The arrow hit before I even heard it coming.

One second, I was standing on the balcony, staring at the most breathtaking view of the city I'd ever seen—glittering lights scattered like broken glass across the darkness. The next, a sharp thunk split the air, and a black-feathered arrow buried itself into the wooden beam inches from my head.

The shaft quivered. A folded note was tied to it with red string.

My scream caught in my throat.

"Get down!"

Strong hands shoved me sideways. I hit the floor hard, my duffel bag skidding across polished marble. Above me, a figure moved—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes dark with fury.

Professor Maxwell.

My professor. The man who'd suspended me less than twenty-four hours ago.

And he was shirtless, water still dripping down his chest from a shower, his hair damp and clinging to his temples.

"Stay down," he growled, his voice a blade cutting through my shock.

He moved fast—too fast—ripping the arrow free and scanning the darkness beyond the balcony. His jaw was tight, every muscle in his body coiled like a predator ready to strike.

I pressed my back against the wall, my heart slamming so hard I thought it might break through my ribs.

What the hell is happening?

Maxwell's eyes flicked to me, sharp and cold. "Did you bring someone here?"

"What? No!" My voice cracked. "I don't even know what's—"

"Then why," he cut me off, his voice low and lethal, "are you in my apartment, Mia?"

My apartment.

The words hit like ice water.

"This is—" I choked on the realization. "This is your place?"

His gaze dragged over me slowly, deliberate, before returning to the shadows beyond the balcony. He didn't answer.

I scrambled to my feet, my legs shaking. "I didn't know! I swear, I was just—there was an ad online. An affordable apartment. I needed somewhere to stay after..." My voice faltered. "After I got evicted."

Maxwell's jaw ticked. For a moment, I thought he'd throw me out right then and there.

Then his eyes dropped to the arrow in his hand.

The note.

He unfolded it slowly, his expression darkening with every second. Whatever was written there made something dangerous flash across his face—something that looked almost like fear.

"Professor?" I whispered.

"Don't call me that here." His voice was rough, barely controlled.

He crumpled the note in his fist and turned toward the interior of the mansion. "Stay here. Don't move. Don't touch anything."

"Wait—what's going on? Who shot that—"

But he was already gone, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost.

I stood frozen, my pulse thundering in my ears. The balcony doors swayed in the night breeze, the city lights below flickering like distant stars. The arrow lay discarded on the floor, the red string still trailing from it.

My hands trembled as I knelt and picked up the crumpled note Maxwell had dropped.

The ink was bold. Angry. Threatening.

He's not who you think he is.

My breath stuttered.

He's not who you think he is.

What did that mean? Who was Professor Maxwell really? And why would someone try to kill him?

Or me?

I was still staring at the note when the sound of shattering glass exploded from somewhere deeper in the house.

A shout. A crash. Then silence.

"Professor?" I called out, my voice barely above a whisper.

Nothing.

"Maxwell!"

My feet moved before my brain caught up. I ran through the massive foyer, past rooms filled with expensive furniture and art I couldn't even name. The hallways were too long, too dark, and every shadow felt like it was watching me.

Finally, I found him.

He was leaning against a doorframe, his hand pressed to his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark and wet, staining his skin.

"Oh my God—" I rushed forward, but he held up his other hand, stopping me.

"I told you to stay on the balcony." His voice was rough, strained.

"You're bleeding!" I ignored his order, closing the distance between us. "What happened? Did they—did someone—"

"It's nothing." He tried to brush past me, but his step faltered.

I caught his arm. "It's not nothing. Sit down."

For a moment, he looked ready to argue. Then, with a rough sigh, Maxwell lowered himself onto a leather sofa, his jaw tight with pain.

"You need a hospital," I said, my voice shaking.

"No hospitals." His tone was final. "No cops. No one can know about this."

"But—"

"No one." His eyes locked on mine, dark and unyielding. "Do you understand me?"

I swallowed hard. "I don't understand any of this."

"You don't need to." He pressed harder against the wound, blood still seeping through. "You just need to leave. Now. Before this gets worse."

