Bound To The Devil From My Past

Ashlie's fingers dug into the leather of her designer clutch, the dampness of her palms making the material slip. The concrete steps of the New York City Clerk's office were cold, radiating a chill straight through the soles of her shoes, but the sweat on her neck felt hot and sticky. She stared at the heavy wooden doors, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Just go in. Sign the paper. Get it over with.

The voice in her head sounded desperate, even to herself. She forced herself to breathe, the air tasting like exhaust fumes and impending rain. She pulled her phone from her bag, the screen blinding in the gray afternoon light. A text from her father sat there, unanswered.

Ashlie, I'm sorry. But he promised to save the company. This is our only chance.

She could picture Warren Bradford sitting in his empty office, his face drawn, his hair seemingly whiter than it had been just a week ago. The great Bradford Group, built over generations, reduced to a begging bowl. And she was the price.

She locked the phone and shoved it back into her bag. Running away wasn't an option. If she ran, the creditors would circle by midnight. Her family would be ruined. She was the sacrifice, and the altar was right here.

A sleek, black Bentley Mulsanne glided to the curb, its engine a silent purr. It looked absurdly expensive against the grimy street, a shark swimming in a koi pond. Every head on the sidewalk turned.

Ashlie's stomach dropped. Her breath hitched, a sudden, sharp restriction in her chest.

The driver stepped out, crisp and efficient, and pulled open the rear door.

First, a shoe hit the pavement. A polished John Lobb oxford, so shiny it reflected the gray sky. The cost of that single shoe could cover a month's rent on her studio space.

Then, a leg. Tailored trousers draped perfectly over a long, muscular frame. The man unfolded himself from the back seat, rising to his full height. He was tall, his shoulders broad, filling out that obscenely expensive suit like it was armor.

Ashlie squinted against the glare. The sun peeked out from behind a cloud, silhouetting him, turning him into a dark, faceless shape. She couldn't see his features, but she could feel the weight of his gaze. It hit her like a physical force, pinning her to the spot.

He moved forward, each step measured, deliberate. The sunlight shifted, finally catching his face.

Ashlie's lungs forgot how to work.

The face was sharp, all hard angles and arrogant lines. A jaw that looked like it had been carved from granite. Cheekbones that could cut glass. But the eyes... the eyes were the color of a frozen lake, and just as warm.

No.

Her mind screamed, a sudden, violent rejection of reality. She knew that face. She would know it anywhere, even fourteen years later. She had spent her childhood tormenting the boy who wore