Mia descended the gallery steps with a rhythmic, hurried grace. A rare, unsuppressible smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, softening the usual stoic line of her face.

She pressed the shortcut on her phone. Damien's voice arrived instantly—a low, rhythmic rasp. "Leaving early?"

"We're seeing Kitten tonight," Mia said, her pace quickening toward the curb. "You promised to help with the gift."

"Julian has everything," Damien drawled, the sound of a lighter clicking in the background. "A check is more efficient."

Mia shook her head at the empty air. "Not everyone is as devoid of sentiment as you are, Damien."

A short, quiet laugh escaped the receiver before the line went dead.

They stepped into the infant flagship store, an environment saturated with soft lighting and the scent of expensive powder. Mia's shoulders dropped, her defensive posture evaporating as she wandered toward the rows of miniature silk garments.

The sales staff circled like predators sensing a high-limit credit card. They tracked the way Damien's hand remained anchored to the small of Mia's back—a heavy, possessive claim.

"Try this," a clerk whispered, presenting a mother-and-child jewelry set. "For when your own miracle arrives."

Mia's fingers hovered over the interlocking gold charms. A brief, shimmering expectation surfaced in her gray eyes as she looked up at the man beside her.

Damien remained a statue of clinical indifference, his gaze fixed on a distant point. He slid a titanium card across the velvet counter without looking at the price.

"Wrap it," he ordered.

Mia's face flushed a feverish pink. She searched his expression for a hidden meaning, her pulse hammering.

Damien traced the line of her jaw, his thumb lingering for a heartbeat. "If you like it, it's yours."

The light in Mia's eyes flickered and died, replaced by a crystalline numbness.

The Spyker lurched to a halt outside the secondary wing of the Lancaster estate. The butler met them at the garden gate, his hands trembling as he gestured toward the main doors.

"It's bad, sir," the man stammered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Master Julian has... he's reached his limit with Miss Winters."

Inside, the air was ionized with hostility. Kitten stood on the leather sofa in her sneakers, her hair a wild halo as she pointed a finger at Julian's chest.

"No bars! No caffeine! No sliding!" she screamed, her voice a jagged blade. "I'm pregnant, Julian, not a prisoner of war!"

Julian stood in the center of the Persian rug, his face a mask of sub-zero ice. The muscle in his jaw leaped, his knuckles turning bone-white as he gripped a pencil—the only tool Kitten was now permitted to use for writing.

"Get off the furniture," Julian said. His voice was a flat, lethal monotone. "Now."

Kitten let out a jagged, mocking laugh that echoed through the vaulted ceiling.

"What? Are you going to spank me?" she challenged, her eyes burning with defiance. "You only touch me because I let you—don't think for a second you own me."

OWNED BY THE DEVIL

Chapter 60: The Unfavored Anchor

Julian's face was a ridge of stone. Even the calmest Lancaster shared the heritage of blood and steel, a quiet monster beneath the tailored wool.

Kitten

stood her ground, her eyes burning like white phosphorus. The pregnancy had become a cage, every restriction a bar between her and the free air she had breathed since childhood.

"If you want the kid that much, find another womb!" she spat, pointing a trembling finger. "I don't want it!"

Julian's hand snapped around her wrist, his grip a titanium shackle.

"Was that the truth?" His voice was sub-zero, the temperature of a fresh grave.

Kitten bristled like a cornered animal, her chest heaving. "Every word!"

Damien

stepped into the foyer, paused for three heartbeats, and spun on his heel.

Mia

tugged at his sleeve, her eyes wide. "Where are you going?"

"Positioning myself," Damien drawled, his thumb tracing the sharp contour of his jaw. "She'll be out in sixty seconds, and Julian's already broken her."

Mia started to laugh, but the sound died in her throat as a small silhouette burst through the doors. Kitten was a blurred streak against the torrential rain, her hand flying up to wipe her eyes as she ran.

"Go inside," Damien ordered, his gaze locked on the fleeing girl. "He's going to need the quiet. I'll handle the rescue."

Inside, the air was ionized with agave and ozone. Julian poured a triple shot of tequila and drained it in a single, clinical swallow.

He launched the crystal glass across the room. It hit the hardwood with a jagged, terminal shriek, shards blooming across the floor like frozen diamonds.

The house staff vanished into the shadows, their footsteps silent as they cleared the perimeter. Julian stood alone, the muscles in his back twitching under his shirt.

Mia didn't speak. She walked to the center of the room and stared at the rectangular glass coffee table.

The four sharp corners were wrapped in thick white cloth, secured with clumsy, hand-drawn flowers in colored ink. Every jagged edge in the living room had been systematically padded with the same frantic, secret care.

Julian's knuckles turned bone-white against the mahogany bar.

"She used to ignore the bruises when she hit the furniture," Mia whispered, her voice a thin line of silk. "She didn't wrap these for herself."

Julian's shoulders dropped a fraction. The fire in his gaze flickered, replaced by a dark, jagged hollow.

"You told her to leave," Mia said, stepping into his line of sight. "You told her there was nowhere else to go."

Julian went rigid, the bottle in his hand trembling.

"An unfavored child only knows one way to survive," Mia whispered, her gray eyes reflecting the storm outside. "They become their own anchor, because they know if they let go, no one is coming to catch them."