Chapter 1
“Just a little longer, and you’ll see the world in all its colors.” ——Roland Ferguson “Creeeeak.” The heavy iron door swung open, letting in a stark sliver of light that cast eerie shapes across the grimy room. A bone-chilling breeze swept in, mingling with the stench of excrement and decaying flesh that assaulted Gareth Stone’s nostrils. He grimaced behind his mask. “You just won’t die, will you? Tough little thing.” On the floor, curled up with her face pressed against the cold, filthy concrete, the girl twitched restlessly. Her tangled, matted hair obscured much of her small, gaunt face, but her deep, dark eyes struggled to meet his gaze, filled with a flicker of awareness. So, it begins again. The relentless torment, keeping her alive in this hell without a shred of dignity. The putrid odor intensified as the girl stirred, barely able to move. The nurse, barely suppressing her nausea, leaned close and yanked at the girl’s tattered hospital gown with practiced disdain. With a rustle, the dirty blue-and-white striped garment fell from her shoulders, revealing a frail body marred with a tapestry of bruises and wounds that would haunt any sane person. The nurse pulled out her phone, snapping a photo of the girl’s battered face without hesitation, sending it off with a sense of cold efficiency. “Same rules as always…” Sliding the phone back into her pocket, her cold smile bore a hint of rare pity. “If you behave today, maybe I’ll make it a little easier for you…or maybe not.” The compassion disappeared from her eyes as she produced a syringe, the needle glinting ominously. A chill liquid spurted from the needle, catching the girl’s cheek. The sudden cold jolted her, and her long lashes fluttered like fragile wings. She knew what this meant; one more jab and the agony would consume her once again. As the needle hovered close, her weary eyes widened in sudden resolve. In a surprising burst of energy, she lunged, seizing the nurse’s wrist and twisting it, grappling for control. “Who killed my parents? Who put me in this hell? Where’s my sister?!” “Wha—what?” the nurse stammered, shock evident on her face. She had expected a broken girl, not this sudden ferocity. “Tell me!” The girl’s grip tightened, her voice unnaturally cold and fierce. “I…I don’t know,” the nurse whimpered, her earlier bravado evaporating into pleading terror. “I’m just here to do my job, I swear!” Silence threatened to suffocate the room as desperation settled like a weight in the girl’s chest. No leads, no sister—just endless solitude and grief. Feeling the weight of despair, she glanced around at the place that had been her prison for four long years. Anger flashed in her eyes, and with determination, she pressed the syringe’s plunger down. The drug shot into the nurse’s veins. In mere seconds, the woman gasped, collapsing to the floor, writhing in pain but unable to scream. Dropping the now useless syringe, the girl staggered back, propped against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. After a brief pause to collect herself, she knew what she had to do. She ripped off the nurse's scrubs, clutching them tightly to cover her bruised body, before snatching the surgical knife from the medical kit at her feet. With a surge of adrenaline, she made her escape from… St. Augustine's Asylum.
