Branded By The Devil's Cruel Kiss

Elie stood pinned against the heavy oak door. Her hands shook violently as she slowly bent down and picked up the red silk dress from the floor.

Ebert let out a cold scoff. He turned his back to her, walking back toward the floor-to-ceiling window. He pulled a cigar from a humidor, clipped it, and lit it. Thick, blue-grey smoke began to fill the air.

Elie clenched her jaw. She turned around to face the door. With stiff, freezing fingers, she peeled off her torn, wet sweater and pushed down her soaked, heavy jeans.

She quickly pulled the red silk dress over her head. The fabric barely reached her mid-thigh, and the front featured a dangerously plunging neckline that left almost nothing to the imagination. The dress had no zipper in the back. It was held together only by a series of thin, delicate straps that crossed over her entirely exposed back.

Elie reached behind her, trying to tie the silk strings, but her fingers were trembling too violently. She kept dropping them.

Ebert must have heard her struggling. He turned around. He stood there, cigar clamped between his teeth, his dark eyes fixed on the large expanse of pale, bare skin on her back.

He walked up behind her.

The intense heat radiating from his large body hit her back. His hot breath brushed against the sensitive skin of her nape. Elie's entire body went rigid. She stopped breathing.

Ebert's rough fingers brushed against her spine as he gathered the silk straps. A violent shiver wrecked through her. He pulled the strings tight, his movements rough and impatient, and tied them into a knot.

As the straps pulled tight, the red silk molded perfectly to her narrow waist and the curve of her hips. Ebert's eyes darkened.

He grabbed her wrist. His grip was like a steel vice. He didn't care that she was barefoot. He dragged her away from the door and out of the study.

They walked down the grand staircase. The maids and servants in the foyer immediately dropped their heads, staring at the floor, not daring to look at the humiliating scene.

Davin stood by the front doors. He held a pair of towering, rhinestone-encrusted high heels and a heavy, black men's overcoat.

Ebert snatched the coat from Davin. He threw it roughly over Elie's shoulders, completely covering the scandalous red dress and her bare skin.

Davin placed the heels at Elie's feet. Elie stepped into them. They were at least a size too large. The hard material made her feet slip dangerously with every step, offering absolutely no stability.

Outside, a black, armored Maybach sat idling in the pouring rain. A bodyguard held a massive black umbrella over the open rear door.

Ebert shoved Elie into the spacious back seat. He slid in right after her. The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the sound of the storm.

The Maybach pulled away from the estate, gliding smoothly toward the glowing skyline of Manhattan.

The silence inside the car was suffocating. Elie pulled Ebert's coat tighter around herself. The fabric was saturated with his scent-a sharp, cold mix of cedarwood and tobacco. It invaded her lungs with every breath.

She turned her head to look at him. She had to break the silence.

"Who are you taking me to see?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Ebert leaned back against the plush leather seat. He crossed his long legs. He didn't look at her.

"Mortimer Finch," he said, his tone entirely casual.

The blood drained from Elie's face. Her heart plummeted into her stomach. Everyone in New York knew Mortimer Finch. He was a venture capital titan, and a notorious, disgusting predator.

She snapped her head toward him, her eyes wide with horror.

"Are you making me... escort for him?" she demanded, her voice rising in panic.

Ebert let out a low, cruel laugh. He leaned closer to her. His long fingers reached out and pinched the hem of the coat she was wearing.

"You think too highly of yourself," Ebert mocked. "You aren't an escort. You're just a free gift."

Elie violently slapped his hand away.

"I won't do it. I won't go," she spat. "Let me out."

She reached for the door handle and pulled. It didn't budge. The central locking system was engaged. She was trapped.

Ebert watched her panic with absolute calm. He adjusted his cuffs slowly.

"Your grandmother is currently undergoing an experimental targeted therapy at Manhattan General," Ebert said softly.

Elie froze. Her hand dropped from the door handle.

"And your uncle's H1B visa renewal application," Ebert continued, his voice like ice. "It is currently sitting on the desk of a senior immigration officer. A man who happens to owe me a very large favor."

The two threats hit Elie like physical blows to the chest. They were two sharp knives, instantly severing every single ounce of fight she had left in her.

Because of the US healthcare system, her grandmother's treatment cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Because of the strict immigration laws, her uncle's visa was the only thing keeping their family from being deported and ruined. Ebert controlled it all.

Elie's hand slid off the door. Her entire body went limp. She collapsed back into the leather seat, all the life draining from her eyes.

She closed her eyes. A hollow, broken laugh escaped her lips.

"As you wish, Master," she whispered into the dark car.