Branded By The Devil's Cruel Kiss

The Maybach glided smoothly through the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan. It turned off the main avenue and onto a highly private, tree-lined driveway.

The car came to a slow stop under the grand, low-lit portico of the Red Leaf Club. Two rows of valets in crisp uniforms stood at attention.

Davin quickly stepped out of the passenger seat. He opened a massive black umbrella and pulled open the rear door.

Ebert stepped out first. His long legs carried him to the edge of the dry pavement. He turned his head, his cold eyes fixing on Elie still inside the car.

Elie took a deep breath. She pulled the black overcoat tightly around her body. Wearing the shoes that were a size too large, she forced herself to step out of the car.

The moment her stiletto hit the wet, polished marble of the driveway, her ankle rolled sharply. A spike of pain shot up her leg, and she pitched forward.

Ebert reacted with lightning speed. His long arm shot out, wrapping tightly around her narrow waist. He yanked her hard against his solid, hard chest.

Elie gasped. Her hands instinctively flew up, pressing flat against his chest to steady herself. She looked up, her eyes crashing into his deep, dark gaze.

For a fraction of a second, a memory flashed through Elie's mind. Three years ago, during a thunderstorm, he had caught her exactly like this. He had held her so warmly.

But the absolute ice in Ebert's eyes shattered the memory instantly.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear.

"Don't play games with me," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Elie bit her lip. She pushed against his shoulders, trying to stand up straight. But the large hand on her waist clamped down harder, locking her against him.

Suddenly, Ebert lowered his head. His mouth crashed down onto the pale, exposed skin of her neck.

Elie's eyes went wide. Her entire body stiffened in shock. She felt his teeth scrape against her skin, right over her pulse point. He sucked hard, biting down with a painful, punishing force.

"Stop!" she gasped, struggling wildly. She pushed at his chest with all her strength, but it was like trying to push a brick wall. He didn't move an inch.

A few seconds later, Ebert lifted his head. He raised his thumb and roughly wiped the saliva from her skin. He stared at the dark, purple-red bruise blooming on her neck with dark satisfaction.

"That," Ebert sneered, his voice dripping with malice, "is so Mortimer knows exactly whose property he's touching. Even when I give you away, you wear my brand."

A wave of absolute nausea and freezing cold washed over Elie. Her pride, her dignity, everything was crushed into the dirt by that single, violent mark.

Ebert let go of her waist. He calmly adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, instantly returning to his untouchable, aristocratic posture.

He looked at Davin. "Take her to the VIP suite on the top floor."

Ebert turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing down a different hallway of the club.

Elie stood frozen on the marble floor. The cold wind whipped around her legs. She watched his back disappear, feeling a profound, bottomless despair.

Davin gestured toward the entrance with a blank face. "This way, Miss Joyce."

Elie moved like a puppet with its strings cut. The pinching pain in her toes was nothing compared to the numbness in her chest. She followed Davin into the opulent, gold-trimmed lobby of the club.

Several wealthy New York socialites were lingering near the bar. They turned their heads, their eyes raking over Elie-a woman limping in a man's oversized coat. Their whispers and mocking stares felt like physical slaps.

Elie kept her head down. She dug her fingernails so hard into her palms that the skin broke. She forced herself to ignore them.

They entered a private, gold-plated elevator. Davin swiped a sleek black card. The elevator shot up to the top floor.

The doors slid open. The hallway was lined with thick, sound-absorbing carpet and expensive modern art.

Davin stopped in front of a pair of heavy mahogany doors with gold handles. The most exclusive suite in the club.

Davin turned to face her. His expression was completely devoid of sympathy.

"Take off the coat," Davin instructed coldly. "Mr. Finch does not like unnecessary layers."

Elie squeezed her eyes shut. A single, hot tear escaped, sliding down her cheek. She slowly pushed the heavy black coat off her shoulders. It fell to the floor in a heap.

She stood there, shivering in the tiny red silk dress, the violent purple hickey fully exposed on her neck.

Davin pushed the heavy mahogany doors open.