Chapter 3 WHEN MONSTERS WEAR SKIN

He stepped aside.

And I saw him.

Kaelan Valentino.

Sitting in a chair. Center of the room. One leg crossed over the other. Posture relaxed. Sleeves rolled up. Forearms all muscle and ink.

Those eyes. Ice blue. Cold.

Locked on me.

I forgot how to breathe.

"Leave us," he said. Voice low. Commanding.

Marcus nodded. Backed out. Door clicked shut.

Just me and him.

And the bug burning against my skin.

"Come here," he said.

Not a request.

I forced my feet to move. One step. Another. Until I was standing in front of him.

Close enough to see the scar above his eyebrow. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his eyes weren't just cold—they were calculating. Like he could see through me.

"What's your name?"

"Elle." It came out barely a whisper.

"Elle." He said it slow. Testing it. "You're shaking."

I was. Couldn't stop.

"Cold," I managed. "From the rain."

He didn't look convinced.

His hand reached out. Wrapped around my wrist. Not rough. Just firm. Pulled me closer. Between his legs.

His thumb pressed against my pulse.

"Your heart's racing." His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. "Why?"

Because you're Kaelan Valentino and I'm terrified and I have a bug in my bra and if I screw this up my mom dies and...

"I've never..." I swallowed. "I've never done this before."

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise. Or suspicion.

"Never done what?"

"A private session. I'm just...I'm a waitress."

His hand was still on my wrist. Warm. Strong.

He studied me for a long moment.

"Then why are you here now?"

The truth stuck in my throat.

Because I'm desperate. Because my mom's dying. Because I need money more than I need my soul.

But I couldn't say that.

So I said what I thought he wanted to hear.

"Because you asked for me."

His eyes darkened.

His grip tightened.

Just slightly.

"And if I told you to leave right now?" he asked. "Would you?"

Yes. God yes. Please.

But I thought about Mom. About Dr. Patel. About forty-eight hours.

"No," I whispered.

He smiled.

It wasn't nice.

It was the smile of a man who'd already won.

"Good," he said softly. "Because I'm not done with you yet." He let go of my wrist.

Leaned back in the chair. Still watching me like I was a puzzle he was halfway to solving.

"Dance for me."

My stomach dropped. "What?"

"You heard me."

I took a step back. The heels...borrowed, too big—wobbled under me. I caught myself. Barely.

"I don't—I'm not a dancer."

"Then why are you here?"

Good question.

I closed my eyes. Tried to remember what I'd seen. How the other girls moved. Hips. Hands. Eyes that promised things I didn't know how to give.

When I opened them, he was still staring.

Waiting.

I started moving.

God, it was awful. My hips jerked instead of swayed. My hands felt like they belonged to someone else. I turned, looked over my shoulder the way Sloane did, and nearly fell out of the stupid heels.

His expression didn't change.

I kept going because stopping felt worse. Ran my hands through my still-damp hair. Tried to arch my back. Felt ridiculous. Felt like a kid playing dress-up in her mom's closet.

"Stop."

I froze.

Heart hammering. Face burning.

He was gonna throw me out. Tell Marcus I was useless. And then—

"Come here."

I turned. Walked toward him. Each step felt like walking to my own execution.

When I got close enough, his hands caught my hips. Pulled me forward. Between his thighs again.

"You've never done this." Not a question this time.

"I told you—"

"I don't mean the private session. I mean any of it." His thumbs pressed into my hipbones. "You can't dance. Can barely walk in those shoes. And you look like you're about to pass out."

My throat was too tight to answer.

"So I'll ask again." His voice dropped lower. Dangerous. "Why are you really here, Elle?"

The lie died on my tongue.

Maybe it was because I was tired. Maybe it was because I had nothing left. Or maybe it was because those ice-blue eyes felt like they could see through every wall I'd ever built.

"I need money."

"For what?"

"My mom. She's..." My voice cracked. "She's sick. Surgery. Fifty thousand dollars and I don't—I don't have it."

The words spilled out like blood from a wound.

His expression shifted. Just slightly.

"How sick?"

"Brain tumor. Growing. They need to operate in forty-eight hours or she..." I couldn't finish. Couldn't say the word dies out loud because saying it might make it real.

Something hot pressed behind my eyes.

No. No, not here. Not in front of him.

But my body didn't listen. The tears came anyway. Hot and humiliating. Sliding down my cheeks and taking whatever was left of my dignity with them.

"I'm sorry." I tried to wipe them away. Made it worse. "I shouldn't—I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

His hand came up. Thumb catching a tear before it fell.

