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𝗛𝗘 𝗛𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗔 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗙𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟. 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗛𝗘 𝗚𝗢𝗧 𝗪𝗔𝗦 𝗔 𝗚𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗚𝗜𝗥𝗟 𝗛𝗘 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗦 𝗧𝗢 𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗨𝗣𝗧. “𝗗𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁𝘀?” The word no sat on my tongue. So did my sister's face. Pale. Fragile. The monitors beeping. The bills piling up. The doctor’s careful voice telling me my sister has months—if we’re lucky. So I said yes. Yes to the restraints. Yes to the blindfold. Yes to the worst idea ever. The billionaire's assistant tied me up with the efficiency of someone who's done this a hundred times before. Professional. Almost kind. Which somehow made it worse. Kindness makes it feel like I agreed to this, not that I was cornered into it by a universe with a sick sense of humor. Now I'm alone in the dark, testing the rope around my wrists. It holds firm but doesn't bite. Professional knot work. Of course. I haven't been this helpless since I was twelve, waiting outside Clara's hospital room while they stabilized her the first time. The Velvet Ledger sold me easy money. What they didn't mention? Damien Kozlov doesn't actually need a hostess. He needs control. A new toy. A warm body. Someone who'll say yes no matter what. Breathe, Cassandra. You walked in here. You can walk out. Preferably alive. Definitely paid. Footsteps echo from the hallway. Unhurried. Heavy. Male. The kind of footsteps that don’t rush for anyone. The kind of footsteps that own the room before they even enter it. My pulse kicks into my throat. The door opens. Footsteps glide across plush rug. Slow. Deliberate. Absolutely not friendly. They stop. Right behind me. And even though I can’t see him, I feel him. That awful, thrilling pressure. The kind of presence that makes your skin hum and your dignity consider running for the hills. The weight of his attention settles over me like a physical touch. I can feel him looking. Taking inventory. Deciding. My skin prickles. My pulse stutters. Every inch of me is awake, and none of it makes sense. He moves. I track him by sound alone: the whisper of expensive fabric, the barely-there creak of leather shoes on hardwood. He's circling. Slow. Predatory. His scent reaches me. Smoke. Leather. Something darker underneath. It curls low in my belly. Unwelcome. Unmistakable. And absolutely not helping. He’s taking his time. Looking. Deciding. Like a man choosing which piece to move first on a board only he understands. My thighs clench. My back arches involuntarily. Heat floods my cheeks. And somewhere in my brain, a tiny voice whispers: This is a terrible f*cking idea. “𝗠𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗛𝗲𝘄𝗶𝘁𝘁.” The voice wraps around me like smoke. Deeply masculine. Russian accent threading through each syllable. It holds power. Control. The kind of voice that makes you want to obey before he even gives an order. My body reacts before my brain can slap it back into line. I straighten my spine, forcing confidence into my posture even as my pulse stutters. “𝗠𝗿. 𝗞𝗼𝘇𝗹𝗼𝘃.” “𝗬𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝘆.” “𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗽𝘂𝗻𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹.” Silence. I can feel him still watching me. Then fingers skim the knot at the back of my head. The blindfold loosens. When he lifts it, he does it slowly. Like he’s savoring it. Light spills in. Dim and golden. Intimate. Then I’m looking at him. Oh. Oh no. God help me, he’s devastating. Winter in a tailored suit. Beautiful in a way that should come with a warning label. He stands a few feet away, dressed in a black suit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Broad shoulders. Stillness that radiates control. His eyes are blue. Not friendly blue. Not warm blue. Steel blue. Assessing. Deciding. The kind of eyes that don’t blink when men beg. He doesn’t smile. Close up, the details sharpen. Black hair threaded with silver at the temples. Short graying beard framing a jaw cut to command. The kind of silver fox women fantasize about. The kind who ruins you and makes you beg him to do it again. He's tall and broad-shouldered. Built like a fighter who knows how to hurt people and enjoys it. A monster with a perfect tie. “𝗦𝗼,” he says calmly. “𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹.” I clear my throat. “𝗜…𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗺.” Wow. Eloquence. Bravo. One dark eyebrow lifts. Amusement flickers. He circles me slowly, shoes silent against the floor. I track him with my eyes, refusing to look away even when instinct screams at me to drop my gaze. He steps closer. “𝗦𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹.” Not a request. I do. Christmas lights glow faintly behind him. Outside, sleet and snow tap against the glass. Reality hits me. He’s testing me. Waiting. My eyes catch on the glint at his wrist. “𝗔𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗣𝗶𝗴𝘂𝗲𝘁,” I murmur. His brow lifts. Like I've cracked a code he didn't expect me to know. Like I've just made myself interesting. “𝗬𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗮 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝗮𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗱𝗼?” “𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗲𝘅𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗹𝘆. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗮𝗻𝘆, 𝗜'𝘃𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝘆𝗲.” His attention settles more fully on me, the air tightening. “𝗠𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗮𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗱𝘀,” he says. “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗺.” There’s something almost like respect in the way he says it, like we’ve both just admitted we prefer the moving parts to the pretty surface. The slightest tick of a smile ghosts across his mouth. Gone as fast as it appears. But it's enough to tell me I've impressed him. Enough to tell me I might survive this. “𝗧𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻,” he says softly. I do. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t circle. Doesn’t rush. That restraint is worse than hands. Instead, he inhales slowly. Not like a man enjoying a scent. “𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗜 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿,” he says calmly. “𝗜 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿…𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲.” The words land like a slap. My pulse spikes. Heat crawls up my spine, chased by fear. He knew. From the moment he walked in. “𝗜 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘇𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝘁,” I say, keeping my voice even. Light. Deliberate. His eyes sharpen. That got his attention. Good. “𝗜 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗩𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗲𝘁 𝗟𝗲𝗱𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝘂𝗯𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲,” he continues, ignoring the question. “𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗱. 𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗱. