Two weeks had passed since the night of the brand. Two weeks of Amyra living like a ghost in her own home. The 'A' carved into her stomach had scabbed over, leaving a raised, pink scar—a permanent signature of the man who owned her. She barely ate, barely spoke, and she had smashed the burner phone into a hundred pieces. She thought she was safe. She thought the silence meant he was done with her.

She was wrong. The Devil doesn't leave his toys; he just lets them think they are free before he pulls the leash.