Claimed: Owned By The Don

The night, Club Eden, swallowed Raven Knight whole as she entered, she wasn't wearing red, but she should've been. Red was for warning and sin. And sin was exactly what she was walking into.

Instead, she wore fitted black slacks that clung to her hips, a satin top that shimmered like spilled oil, and heels borrowed from Talia, the friend who swore Eden was "just a club." Her press badge hid inside her purse, like a loaded gun she couldn't afford to draw.

No one got inside Club Eden without a story, and tonight, hers was a lie dressed in silk. She wasn't Raven Knight, investigative journalist for The Mirror. She was Raye Kincaid, an aspiring dancer from nowhere, with big eyes and a bigger dream.

A perfect disguise for a woman walking into the devil's den.

The moment she crossed the velvet-draped threshold, sound hit her like a heartbeat. Music, slow, thick, seductive, throbbed through the floor. Perfume and smoke mixed with the sharp bite of whiskey. Every surface glowed in gold or red. The kind of red that warned you not to touch, but made you want to anyway.

Men in suits lounged like kings. Women in lace and diamonds floated between them, all slow smiles and dangerous curves. A chandelier of black crystal hung above the crowd like a frozen storm.

Raven paused, pulse flickering. Every sense screamed, You don't belong here. But she lifted her chin and stepped forward. She had to see him. The devil himself, Jaxon Morreau.

The man who owned Eden, and three corpses that no one could prove were his doing. A name whispered in the underbelly of the city. A face that didn't exist in photos, only in rumors. Tall. Cold. Beautiful. Cruel.

Her heels clicked against the marble, the sound too loud in her ears. A bouncer scanned her once, eyes, body, purse, and waved her through without a word.

That was the first warning. No ID. No questions. Just a nod. Like the club already knew who she was.

The bar stretched before her like a runway of dark glass. Dancers moved on poles at either end, their bodies liquid gold under the lights. The crowd pulsed around her, half lust, half worship. Every movement was deliberate. Controlled. Dangerous.

Raven's pulse spiked. Her journalist instincts hummed. This place wasn't just a club, it was theater. A ritual. And the man behind it was god.

She moved past the bar, pretending to look for the dressing rooms, phone hidden in her palm, camera app open. One photo. That's all she needed. One glimpse of Jaxon Morreau, and she could blow open an empire.

"New?" a woman's voice purred beside her.

Raven turned. The dancer in front of her had cinnamon skin and red-painted lips that gleamed under the lights. Her name tag read Kira, but her eyes said: I see through you.

"Yeah," Raven lied easily. "Raye. First night."

Kira's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Then a warning, Raye. Don't