Chapter 2
The night was a canvas of darkness, punctuated by the fervor of a storm. Thunder rattled the sky and sheets of rain cascaded down, drenching the lonely roads that wound through the outskirts of town. Eleanor Quentin's heart pounded in her chest as the wailing sirens echoed from the hospital behind her. She gripped the knife tightly in her hand, the cold metal digging into her palm. They’d discovered she was gone. “Attention all staff! Patient number eight has escaped. Immediate search required!” The screeching announcement sliced through the air like a knife, making Eleanor’s breath hitch. Her lips trembled, cracked from neglect and fear. There was no way she could let them take her back — not now, not ever. But the streets were void of cars, and the desperate shouts for help would drown in the storm's fury. Of course it was quiet here, on the fringes of nowhere — a place ominously named Deathspire Peak, designed for obscurity and secrecy. It was easy to forget how many souls vanished around these parts; a match to ignite the remains, as if that would settle the score. The clatter of footsteps grew closer, and panic gripped her. She stumbled, pain flaring through her injuries as she fell to the asphalt, the rain mingling with her tears. It was over. She was done for. But just as hope began to slip away, a beam of light cut through the night, illuminating her bedraggled figure. Squinting against the glare, Eleanor saw a sleek black sports car idling in the rain. The stark light was blinding, forcing her to shield her eyes. Maybe she could make it. With renewed determination, she scrambled toward the vehicle, pounding on the driver’s side door. “Please! Help me!” The desperation bled into her voice, raw and pleading. Inside sat three men, two upfront and one lounging in the back. The driver exchanged a glance with his companion and turned his attention instead to the man in the rear, who seemed unfazed by the chaos unfolding outside. “Sir, I need help!” Eleanor cried again, her hands smearing fresh red streaks of desperation against the rain-soaked window. At the sound of her trembling plea, the man in the back stirred, his piercing black eyes slowly opening. The glint of curiosity sparked within them as he studied her, taking in her disheveled appearance — soaked to the bone, stitches of a ruined coat barely concealing her slender frame. But it was her legs that drew him in. Long and pale, they were worth a second look, even amid the chaos of the moment. Those legs were something else. A smirk curved on his chiseled lips, amusement dancing in his dark gaze. Eleanor, despite her fear, dared to meet his gaze, the storm washing over them. His face was strikingly handsome but held an unreadable edge, like shadows that stretched on forever. The chill in his eyes was more daunting than the freezing rain. “Please,” she rasped, feeling her heart sink under the weight of dread. “If you could just—” Roland Ferguson, as he would later reveal himself to be, leaned in closer, his interest piqued. “And what’s in it for me?” Eleanor felt her stomach twist with a mix of anxiety and hope as she stuttered, “I’ll pay you! Just get me out of here…” “Broke but brimming with promises, huh?” A teasing tone laced his words, the others in the car snickering quietly, amusement flickering in the air. Eleanor froze, eyes darting between the men. Clad in the luxury of that vehicle, they hardly seemed like they were in need of cash. “What do you want?” she pressed, desperation clawing at her throat. Roland’s gaze darkened, intrigue igniting a flicker of excitement. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” In that stormy night, under the weight of uncertainty and fear, Eleanor found herself caught between the desperate urge to escape and the allure of a danger she couldn’t quite articulate.
Chapter 3
Eleanor Quentin was starting to feel the weight of her surroundings; this wasn’t just any street corner—this was Jonathan Reed's territory. As the headlights of the city danced outside, she felt his gaze pierce through the tinted window, hot and scrutinizing. His long frame leaned in, light glinting off his sharp features, and she swallowed hard when his eyes locked onto hers before trailing down to her legs, bare and exposed in the chilly night. “I'm going to need you,” he rasped, his voice gravelly, simmering with a dangerous intensity. Need her? What did that even mean? Did he take her for a streetwalker, desperate and discarded? Eleanor’s heart raced, her eyes wide as panic set in. She shook her head furiously, desperate to protest, to reclaim the power over her own body. Jonathan's dark brows knitted together; he didn’t like her resistance. As the engine roared to life and the car began to move, she reacted instinctively, her hand reaching out to grab the edge of the window frame. An urgency coursed through her—a need to escape, to survive. “Wait!” she cried, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with fear and a trace of defiance. He regarded her, his chiseled jaw set tight. The gleam in his eyes was unsettling, and within seconds, a smirk broke through, revealing something almost predatory beneath. “Head that way,” he said dismissively, his nonchalance making her skin crawl. Behind her, the sound of footsteps echoed, drowning out her thoughts. Without hesitating, Eleanor threw open the door and dove into the backseat, a move fueled by sheer desperation. In an instant, the cold steel of a knife was pressed against Jonathan’s throat. She could feel her small frame quaking, adrenaline pulsing through her veins as she hissed, “Drive! Or I’ll kill you!” The other two men in the front seat froze for a moment, eyes widening in surprise. Then they shared a look and broke into laughter, clearly finding her little stunt amusing. “Never seen anyone flaunt their guts in front of Roland Ferguson like this!” one snickered. Little did she know just how dangerous this game was. Eleanor’s grip on the knife trembled, the mocking laughter stirring a whirlwind of fear inside her. “I said, drive!” she barked, fighting to keep