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿.” This is my out. I should retreat. I should pretend this was a misunderstanding. I don’t. Because Clara's surgery is weeks away. Because this gig is exactly what I need. Because, right now, being forgettable is worse than being exposed. Walking away empty-handed feels more dangerous than staying tied to this chair. “𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗲𝘁,” I say carefully, “𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗲.” His gaze drags over my body. Sharp. Hungry. My pulse kicks. My thighs clench. I hate the way he makes me feel. “𝗖𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆,” he says. His accent thickens slightly. Just enough that I notice. “𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲𝗻’𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝘁.” “𝗡𝗼,” I admit. “𝗜’𝗺 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱.” He studies me further. Almost taken aback by my honesty. For a second, something like approval flickers—quick, reluctant, as if the truth is rarer in his world than obedience. “𝗪𝗵𝘆 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲?” “𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗺𝗮𝘀 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆,” I say. “𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗻.” His mouth curves faintly. Not a smile. Something colder. “𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗱𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘀?” The question shifts the ground beneath me. I replay the rumors about his kinks. Different parties. Private parties. S*x parties. My stomach tightens. “𝗜 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗲𝗱,” I say slowly, “𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗰-𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗲.” “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗴.” “𝗜’𝗺 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁.” “𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴,” he says. “𝗬𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗽𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴.” Fear hits hard enough to steal my breath. I should leave. I should say no. “𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗟𝗲𝗱𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻,” I say instead. “𝗜𝗳 𝗜 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝘂𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲.” “𝗦𝘂𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲,” he repeats. “𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗜 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱.” “𝗬𝗲𝘀.” He steps closer. Still not touching. His presence presses in anyway. “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻 𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀?” I swallow. “𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗺𝗲𝗱.” “𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝗸𝗲𝗻,” he corrects calmly. A shiver races down my spine. “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝘂𝗺𝗼𝗿𝘀,” he says. “𝗬𝗲𝘀.” “𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗮𝗺𝗲.” “𝗬𝗲𝘀.” “𝗪𝗵𝘆?” Because my sister's life has a deadline. “𝗕𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗽𝗮𝘆 𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹,” I say. “𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗜 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝘂𝘅𝘂𝗿𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗻𝗮𝗶𝘃𝗲.” His gaze drags over me again. Slower now. Calculating. “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆,” he says quietly. “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗜 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗿𝗲.” “𝗜 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻.” “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻.” His thumb traces a line at the hinge of my jaw. “𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗵𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘀.” He considers for a beat. His eyes rake over me one more time. Measuring. Calculating. “𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗷𝗼𝗯 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂.” My breath catches. Relief. Terror. They taste the same. Then: “𝗢𝗻𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗵.” This time my breath lodges in my chest and refuses to move. He continues, voice smooth as ice. “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗲. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗴𝗼 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗜 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗜 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝘀𝗲. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗜 𝗮𝘀𝗸.” My pulse pounds. “𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝗳 𝗜 𝘀𝗮𝘆 𝗻𝗼?” I ask. His gaze darkens. “𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗼𝗻’𝘁.” I lift my chin. “𝗜’𝗺 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗮𝘀 𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗮𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸.” Something dangerous glints in his eyes. “𝗪𝗲’𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝗲𝗲.” He steps closer again, invading my space without touching me. The heat of him is overwhelming. Like standing too close to a fire you're not sure you'll survive. “𝗡𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗮𝗹𝘀. 𝗡𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘀. 𝗧𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗺𝘀, 𝗖𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗿𝗮.” And that’s when I realize the most dangerous thing of all: He knows. Not suspects. Not guesses. He knows I walked in here pretending to be something I’m not. And instead of turning me away… He wants me more. Not for the party. Not for his guests. Not to be shared or displayed or passed between shadows. 𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗦 𝗠𝗘 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗛𝗜𝗠𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗙. 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗜’𝗠 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗦𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗜𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗠𝗔𝗞𝗘𝗦 𝗠𝗘 𝗦𝗔𝗙𝗘𝗥—𝗢𝗥 𝗦𝗢 𝗠𝗨𝗖𝗛 𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗪𝗘𝗗. ❤️ Read The Christmas Contract, FREE on Kindle Unlimited → https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G54B6WPS ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “Wow! What a story… so freaking romantic and dangerous at the same time.” ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “This book had me hooked from the start, it was brilliant.” ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “This book was excellent. Brilliant characters.” Tropes: Curvy FMC / Body Worship · Silver Fox Mafia Don · “Touch Her and Die” Kingpin · Good Girl × Morally Gray Man · Bought by Bratva · Forced Proximity · No Safewords (Dark Kink) · Christmas S*x Parties · Surprise Pregnancy K.C. Crowne is an International Bestselling Author and Amazon top 6 Bestseller.