The Mark

Isla’s POV

“I…I’m so…” the words tangled in my mouth, tripping over each other before they even formed. “Please, I didn’t mean…your suit, I’ll…I’ll pay for the suit, or…. a new one, I swear…”

My voice cracked, the apology collapsing into thin air as I opened my mouth—a half-formed apology. But before I could even speak, his hand closed around my wrist.

His grip was iron. Heat shot up my arm, shocking me still. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t shout. Instead, he reached inside his jacket with his free hand and pulled out a fountain pen. It was sleek, black, heavy in his palm.

“W…what are you doing, sir?” The question stuck in my throat as his hands pressed into my skin. And then he drew a single line, bold and dark. He dragged the ink across the inside of my wrist with slow precision, marking me like an artist signing his work.

Gasps broke out around us. Silent whispers were being heard everywhere around the room, I swear I had even listened to a woman choke back a nervous laugh. But he? He just smirked. His smile was razor-sharp curving in satisfaction.

Like he’d just claimed me in front of the entire crowd watching. And then he let go of my wrist, the fountain pen clicking shut with a neat, final sound like a judge’s gavel.

I stared at my wrist. The bold black line shines wet against my skin, thick and deliberate. “Oh wow. Look at this. Guess I’m officially branded now. Do I get a membership card? Maybe even a free glass of wine that I don’t spill?”

laughter tearing out of me, too loud, too high. “Honestly, what is this? A billionaire's way of humiliating the middle class? Must you humiliate me to accept my apology?”

The words left my mouth, coming out sharp and fast, like I could laugh my way out of the humiliation, even though my heart thundered against my chest. But I forced out a smile, trying to look calm.

I had made the mistake of looking up. And he was still there, he hadn’t left yet. He just stood a few inches away from me, still watching me with that smirk on his face. It was the slowest, darkest smirk I’d ever seen.

A smile that wasn't amusing in any way at all. My laughter immediately died in my throat. But then he leaned in just enough that only I could hear, his voice a velvet knife sliding against my ear.

“Try to wash it off, sweetheart.”

The words sank cold into my skin, into the mark itself, until I swear I could feel it burning me. “The name’s Damian Cross. I’m sure you must have heard of me.”

Then—he turned and walked away. Leaving me standing there with the ink on my wrist, terror rising fast in my chest with the name I’d just heard.

And at that point, I realized that I had just come face to face with the most dangerous and powerful man in New York.

Sole heir to the Cross Syndicate, the most dangerous mafia gang in New York. Even the police shivered with fear on hearing his name.

Only heard his name in newspapers and magazines, but I would have never imagined seeing him in real life.

I yanked my sleeve down over the mark and hugged my arms against myself. Their stares were still there…hungry, curious, horrified. I just couldn’t stand another second of it.

I turned and pushed through the crowd. The ballroom’s glittering light was fading behind me. My heels clicked too loudly against the marble floor as I stormed towards the back exit, desperate to escape.

“Going Somewhere?”

A low and dangerous voice cut through me as my fingers were inches from the door handle. I froze. It better not be him, God please let it not be him. I murmured, every instinct screaming at me to run and not talk to this stranger, but my body betrayed me as I turned.

He stood in the shadows by the exit—tall, dressed in a tailored steel-gray suit that gleamed like a blade under the low light. It…it wasn’t Damian. This was someone else.

His eyes….his eyes were locked on the mark on my wrist. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face as he stepped closer to me, his boots clicking softly and deliberately.

“You don’t even know what that means, do you?” His gaze flicked to my covered wrist, his voice dripping with amusement.

“What are you talking about?” I shot back, hugging my arm tighter. He moved his head, the smile never fading. “That mark. His mark. You really thought it was just a joke to humiliate you?”

The walls seemed to close in on me. Every nerve screams danger. “Look, I don’t know what game you people are playing.” I shook my head, forcing out a humourless laugh.

“But..”

“You think it’s all a game?” He cut me short before I could finish. His teeth flashed in the dim light. “You know, Damian Cross must have chosen you for a reason.”

The way he said it made my stomach twist. I didn’t wait for him to say more before I was told what to do. I spun, reaching for the door as my hands stretched out.

My fingertips brushing the metal handle…

Something covered my mouth in an instant.

A hand. A cloth.

My scream was forced down before it left my throat. A chemical sting punched into my lungs, sharp and sweet, overpowering me. I thrashed, clawing at its hand, the arm, but my strength only grew weaker with every breath.

Darkness engulfed my vision as I twisted my head just enough to see him—the man in gray, watching. His smile has now grown wider, cruel.

“Don’t fight it, darling. You’ve already been chosen.” He hissed. The last thing I saw was the glint of wickedness in his eyes as the darkness swallowed me whole.