My chest tightened. "I don't have anywhere to go."

"Not my problem."

The coldness in his voice stung worse than any slap. But I couldn't leave—not like this. Not when he was bleeding out in front of me.

I dropped my duffel bag and dug through it with trembling hands. My fingers closed around the small first-aid kit I'd carried since my mother's accident. I hadn't used it in years, but I'd kept it. Just in case.

"Take off your shirt," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

Maxwell's brows arched. "Excuse me?"

"You'll bleed through it. Unless you want to pass out on your designer rug, just—" Heat flooded my face. "Just let me help."

He studied me for a long, unreadable moment. Then, slowly, he peeled away the ruined fabric.

My breath caught.

Broad shoulders. Hard lines of muscle. The sharp edge of his collarbone streaked with blood. A jagged cut across his ribs, still bleeding.

"Focus," I muttered to myself, kneeling in front of him.

I pressed gauze to the wound. He hissed at the sting, his jaw flexing, but he didn't pull away.

"You're reckless," I whispered.

"And you're stubborn," he shot back, his voice rough.

Our eyes met. The room felt suddenly too small, the air charged, my breath tangled with his.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked.

"Because someone has to." My tone softened. "You can't keep pretending you don't need anyone."

For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes—something almost human. Then his walls slammed back into place.

I taped the bandage tight across his ribs, my fingers brushing his skin. Heat sparked where we touched, making my pulse skip.

When I leaned back, Maxwell's gaze snapped to mine.

"You can't stay here." His voice was firm, final.

My chest tightened. "Why not?"

"Because it's dangerous." He gripped my wrist suddenly, hard enough to make me flinch. "You don't understand what you've walked into. This life… it will destroy you."

"But you're the one bleeding because of it," I snapped, my voice cracking. "If it's so dangerous, why are you still here?"

His silence was colder than any answer.

I pulled my wrist free, frustration boiling over. "Fine. I'll leave. I'll figure something out. I always do."

I spun too quickly, my elbow colliding with a glass case on the side table.

The shattering was deafening.

I froze, staring at the shards of what had once been an ornate vase—delicate, ancient, beautiful.

Maxwell's eyes widened. Then hardened to steel.

"What the fuck have you done?"

"I—I didn't mean—" My voice shook. "I'll pay for it. I swear."

"Do you even know what you just broke?" His tone was low, lethal.

I shook my head, panic rising.

"That vase was worth five million dollars." Each word dropped like a blade. He stood, towering over me. "Do you have five million to pay for it?"

My stomach dropped. "N-no…"

"Then when," he pressed, stepping closer, "do you plan to make your payment?"

My breath hitched. I was cornered. Caged.

"Please… don't call the cops. I don't have that kind of money. I'll do anything. I'll work for you, just… please."

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. It never touched his eyes.

"What an interesting offer."

He leaned in, his shadow swallowing me whole.

"Alright, Mia. From this moment forward, you're mine. My personal slave. Until I decide otherwise."

My blood boiled. "Are you fucking kidding me? That's not fair!"

"Do you want me to call the cops?" His voice was silk over steel. "Or are you making the payment now?"

The words died in my throat. I had no money. No home. Nowhere else to go.

And he knew it.

"Fine," I whispered, the word sharp and broken. "I'll be your personal slave."

Maxwell's smirk deepened.

"Good girl."

Three Days Earlier

I wasn't expecting him to be this hot.

Not shirtless. Not sweaty. Not holding a riding crop.

But that's where my mind went the second I saw Professor Maxwell standing at the front of the lecture hall, his sleeves rolled up, his dark eyes scanning the room like he could see straight through every lie we'd ever told.

"You're late, Mia."

The words yanked me out of my daydream. I blinked, heat flooding my cheeks as I realized the entire class was staring at me.

"I—sorry, Professor. I didn't realize—"

"Sit down." His voice was sharp, final.

I slid into my seat, avoiding the whispers and smirks from the girls behind me.

