Barely. The movement made her dizzy.
He picked up the glass. Took a sip himself. Swallowed slowly, his throat working. He made it look obscene. Like he knew she was watching.
“Your father used to water down the milk at the bakery,” he said casually. “To save money. Did you know that?”
She flinched. How did he—
“I know everything about you, Autumn. What you eat. What time you sleep. The scar on your knee from when you were seven.” His eyes dragged down her body, though she was covered. “I know you sleep on your left side. That you cry at dog movies.”
He set the glass down. Untouched again.
“You’re wondering why I’m telling you this.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s because I want you to understand. There is no version of this where you win by being stubborn. There’s only versions where you win by being _mine_.”
He stood. Walked to her. She tried to scoot back on the bed but there was nowhere to go.
He cupped her face. His hands were cool. Hers were burning up.
“Last chance,” he murmured, thumb brushing her bottom lip. It split open under the pressure, a bead of blood appearing. “Say yes. Say you’re mine. And I’ll give you the whole ocean if you want it.”
She tasted blood. Tasted defeat.
But she looked him in the eye. “Never.”
Something snapped in his expression. Not anger. Something darker. Hungrier.
“Wrong answer.”
He let go. Grabbed the glass. And slowly, deliberately, poured it out onto the carpet.
Every drop.
Autumn made a sound. A broken, desperate noise she didn’t know she could make.
Rayn watched her face as the last drop disappeared into the floor.
“There,” he said softly. “Now we’re both thirsty.”
He walked to the door. Unlocked it.
But he didn’t leave. He turned, leaning against the frame. He pulled his shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
Scars. So many scars. Knife. Bullet. One that looked like a burn. His body was a map of violence.
And on his chest, right over his heart, was a tattoo.
A single word in black script: Autumn
Her breath stopped.
“You wanted to know how long I’ve been obsessed?” His voice was rough. Raw. “Since you were eighteen. Since you handed me a coffee with a shaking hand because you saw my scar and got scared.”
He took a step into the room. Then another.
“You’re not a prisoner, Autumn. You’re a relic. And I’ve been praying at your altar for five years.”
The door shut behind him.
It didn’t lock .
The lock clicked at 8 PM sharp. Not dawn. Not dusk. Night.
Autumn didn’t look up from the floor. She was done playing his games.
But the footsteps were different. Lighter. A woman’s.
“get up, madam.”
Autumn’s head snapped up. A woman in a black uniform stood there. Early 50s. Kind eyes. Cruel job. “Mr.blackwood send me here so that I can ready you ";
On the bed lay a box. Black velvet. Next to it, a smaller box.
“He said... freedom is a gift. Tonight.”
Autumn’s heart stopped. Then raced. _Freedom?_
She opened the big box first.
A dress.
Red. The color of blood, of rage, of warning signs. Silk so thin it was basically water. Backless. Thigh-high slit. It would cling to every part of her he’d already memorized without permission.
The small box held a collar.
Not metal. Diamonds. A choker, delicate, with a single teardrop ruby at the center. Right where her pulse beat.
Freedom is a gift.
Liar.
An hour later, she stood in front of the floor-length mirror. The dress was a second skin. The collar was ice against her throat. Her hair was curled, her lips painted the same shade as the dress. She looked like sin. Like _his_ sin.
Rayn was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
He was in a black suit. No tie. Top two buttons open. The marriage certificate tattoo peeked out, a brand he chose.
He didn’t say she looked beautiful. He didn’t have to. His eyes said it. His eyes said _mine_ in every language.
“You’re letting me go?” Her voice was hoarse. Seven days of barely talking.
Rayn walked to her, slowly. He stopped one step below her, so they were eye level. He lifted his hand. She flinched. He just tucked a stray hair behind her ear.
“I’m giving you a choice, Autumn.” His thumb grazed her jaw, right where he’d held her on day one. “We’re going to a party. My party. Full of men who would sell their souls to be me. And women who would kill to be you.”
He took her hand. His palm was calloused, rough against hers. He didn’t ask. He just laced their fingers together.
“Walk in there with me. On my arm. Drink the champagne. Dance one song. Smile when I introduce you as my wife.” He brought her hand to his mouth. Didn’t kiss it. Just let his breath heat her knuckles. “Do that... and when we get back, the doors will unlock. You can walk out. No guards. No chase. Your freedom, as promised.”
Her breath hitched. “That’s it? One party?”
“That’s it.” His storm eyes searched hers. “But if you run, if you scream, if you tell anyone you’re not here willingly...”
His grip tightened. Not enough to hurt. Enough to promise.
“I burn the bakery down. With your father inside. Then I find you. And next time, Autumn... there won’t be a bedroom. Just the basement.”
The car ride was silent. His thumb kept rubbing circles on the back of her hand.
The party was in a penthouse. Glass walls. City lights. 100 people who reeked of money and blood.
And they all stopped talking when Rayn walked in.
With her.
“Gentlemen,” Rayn’s voice cut through the silence. He pulled Autumn closer, his hand settling on her bare lower back. Possessive. Branding. “Ladies.”
He turned to her, and for the first time, he smiled. It was lethal. It was beautiful. It was a lie.
“Allow me to introduce my wife.” He said it like a threat. Like a prayer. “Mrs. Autumn blackwood.”
The room erupted. Gasps. Applause. Glasses clinking.
Autumn’s vision swam. _Mrs. Blackwood._ The name hit her like a slap.
A man with a snake tattoo stepped forward. “blackwood, you bastard. You got married and didn’t tell us? When—”
“Tonight,” Rayn interrupted, his hand sliding up her back, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades. She could feel every callous. “She’s been... shy. Haven’t you, _darling_?”
All eyes were on her. Hundreds of them. Waiting.
Autumn looked up at Rayn. At the monster who starved her, who tattooed her name on his heart, who offered freedom with a leash attached.
And she smiled. It was small. It was broken. But it was there.
“Very shy,” she whispered.
Rayn’s eyes flashed. Victory. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear for everyone to see.
“Good girl,” he breathed, so only she could hear. “Now dance with me. And remember... I’m counting every second until I can take you home and unlock the door.”
The music started.
He held out his hand.
And Autumn, Mrs. Autumn blackwood ,took it.