The gentleness of it broke something in me.

I started crying harder. Ugly crying. The kind where you can't breathe right and your whole body shakes.

He stood.

I thought he was leaving. Thought I'd ruined everything.

Instead, he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders.

It was warm. Smelled like expensive cologne and something else. Something that made my head spin.

"Sit," he said.

"But—"

"Sit."

I sat.

He crouched in front of me. Eye level now.

This close, I could see everything. The faint scar through his eyebrow. The shadow of stubble on his jaw. The way his eyes weren't just blue—they were the color of ice over deep water.

"Tell me what happened."

So I did.

Not the edited version. Not the one I told guidance counselors or social workers or people who asked but didn't really want to know.

The real one.

Mom. The tumor. Dr. Patel. Forty-eight hours. Maya, who didn't know how bad things were. Working two jobs and still drowning. The scholarship application I couldn't afford to send. The competition next week that was supposed to be my way out.

All of it.

He listened. Didn't interrupt. Didn't look away.

When I finally stopped talking, he pulled out his phone.

"What's the hospital?"

"St. Mary's. But you don't have to..."

He held up a hand.

Made a call.

"Asher. Need you to handle something... St. Mary's. Patient name Sofia Rossi... Brain tumor. Needs immediate surgery... All of it... Don't care what it costs... By tomorrow... Good."

He hung up.

Looked at me.

I stared at him. Brain not processing.

"What did you..."

"Your mother's surgery is paid for. They'll call you in the morning."

The room tilted.

"Why would you..." I shook my head. "I don't understand."

"Because I can." He stood. Looked down at me. "And because I want something in return."

There it was.

The catch.

Of course there was a catch.

"What do you want?" My voice came out small.

He studied me. Silent for a long moment.

"You."

My stomach dropped. "I don't—"

"It's simple. I'm paying for your mother's surgery. Covering your bills. In return, you belong to me."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you live where I say. Come when I call. Stay when I tell you to stay." His eyes held mine. "You're mine, Elle. Until I decide otherwise."

I should've said no. Should've stood up and walked out.

But I thought about Mom. About Dr. Patel's face when he said weeks, maybe a month. About Maya's text—u look tired all the time.

"For how long?"

"As long as I want."

"And if I say no?"

His smile was cold. "Then your mother doesn't get her surgery. And you leave here with nothing."

My hands clenched in his jacket.

This was worse than one night. This was everything. My life. My freedom.

But what choice did I have?

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"I'll do it. Whatever you want." My voice was barely a whisper. "I'm yours."

Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction. Or maybe something darker.

He reached out. Cupped my face.

"Smart girl."

Then he kissed me.

Not gentle. Not asking. Claiming.

His hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back. I gasped and he took it. Deepened the kiss until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't remember why this was a bad idea.

He tasted like whiskey and power.

When he pulled back, I was shaking for different reasons.

"One more thing." His thumb traced my bottom lip. "I don't share. And I don't tolerate lies. You're mine completely. No secrets. No games. Understand?"

I nodded.

The bug pressed against my skin like a brand.

Guilt twisted in my stomach.

"Good." He stepped back. "I'll send someone for you tomorrow. Pack what you need. You're not coming back here."

"Tomorrow? But I have school Monday, and Maya—"

"I'll handle it." He grabbed his jacket from my shoulders. Shrugged it back on. "You wanted fifty thousand, Elle. I'm giving you more than that. But your old life? It's done."

He walked to the door. Paused.

"Oh. And whatever Marcus gave you tonight—whatever you're supposed to plant on me—hand it over. Now."

My blood turned to ice.

He knew.

Of course he knew.

With shaking hands, I reached into my bra. Pulled out the bug.

It sat in my palm. Proof of my betrayal.

He walked back. Plucked it from my hand. Examined it like it was mildly interesting.

"Hm." He pocketed it. "I'll deal with Marcus."

The way he said deal made my skin crawl.

"I'm sorry. He threatened—he said my mom—"

"I know what he said." He looked at me. "You made the wrong choice. Lucky for you, I find honesty refreshing."

"Wait. What happens to Marcus?"

"Not your concern anymore." His voice was flat. Final. "You're mine now, remember? Only thing you worry about is pleasing me."

Then he was gone.

Door clicking shut behind him.

I sat there. Alone. His cologne still in my nose. His kiss still burning on my lips.

My phone buzzed.

maya: goodnight!! love u

I stared at the message.

Started crying again.

What had I done?