"Oh my God, the professor is so hot," Stephanie whispered, loud enough for half the row to hear.

"Shut up," Fay hissed back. "He's mine."

Stephanie just smiled. "Sure. You got this, girl."

I rolled my eyes, pretending not to care while heat crept up my neck. But the truth? I'd been thinking the same thing since the semester started. Professor Maxwell was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with his PhD.

"So, Mia."

My stomach dropped. His gaze locked on me, cutting straight through like a knife.

"I gave you all an assignment last week. I expect it to be finished."

He paused, scanning the room.

"But before that… can anyone tell me the topic we stopped at?"

Silence. Not a single voice.

"Nothing? Nobody?" His tone sharpened, dark amusement curling at the edges. His eyes returned to me. "Alright then, Mia. Let's see your poem."

Panic surged. I fumbled through my bag, fingers shaking as I pulled out the folded paper.

Wait.

My eyes widened as I glanced at the title.

No. No, no, no—

This wasn't the right poem. This was the one I'd written late at night, half-drunk on cheap wine and loneliness. The one I'd never meant for anyone to see.

"Professor, please—" I pushed forward, trying to snatch it back.

But he lifted his hand, holding it just out of reach. His voice was firm, commanding.

"I'll read."

"Please don't—"

He cleared his throat.

I don't want flowers,

I don't want love songs.

I want hands pulling me apart,

a body pressed too strong.

Take me, break me,

don't make me wait.

I'm begging for fire,

not something safe.

I crave the taste of sweat,

the weight of sin.

Let me give myself away,

just to feel you again and again.

Gasps rippled through the room. Whispers erupted like wildfire.

My face burned. I couldn't breathe.

Maxwell's eyes flicked over the class, then back to me. His voice dropped, low and taunting, meant only for my ears:

"Tell me, Mia… are you really this desperate? Writing about wanting to be touched… taken?"

Laughter broke out. The humiliation clawed at my chest, suffocating.

I couldn't stay. Couldn't breathe.

Blinking back tears, I bolted from my seat and rushed out of the classroom.

The bathroom was cold and empty. I stumbled into a stall and sank onto the toilet seat, pressing my face into my hands as sobs wracked my body.

It wasn't even the right poem.

The door creaked open.

"Mia?"

Bianca. My best friend crouched in front of me, her voice soft.

"Hey… don't let them get to you, okay?"

Tears blurred my vision. "It wasn't even supposed to happen. That wasn't the right poem, Bianca… it was the wrong one."

Bianca sighed, wiping my cheeks with a tissue. "Then let them laugh. It doesn't define you. You're stronger than this."

I wanted to believe her. But the weight in my chest said otherwise.

"Come on," Bianca said gently, pulling me up. "Let's get out of here. Coffee's on me."

I sniffled, forcing a shaky smile. "Thanks, B."

We slipped back into the hallway just as a boy appeared at the classroom door.

"Mia, Professor Maxwell wants to see you. In his office. Now."

My stomach dropped.

The walk to his office felt like a death march. My footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, each one louder than my racing heartbeat.

When I reached the dark wooden door, I hesitated.

Then knocked.

"Professor? You asked for me?"

Silence.

"Professor Maxwell?"

Finally, his voice came through the door. "Come in."

I stepped inside. He was sitting behind his desk, his gaze sharp and unreadable.

"Sit down, Mia."

I obeyed, perching nervously on the edge of the chair.

He slid a paper across the desk.

My eyes widened.

A suspension form.

"You're suspended," Maxwell said, his tone flat, merciless.

"What?" I shot to my feet. "No—Professor, you can't suspend me for this!"

"Yes, Mia. I can." His voice was calm. Too calm. "When you learn respect and apologize, you may come back."

My fists clenched. "I did nothing wrong! You don't have the right!"

"You may leave my office now." His voice was final, sharp as a blade.

"Maxwell… Maxwell!" My voice cracked with frustration.

But he didn't move. Didn't answer.

The silence was worse than any punishment.

I turned on my heel and stormed out, my chest heaving, my world tilting.

