Chapter 4 You’ve been purchased

[Vayra's POV]

The first thing I feel is light. Blinding, sterile, cold. It hums overhead—not like sunlight, but electricity, the kind that vibrates in your bones. The kind that doesn’t warm you—only exposes you. My eyes flutter open, struggling to adjust. A ceiling swims into focus: white panels, humming faintly, seamless and endless.

The air smells of disinfectant, blood, and metal. My head throbs. The back of my neck aches. My whole body feels wrong—heavy, sluggish, as if my veins have been filled with lead.

I try to move, but my wrists don’t obey. Leather straps bite into my skin, tight enough to bruise. Panic rises sharp and fast, clawing up my throat. My breath catches, chest heaving against restraints. Where am I? Where’s the man with the golden eyes—the one who called me his mate?

Memory slams into me in jagged flashes—headlights, rain, black suits, a syringe. His roar fading into darkness. My heart twists so hard it hurts.

“You’re awake.”

The voice is soft. Feminine. I turn my head. A woman stands by the door—young, pretty, wearing white gloves and a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her hair is perfectly coiled, her posture flawless, like a doll set in place. But her scent… her scent is wrong. Sweet, cloying—like perfume poured over rot.

“Where am I?” My voice cracks, brittle.

She tilts her head, birdlike. “A place where girls like you find new purpose.”

My blood runs cold. “What… does that mean?”

The woman glides closer, heels clicking softly on the tile, every step rehearsed.

“You were brought in injured, half-dead. We patched you up. You owe us now.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

Her smile sharpens. “You don’t have to. Debt always finds its own way.”

My stomach knots. “I want to leave.”

“Oh, sweet thing.” She leans down, brushing a strand of hair from my face with a gloved hand. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Her touch burns. I flinch away, and she clucks her tongue. “Tsk. They said you had fire in you. Don’t make me see it.” She straightens, nodding to someone behind her. Two men step into the doorway—large, silent, eyes flat as stone.

“Take her to processing.”

They unstrap me and drag me to my feet. My legs wobble, muscles screaming under the weight of exhaustion. My thin gown slips from one shoulder, exposing bruises—purple and red, fresh and raw like spilled ink. I try to fight. An elbow cracks against a chest, a kick lands hard, but they’re stronger, faster.

They shove me down a long corridor that smells of bleach and perfume, through a door, into a room drenched in red light. The air is heavy—perfume, sweat, smoke—and laughter that’s brittle, empty, painted over pain.

Girls line the walls, all ages, all broken. Some stare at me with hollow eyes. Others glance away, afraid, as though looking too long will bring punishment. In the center of the room sits a woman on a velvet chair—older, beautiful, cruel. Diamonds hang from her neck like trophies stolen from other lives.

“New arrival?” she asks, voice smooth as silk.

“Yes, Madam,” one of the men replies. “Picked up off the road.”

Her gaze rakes over me—slow, assessing, hungry. She rises and circles me like a predator, murmuring, “Exotic. Not local. Look at those eyes.”

I stiffen. “Let me go.”

She smiles, cruel and sweet. “Oh, little spark. You’ll learn.”

“I’ll burn this place down,” I whisper, and her laugh is soft, indulgent.

“If you try, I’ll have your wings clipped before they ever learn to fly.” I don’t understand—not fully—but my heart pounds anyway. She snaps her fingers.

“Get her ready.” The men drag me through another door into a small cell lined with silk curtains and warped mirrors that distort the light. A bed sits in the center. Chains glint at the corners like teeth.

My throat tightens.

“This is your room,” one says. “You’ll do as you’re told. Try to run, you’ll regret it.” They leave. The door clicks shut like the closing of a vault. For a long moment, I just stand there—trembling, staring at my reflection.

I barely recognize the girl staring back, wild eyes, matted hair, skin marked by bruises and dirt. But beneath all that—the glow. Faint. Gold. Flickering behind her ribs like a heartbeat. The fire. My fire. They can cage me. They can chain me. But they can’t kill that.

Days blur into nights. Time loses meaning here. The windows are shuttered, the clocks silent; hours slide into one another like oil. I learn the rules quickly—keep your head down, do as told, survive. But survival has always come with a cost.

They dress us in silk and paint our faces with gold dust, calling us “gems.” They sell smiles and silence, obedience and illusion, as if wrapping a cage in velvet makes it less of a cage.

I refuse. The first time I tried to run, I made it as far as the courtyard before they caught me. The whip fell three times: once for defiance, once for pride, once for daring to hope. The pain was sharp, searing through my back like fire—but it didn’t break me. It woke something else, something older than fear.

Each night, I feel it grow stronger—the heat beneath my skin, the spark in my blood. It coils under my ribs, restless, remembering its shape, its wings. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I let it flicker in my palms. Tiny threads of gold light twist through my fingers, curling like smoke from an unlit flame. It’s a secret I feed in the dark, a heartbeat no one else can hear.

“Not yet,” I whisper to it. “Not until I’m free.”

The walls hum with enchantments, but they won’t hold forever. Not when the fire inside me remembers the sky. Not when it remembers it was born to burn.

Then one night, the door creaks open. Madam steps in, her smile too wide to be real. “Good news, little spark. You’ve been purchased.”

My stomach twists. “Purchased?”

She nods slowly, savoring the word. “An exclusive buyer. He paid in gold. Seems someone finally saw your worth.” I freeze, a chill running down my spine.

“Who?”

Her smile deepens, sharp as a blade. “You’ll see.”

Two guards enter and drag me from the room. My wrists tremble as they clasp heavy cuffs around them, the metal cold enough to bite. We move through corridors I’ve never seen—past the red lights, past the velvet halls, into the night. Outside, rain falls soft and slow, a ghost of the storm that brought me here. Headlights cut through the dark like knives.

At the end of the path waits a black motorcycle. And beside it—him. The Alpha. The one with molten eyes. He stands there, tall and fierce, the storm painting his leather in silver.

His gaze locks on mine—a flicker of shock, then fury, then something deeper, something that feels like recognition and promise all at once. The guards push me forward as Madam’s voice drips sweetly behind me.

“She’s yours now, Alpha. Take good care of her.”

His jaw tightens. “You sold her?”

“Business is business,” she purrs.

He doesn’t answer. He steps forward and tears the cuffs from my wrists with one hand, the metal snapping under his grip. His touch is careful—like I might break.

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs. But I can’t breathe. I can’t even look at him without feeling the pull—that burning, aching bond that ties us, alive and dangerous under my skin.