The Devil's Vow : Owned by her enemy

The sky grew dark, thunder rumbled, and soon, a heavy pour began.

The cold drops fell on her frail body, pulling her back from the abyss of unconsciousness.

Isadora stirred, her body wracked with pain.

She tried to move, to lift herself, but terrible pain spread through her body, and she collapsed with a strangled scream.

Her mind flashed with clear horrible memories.

Kidnapped and dragged into a warehouse, held down as monsters took turns shattering her body and soul, the masked woman watching with a cruel grin, and the serpent-on-a-rod tattoo inked on one attacker’s neck.

Her chest tightened.

She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could erase it all. But the memories clung to her vividly, shattering her from the inside.

Her tears merged with the rain as sobs shook her body.

“Why??!!!” she choked out, her voice trembling.

“What did I ever do?! Why??!! Why am I still alive?! Why didn't you just take me!! Why??!!!” she screamed, pleading for death to take her, to end this nightmare.

Her scream vanished into the storm, swallowed by a world that did not care.

No mercy came.

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself upright.

Every step sent pain through her body, but she moved. Limping, staggering, heading nowhere, driven only by instinct to survive.

The world blurred around her. Streetlights smeared into long trails, the rain blinding her.

She barely registered the hum of an approaching car as the headlights caught her at the last second.

Tires screeched on the wet road as the driver slammed the brakes, the car fishtailing, stopping inches from her broken form.

Isadora’s legs gave way. She collapsed onto the soaked ground, darkness claiming her once more.

The car door slammed open.

A man stepped out, clad in black from head to toe, a gun gripped tightly in his hand. A predator ready to kill anything that crossed his path.

He walked to the front of the car, boots crunching against wet gravel, and paused.

There, lying in the rain-soaked road, was the gritty figure of a girl. He tilted his head slightly, studying her without emotion.

Then, without a word, he lifted the gun and fired a single shot, close enough to her head to be a warning.

No reaction.

Annoyed, he kicked her leg lightly, testing for signs of life.

Still nothing.

“Blyad’...” he cursed under his breath in Russian, raking a hand through his damp hair. “Miserable leech just ruined my night.”

He hissed in frustration, spun on his heel, and stormed back to the car.

Engine roaring to life, he gripped the steering wheel, his hands tensed around it.

The thought crossed his mind.

Quick.

Easy.

Just drive over her and be done with it.

But something unwelcome and persistent, gnawed at him.

Muttering a string of curses, he shoved the door open again and march back toward her.

With little care, he crouched, slipping an arm beneath her knees and another behind her back, intending to toss her aside like trash.

As he lifted her, her tangled hair fell from her face, revealing delicate features.

Even bloodied and battered, she was… beautiful.

He hesitated for a second.

Scowling, he shook the thought away and turned to drop her by the roadside. But then he felt it a weak, desperate tug on his shirt.

He glanced down.

Her fingers clung to his fabric with surprising strength.

Her lips moved, barely a whisper carried by the rain. “Please…help me.”

His jaw clenched.

He tried to pull away, but her grip only tightened, refusing to let him go.

“Chyort voz’mi?” he growled in Russian. “Could this night get any worse?”

With a furious sigh, he adjusted his hold on her and carried her back to the car. He yanked open the back door, threw her inside with rough carelessness, then climbed into the front seat.

Without another glance, he drove off into the storm, heading to his private hospital.

FEW MINUTES LATER...

The car screeched to a halt in front of the hospital’s private entrance.

Rasmos stepped out, rain still pouring off his clothes, Isadora cradled easily in his arms.

The moment he appeared, the atmosphere shifted.

Fear rippled through the building.

Staff bowed their heads instantly, murmuring greetings under their breath, scrambling to clear his path.

No one dared look him in the eye.

No one dared breathe too loudly.

He wasn’t just feared.

He was worshipped in terror.

The devil himself, walking among them.

His steps were powerful,every stride radiating authority.

Within seconds, the chief doctor and a team of medical staff rushed forward, heads bowed low.

“G-good evening, D-Don R-R-Rasmos,” the chief doctor stammered, eyes fixed on the floor. “To what do we owe your graceful visit?”

Rasmos said nothing.

He simply stood there, the girl limp and bleeding in his arms.

Seconds dragged by like an eternity.

The chief doctor’s thoughts were everywhere; he knew the Don was carrying something, but fear made it impossible to process anything clearly.

Sweat beaded on his forehead before he finally risked tilting his head up, just slightly.

His face drained of color the moment he realized what Rasmos carried.

“Forgive me, Don!” the doctor gasped, falling to his knees. “Forgive my incompetence. I—I should have moved faster! I deserve to be killed for my failure!”

Rasmos’ cold gaze bore into him for a long, heavy moment.

A nurse quickly pushed a rolling emergency bed toward him, hands shaking.

Then, wordlessly, he shifted his arms forward, allowing the nurses to carefully, terrifiedly, lift Isadora onto the emergency bed.

Rasmos turned and walked away without a single word.

The doctors scrambled into action, wheeling her down the corridor with frantic urgency.

If the Don himself had brought her in…she was no ordinary patient.

And if she died, they all knew their entire bloodlines would not survive the night.

Rasmos drove through the towering gates of his empire. As he stepped out of the car, every man within sight bowed low.

His closest man, Enzo, hurried over. "Good evening, Don," Enzo greeted carefully.

Rasmos' lip curled in disgust. "There is nothing good about this evening," He spat in annoyance.

Without waiting for a response, Rasmos march forward.

Inside the mansion, maids rushed like frightened mice. They knelt as he approached, helping him pull off his shoes as he walked.

Never stopping, never slowing.

Before his bare feet could touch the marble, another pair of polished shoes were placed in his path.

In this house, Rasmos' feet never touched the ground.

To allow it was death.

A young maid with shaking hands stepped forward, presenting a golden tray. His already lit tobacco pipe rested atop it like an offering to a god.

Rasmos snatched it without a word.

Without hesitation, he tore the soaked remnants of his shirt