Sold Myself
The rain wouldn’t stop.
It just kept hitting the streets like it was mad at the whole city. I stood under a broken awning outside some old diner, the envelope in my coat pocket feeling heavier than anything I’d ever carried. Three hundred thousand dollars. That was what my brother owed. One stupid night at the wrong table and now Marco was somewhere bleeding while the clock kept ticking down.
I had nothing left. No savings. No favors. Just me.
So I walked straight into the lion’s den.
Raphael Alessandro didn’t take meetings with girls like me. He took debts, bodies and sometimes women who looked like they might break the way he liked. I’d watched him for two weeks., the way men stepped aside when he walked past, the way his eyes never softened even when he smiled. Tonight I was done watching.
The private elevator in his glass tower on the river didn’t even ask for a key once the doorman saw the black envelope, a stolen invitation. risky as hell but I didn’t care anymore.
The penthouse doors opened, looking like money, big windows showed the storm outside. One lamp burned low. Raphael stood with his back to me, sleeves rolled up, glass in his hand. Broad shoulders. Dark ink on his arm. He didn’t turn around.
“You’re not on the list,” he said.
My heart slammed hard. “I’m here to make a deal.”
He turned slow. Those eyes hit me first—dark, cold, the kind that made people talk quietly when they said his name. He looked me over once.
“Most people send a lawyer. Or a body,” he said. His voice was low and rough. “You walked in alone. Brave or stupid.”
“My brother owes you three hundred thousand. He’s got seventy-two hours before your people finish him.” I kept my chin up even though my hands shook. “I don’t have the money. But I have something else.”
He set the glass down. “I’m listening.”
“Thirty nights.” The words came out before I could stop them. “Me. In your bed, whatever you want. No limits except the ones you set, at the end the debt is gone and my brother walks free.”
Silence. Just the rain hitting the glass. Raphael’s eyes dropped to my mouth, then lower, to the pulse jumping in my throat. He stepped closer. Then closer again. I could smell him—dark, expensive, a little like smoke.
“You’re offering me your body to save a gambler,” he said. Almost calm. “Do you know what I do to women who try to negotiate with me?”
“I’ve heard the stories.”
“Then you know I don’t do soft. I don’t do gentle. And I don’t do hearts and flowers.” He stopped right in front of me. Heat rolled off him. “If I take this deal, you belong to me for thirty nights. You sleep where I say. You wear what I choose. You open your legs when I tell you, and you don’t get to pretend it’s love. Clear?”
My mouth went dry. “Clear.”
“One more thing.” His hand came up but didn’t touch me. The almost-touch made my skin tight. “I don’t fuck virgins by accident. Are you one?”
It should have embarrassed me. Instead the look in his eyes made my heart shake.
“Yes,” I whispered. “But don’t stop. Please.”
Something dangerous crossed his face. Hunger. Interest. He let out a slow breath.
“I have only three conditions,” he said, voice cold as the rain outside. “First, I can’t stand clingy women. You don’t get to cry on my shoulder or ask me to stay after I’m done. Second, falling in love with me is strictly forbidden. I will ruin you if you try. And third? Whoever we sleep with outside these thirty nights is our own business. I don’t do anything exclusive. Neither will you.”
The words hit hard, but heat still settled low in my stomach. I had expected cruelty. I hadn’t expected the rules to feel like a cage I might actually step into.
“I accept.”
Raphael pulled out his phone and typed something. A soft chime answered almost right away.
“Your brother’s bleeding stops tonight. He’ll be at the hospital in an hour, still breathing. The debt moves to you the second you sign.” He pointed to a table. One sheet of paper. A pen. “Thirty nights. Starting now.”
I walked over on legs that didn’t feel like mine, the contract was short, My name. His name. The exact terms. At the bottom, a line for my signature.
I signed.
The second the pen left the paper, his hand closed around my wrist.He turned me to face him and the space between us disappeared.
“Rule number one starts right now,” he said, thumb brushing the crazy pulse in my wrist. “No clinging. No soft looks. You’re here to be used, Kyra Mikaelson. Not cherished.”
His other hand slid into my wet hair and tipped my head back. The first brush of his mouth wasn’t really a kiss. It was a claim—slow, tasting like whiskey and control. When his tongue touched my lips I opened for him without thinking. The sound he made sounded like he was pleased.
He pulled back only when I was breathing hard.
“Bedroom. Second door on the left. Clothes off. Kneel by the bed and wait.” His eyes glittered. “You have five minutes. After that I start taking nights away for disobedience.”
I walked down the hall on pure nerves. The bedroom was all dark wood and black sheets. Rain still streaked the windows. I stripped with shaking hands—coat, sweater, jeans, the cheap lace underneath. When I was naked I sank to my knees on the thick rug beside the big bed, thighs pressed together against the sudden heat between them.
Footsteps.
Raphael filled the doorway, already unbuttoning his shirt. The ink across his chest looked like it had been cut there. He didn’t smile.
He just looked at me kneeling, bare, waiting and the air in the room got colder while my skin burned hotter.
“Good girl,” he said quietly. “Thirty nights. Let’s see how long you last before you break one of my rules.”
He closed the door behind him, I just realized I had just sold thirty nights of my life to the most dangerous man in the city.