her voice steady despite the tremors in her hand. The blade slipped slightly, and Jonathan felt the sharp sting as it grazed his skin, a bead of crimson forming. The laughter in the front seat faded as the man beside Jonathan paled, eyes flicking between her and his companion, sensing the shift in the air, but when he glanced at Roland, the warning in his steely gaze brought him to a halt. Roland’s focus shifted to Eleanor, studying her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement at her fierce stance. “You think you can kill me?” he taunted, lips curling into a smirk. The casualness of his tone was chilling; the gravity of his words hit her like a ton of bricks. A tense silence hung in the air as Eleanor racked her brain for a way out, but suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her wrist as Roland snatched the knife from her grasp. Before she could react, she was thrown back against the seat, breath knocked out of her lungs. The cold blade now hovered inches from her face, and she met his unyielding gaze, fear making her heart race. “Here’s how you use a knife if your goal is to kill,” he whispered, a wicked smile spreading across his face. She couldn't move, couldn’t breathe as her eyes darted to the blade. “Killing is against the law!” she stammered, panic rising in her chest. His laughter echoed in her ears, a dark, unsettling sound. She could see the amusement in his eyes as he probed her reaction. “And yet, here we are.” Having just escaped from a hell of her own at St. Augustine’s Asylum, Eleanor was running on fumes, her body weak and trembling from sheer terror, making her vision blur. Seeing her struggle, Roland relaxed his grip slightly, and Eleanor felt herself sway, darkness creeping in on the edges of her sight before everything faded. Her face pressed against his chest as the world around her spun away. A deep, rumbling laugh vibrated through him as he looked down at her—she was an intriguing mix of defiance and fragility. “Drive!” he barked, giving the front seat a kick. By the time the hospital staff caught up with the car, it was nothing but a flash of taillights disappearing into the inky night.
Chapter 4
The room was so quiet it felt heavy, and Jo was drenched in sweat, caught in a painful half-dream, half-wake state. She had been lost in a nightmare that seemed to stretch on forever... In that dream, her mother had shoved her into a closet for safety. Jo could still see her parents, bloodied and motionless, crumpled at her feet, the crimson liquid pooling and soaking into the floor beneath her bare feet. Her little sister had been taken, dragged away by a murderer. By the time Jo rushed outside, she had been struck from behind and plunged into darkness. The next thing she knew, she was awake in a hellish psychiatric hospital. It was the year she turned sixteen. Four years of torment left her feeling as if she were living a waking hell. But somehow, she had survived. Jo clutched the blanket tightly, desperately trying to open her eyes and break free from the horror of that dream. They felt as heavy as lead, and all she could hear was the murmur of someone speaking nearby. “Sir, it’s all been taken care of.” A maid carefully adjusted Jo's covers, glancing nervously at the man lounging in a robe by the floor-to-ceiling window, smoke swirling around him like a mini storm. As the room fell silent, he strode across the floor, his long legs bringing him to the bedside, his gaze fixed intensely on the woman trapped in her night terrors. Jo was awake just enough to feel the presence of another. After a meticulous cleaning, the fragile softness of her features was on display, though marred by faint scars. Despite that, her beauty was undeniable. Beneath the scars, every inch of her skin was as white as snow. She was too clean. “Please, no...” Her voice was fragile, and at the sound of it, he leaned down, exhaling a cloud of smoke on her pale face, the thick haze lingering in the air. “Cough, cough…” Jo was seized by a violent fit, her face twisting in pain as she struggled to emerge from the grip of the nightmare. He clamped the cigarette between his teeth and waved away the smoke from her face with a gentle flick of his wrist. Jo had showered and changed into a fresh silk nightgown, her body lying rigidly against the stark white sheets, long legs accentuated by the light. A dark current flickered in his eyes as he took a slow drag of his cigarette, then casually extinguished it, his long fingers brushing against Jo's smooth thighs, moving like a pianist's delicate dance over the keys… The unexpected touch startled her, causing her to shift just slightly, like a frightened kitten. He smiled softly, amused at her discomfort, before finally withdrawing his hand, now tracing the contours of her exquisite face. Her brows, eyes, nose, lips… His fingers glided down until they rested on her slender neck. At that moment, something in his gaze deepened, and he leaned in, kissing her delicate neck with an urgency that was almost feral. It was as if he couldn’t bring himself to pull away, wanting nothing more than to devour her essence. Feeling the stranger's warmth, Jo instinctively struggled against him. The wounds on her hands reopened, fresh blood staining his arm. Seeing the anguish on her face, he paused, torn, reluctant to inflict further pain. “Help—” Her complexion shifted from a pale hue to green, cold sweat beading on her forehead as her struggle began to fade. With a devilish smirk, he caressed her cheek, eyes filled with an intense, passionate longing that was both intoxicating and terrifying. “Long time no see!” After a lingering pause, he finally pulled his gaze away, tucking the blanket around her again before turning to leave. With that, the lights went out. The room plunged into stillness and darkness. Her coughs faded as the world around them regained its muted calm, as if nothing had transpired at all... Little did she know, a man named Fushi was about to plunge into an abyss from which he could never return. All because he had crossed paths with a woman named… Jo.