That Evening

The echo of my footsteps down the hallway was louder than my heartbeat—though not by much.

Suspended.

Just like that.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to stop the tears threatening to fall. No way in hell was I going to let anyone see me break again.

"Psst—Mia!"

I turned sharply. Two girls were leaning against their lockers, their smirks sharper than knives.

"Better hide your boyfriends," one of them stage-whispered. "She's out here writing poems about begging to get fucked."

Their laughter chased me all the way to the courtyard.

By the time I reached the fountain, Bianca was waiting.

"Mia…"

"Don't," I snapped, my voice shaking. "Don't say it's going to be fine. You saw what he did. And now he's suspended me like it's my fault!"

Bianca pulled me into her arms before I could resist.

"You're not quitting. That's what they want—for you to crawl away humiliated. Don't give them the satisfaction."

I buried my face against her shoulder, doubt gnawing inside me.

What if Maxwell was right? What if I am desperate?

Later that evening, sitting in a cheap café with coffee that tasted like ash, my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

Your rent is due already and the landlord said you should move out of the apartment right now. He doesn't want you there anymore.

The words blurred as my vision filled with tears.

First school. Now this.

I packed what little I owned into a battered duffel bag, my hands trembling as I zipped it shut. By the time I stepped onto the street, the night air was damp and cold, slicing through me like punishment.

"Mom…" I whispered into the dark. "If you were still here, things would be different."

My voice cracked.

"I miss you so much. Am I cursed? Suspended from school… thrown out of my house… maybe I'm just bad luck."

I hugged the duffel to my chest, sobbing quietly as cars rushed past.

Finally, with shaking fingers, I pulled out my phone.

"Bianca… can I stay at your place? Just tonight. I'll figure things out tomorrow, I swear."

She didn't even hesitate. "Of course. Come."

The Next Morning

I woke with swollen eyes but something sharper lodged in my chest—determination.

At Bianca's kitchen table, I opened my laptop and scrolled through endless apartment listings. Most were way out of reach. Others were in neighborhoods I wouldn't dare step into.

Then I found it.

Small. Affordable. Within reach.

Hope flickered in my chest for the first time in days.

I grabbed my bag, whispered a thank-you to Bianca, and set out.

The building was older but clean, ivy climbing across its brick walls. Sunlight slanted down the front steps.

A fresh start.

I knocked on the office door.

It swung open—

But no one was there.

"Hello?"

I stepped inside. My footsteps echoed against high ceilings. The place was massive—more mansion than apartment building. Wide windows opened to a breathtaking view of the city below.

It was the most beautiful thing I'd seen in a long time.

I drifted toward the balcony, still clutching my bag.

Then I heard footsteps behind me. Heavy. Steady. Closing in.

I turned slowly.

Professor Maxwell.

Shirtless. Damp hair. Water dripping down his chest.

"Are you stalking me?" His voice was low, cold. "Because I suspended you?"

"Stalking you?" I snapped. "Why the hell would I—"

Then the arrow hit.

Present Day

The word slave tasted like poison on my tongue.

But I'd said it. Agreed to it. Because what choice did I have?

Maxwell's smirk deepened as he leaned back against his desk, arms folded, watching me like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

"Good girl," he said, his voice smooth and dangerous. "Now that we understand each other, let me make the rules very clear."

My chest tightened. "Rules?"

"Yes." His eyes darkened as they dragged over my body, slow and deliberate. "First—when I speak, you obey. No hesitation. No backtalk. If I say sit, you sit. If I say kneel, you kneel. Understood?"

My stomach dropped. "That's ridiculous—"

"Rule two," he cut me off, his voice razor sharp. "No lies. If I catch you lying, even once, you'll regret it."

I swallowed hard, my pulse thundering.

"Rule three." He leaned in closer, his breath grazing my ear. "You belong to me now. That means no running. No hiding. And no snooping. This house has secrets, Mia. Secrets that will get you killed if you go looking for them."

My heart slammed against my ribs. The way he said killed—it wasn't dramatic. It was matter-of-fact. A warning.