Chapter 5
**Good Girl! (5)** Eleanor Quentin blinked awake, the haze of confusion slowly fading from her mind. As she glanced down at her body—bandaged and fresh from a wash—she sat up slowly, her heart pounding as she scanned the unfamiliar room. This wasn’t St. Augustine's Asylum. This wasn’t that hellhole! She remembered running from St. Augustine's last night, the chaos of a car speeding toward her, and the man inside it—how she had begged him to save her. After that, things got fuzzy. But he had saved her. Pushing back the covers, Eleanor swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor. No slippers in sight, she edged cautiously toward the door. Highland Manor was massive, and the darkness loomed around her like a thick fog. After what felt like ages, she finally found the staircase. Gripping the railing tightly, she began her descent. There was so much she still needed to do. A quick thank-you, and then she could leave. Just as she reached the foot of the stairs, a giant golden retriever appeared, bare teeth on display and tongue lolling, striding intently toward her. Eleanor's heart skipped a beat. Instinct kicked in—she spun around, ready to bolt. But it was too late. The massive dog pounced, knocking her to the ground, its weight pinning her down as its claws scrabbled across her skin, its growl echoing around the dimly lit room. "Help!" In a flurry of panic, Eleanor clutched the dog's neck, just trying to push it off her, desperate to avoid those jaws. "Get off me!" Her frantic movements seemed to only enrage the beast further. With a thunderous bark, it lunged for the hem of her skirt, its teeth dangerously close to her leg. Just then, the lights flickered on, flooding the expansive hall with brightness. And there on the nearby sofa, Eleanor spotted a figure lounging in the shadows. A man sat there, long limbs sprawled languidly, a cigarette dangling from one hand. He was watching her struggle with a bemused expression, completely unfazed by the chaos around him. “Help!” Eleanor cried out, her voice hoarse. She was no match for the hulking dog, especially in her injured state. But as if summoned by her call, an irritated growl rang out: “Blake Quentin!” At the sound of the man's voice, the dog halted, its posture shifting as it turned toward him, tail wagging as it padded across the room, blissfully compliant. Eleanor, gasping for breath, seized the moment to scramble back into a corner, her body wracked with pain. She watched as the man stood, his tall figure looming over her. Fear settled heavily in her stomach as she instinctively clenched her fists, bracing herself for whatever was about to happen. Seeing the terror in her eyes, Blake Quentin crouched down, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, careful not to blow the smoke in her face. The scent was sharp and pungent, making her instinctively want to block her nose. But before she could react, he grasped her arm, pulling her closer. Eleanor felt her silk nightgown slide dangerously down her shoulder, exposing her skin—embarrassment washed over her as she instinctively tried to cover herself. Dirtied from the struggle, scratched and bruised, she knew she must look a sight, but even with her injuries, there was something captivating about her long, smooth legs. "Mr. Ferguson…" she managed to stutter, her pulse racing as she caught his gaze, his intense eyes scanning her with an unsettling curiosity. “Remember my name?” His lips curled into a smile that was both amused and sly, revealing an unexpected satisfaction. “Good girl!” With a teasing flick of his finger, he tilted her chin up, and Eleanor felt a strange mix of fear and allure wash over her at the edge of his voice, colored with something dangerously different.
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