"What kind of secrets?" I whispered.

Maxwell straightened, his expression hardening. "The kind you don't ask about."

I wanted to scream at him. To tell him this was insane. But the truth gnawed inside me—I had nowhere else to go.

And he knew it.

"Now," Maxwell said coldly, "get on your knees and clean up the mess you made."

My blood boiled, but slowly—shaking—I sank to the floor.

The shards of glass glittered like tiny knives mocking me. I forced myself to pick them up one by one, humiliation burning hotter than fire.

Behind me, Maxwell's voice echoed. "Careful, or you'll bleed."

My spine stiffened. "I know how to pick up glass."

The air shifted. I felt his gaze drilling into my back.

"What was that?"

I froze. "Nothing."

"That's what I thought," he said smoothly. "Slaves don't talk back."

I bit down on my lip, swallowing every ounce of pride I had left.

Then—a sharp sting shot through my palm.

"Shit—" Blood welled up, scarlet drops sliding down my skin.

Before I could react, a strong hand closed around my wrist.

Maxwell crouched in front of me, his grip firm. "I told you to be careful."

His face was too close. Water still glistened in his dark hair. The cold steel in his gaze clashed with the warmth of his touch.

"It's just a scratch," I muttered, trying to pull away.

His hold tightened. "You'll sit still."

He pulled a first-aid kit from a drawer and dabbed alcohol on my palm. The sting was sharp, but nothing compared to the way his thumb pressed into my wrist, grounding me in place.

"That hurts," I hissed.

"Good," he said flatly. "Maybe it'll remind you to listen."

My glare shot up to meet his. "You're a monster."

Maxwell's lips curved into that dangerous smile. "And you're mine."

The words sank deep, leaving me breathless.

He wrapped my hand slowly, deliberately, like binding me to him. When he finished, his fingers lingered, stroking over my knuckles.

My heart raced. I hated him. Wanted to scream at him.

But my body betrayed me, shivering under his touch.

Finally, Maxwell released me and stood. "Get up."

I rose on shaky legs.

"From now on," he said, his voice cold and final, "you'll learn exactly what it means to belong to me."

That Night

Sleep refused to come.

I lay on the expensive leather couch, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.

He's not who you think he is.

The note's words haunted me. Who had sent it? Why did someone want Maxwell dead?

And what had I just walked into?

Around midnight, I heard it—footsteps. Not Maxwell's heavy tread. These were lighter, quicker, coming from somewhere deeper in the house.

I sat up, my pulse spiking.

You belong to me now. No snooping.

Maxwell's warning echoed in my head. But curiosity clawed at me, stronger than fear.

Slowly, I slipped off the couch and crept toward the hallway.

The mansion was dark, shadows stretching across marble floors. I followed the sound of voices—low, tense, coming from behind a closed door.

"—running out of time." A man's voice. Not Maxwell's.

"I'm handling it." That was Maxwell, his tone sharp.

"You're not handling anything. They know you have it. If you don't deliver by Friday—"

"I said I'm handling it."

A pause. Then: "And the girl?"

My breath caught.

"She's nobody," Maxwell said coldly. "A complication. Nothing more."

Nobody. A complication.

The words stabbed deeper than they should have.

"If she becomes a problem—"

"She won't."

"Make sure of it. Because if the Arrow Society finds out—"

"They won't."

Arrow Society.

The same words from the note.

I pressed closer to the door, straining to hear more.

Then—a floorboard creaked beneath my foot.

The voices stopped.

"Someone's outside," the stranger hissed.

Panic flooded me. I turned to run—

But the door swung open.

Maxwell stood there, his eyes blazing with fury.

"What did I tell you about snooping?"

Before I could answer, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me into the room.

It wasn't an office. It was something else entirely.

Weapons lined the walls—guns, knives, things I didn't even have names for. A massive desk sat in the center, covered in documents, photographs, maps. And standing beside it was a man in a black suit, his face cold and calculating.

"Well," the stranger said, his lips curving into a cruel smile. "This is unfortunate."

Maxwell's grip on my wrist tightened painfully. "I'll deal with her."

"Will you?" The man's gaze slid over me like oil. "Because she just heard everything. And the Arrow Society doesn't tolerate loose ends."

My stomach dropped.

"She won't talk," Maxwell said, his voice low and dangerous.

"How can you be sure?"

Maxwell turned to me, his eyes boring into mine. "Because if she does, I'll kill her myself."

The room went silent.

My breath stuttered. He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

He meant it.

"Fine," the stranger said finally. "But she's your responsibility now. If this goes wrong, her blood is on your hands."

He brushed past me, his shoulder knocking mine as he left.

The door slammed shut.

I stood frozen, trembling, my wrist still caught in Maxwell's iron grip.

"Let me go," I whispered.

He didn't.

"I warned you," Maxwell said, his voice cold. "I told you not to snoop. I told you this life would destroy you."

"I didn't mean—"

"I don't care what you meant." He yanked me closer, his face inches from mine. "You just signed your death warrant, Mia. Do you understand that?"

Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "Then let me leave. Let me go, and I'll never—"

"You think you can just leave?" His laugh was bitter, hollow. "You think they'll let you walk away now that you know?"

"Know what?" I snapped, anger overriding fear. "I don't know anything! I don't even understand what's happening!"

Maxwell's jaw clenched. For a moment, I thought he'd tell me. Explain.

Instead, he released me so suddenly I stumbled back.

"You want to know?" His voice was deadly quiet. "Fine. I'll tell you."

He crossed to the desk and picked up a folder. Tossed it at my feet.

"Open it."

My hands shook as I knelt and picked it up. Inside were photographs—men in suits, locations marked with red X's, documents stamped CLASSIFIED.

And at the center of it all: Maxwell's face.

But the name beneath it wasn't Maxwell.

It was Dante Cross.

"Who…" My voice broke. "Who are you?"

He stared at me, his expression unreadable. "Someone you should've never met."

"The Arrow Society—what is it?"

"An organization," Maxwell—Dante—said flatly. "One that deals in information, weapons, and death. I used to work for them. Now they want me dead."

My head spun. "Why?"

"Because I took something from them. Something they'll kill to get back."

"What?"

His eyes locked on mine, dark and dangerous.

"A ledger. Names, transactions, everything. Proof of every crime they've committed for the last decade. And if I don't deliver it by Friday, they'll come for me. And anyone close to me."

The weight of his words crushed my chest.

"That's why you wanted me to leave," I whispered.

"Yes."

"But now—"

"Now you're in it." His voice was cold. Final. "And there's no way out."

Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.

Then, from somewhere outside, glass shattered.

Maxwell's head snapped toward the sound. "Stay here."

"What—"

But he was already moving, pulling a gun from a drawer with practiced ease.

"Stay. Here."

He disappeared into the hallway.

I stood frozen, my heart hammering.

Then I heard it—voices. Shouting. Footsteps pounding through the house.

They're inside.

Panic surged. I looked around the room—weapons, documents, nowhere to hide.

A gunshot split the air.

I screamed.

Then—silence.

Heavy, terrible silence.

"Maxwell?" I called, my voice shaking. "Dante?"

Nothing.

I grabbed the nearest weapon—a knife from the wall display—and crept toward the door.

The hallway was dark. Empty.

Then I saw him.

Maxwell—slumped against the wall, blood spreading across his shirt. Again.

"No—" I ran to him, dropping to my knees. "No, no, no—"

His eyes fluttered open. "I told you... to stay..."

"Shut up." Tears blurred my vision as I pressed my hands to the wound. "Just—just hold on—"

"They're still here," he rasped. "Upstairs. You need to run."

"I'm not leaving you—"

A door slammed above us.

Footsteps.

Coming closer.

Maxwell's hand closed around mine, slick with blood. "If they find you... they'll kill you."

"Then we go together."

His eyes searched mine—surprised, confused, something almost like respect flickering there.

Then his lips curved into a faint, pained smile.

"Stubborn girl."