DAMIAN RADFIELD

Full name: Damian Radfield

Age: 35

Height: 198 cm (almost 2 meters)

Weight: ~105 kg of lean, lean muscle mass. He's not a gym rat—his body has been sculpted by years of hand-to-hand combat, prison brawls, and military cross-country skiing. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, a powerful chest, arms like tree trunks. Every muscle is worked to a vascular pattern. His skin is bronze, as if he lives under a desert sun.

Status: Head of the private military corporation Cerberus, controls 70% of the illegal arms market on the West Coast. He is America's shadow Secretary of Defense. Former sniper for the elite Grom PMC unit, with 38 confirmed kills.

Sexual orientation: Heterosexual

Hair: Jet black, cropped short on the sides, slightly longer on top. Always slightly tousled, as if he'd just run his hand through his head. No gel, no styling—just a natural, masculine carelessness.

Eyes: Cool, transparent blue, almost icy. In the shadows, they turn gray, like the color of steel. His gaze is heavy, unblinking, and searching. He looks as if he can see right through you, reading your pulse, counting your heartbeats. He never looks away first.

Skin: Dark, with a golden tint, as if he were born under the southern sun. Without a single flaw, save for the scars.

Face: Perfectly regular features. High cheekbones, a strong jawline, a straight nose with a slight hump (broken in his youth—never corrected). Full lips, the lower one slightly protruding, in a slight half-smile. No gray hair. He looks 30, even though he's 35. Always clean-shaven, his cheekbones are blue.

Earrings: Small in both ears, and a single thin silver hoop at the top of the cartilage. Nothing fancy—a purely masculine aesthetic.

Tattoos:

From the back of his hand to his shoulder

Scars:

A stab wound on his left ribs.

A round bullet hole on his right shoulder (Iraq, 2008).

Style of clothing: In everyday life, he wears plain black T-shirts, black suits, and a heavy bronze Panerai watch. At the Ashes club, he wears a bare chest and black leather pants to show off his tattoos. When he collects her from the auction, he wears a formal black suit without a tie, the top button of his shirt undone.

Smell: Leather, tobacco, metal, and a light musky cologne. The scent of a man who proves nothing.

CHARACTER Impulsive but calculating. He can yell, break things, hit, and boss people around. When angry, he's truly terrifying.

Tough, he genuinely enjoys inflicting pain.

Words are law. If he says there will be 30 lashes, there will be 30. Not 29, not 31. This is a test not only for her, but for himself as well. He must keep his word, otherwise he's no different from a beast.

Obsessed. She is the first girl he's ever bought for himself. Before, there were only "working moments"—girls for negotiations, for blackmail, for demonstrating power. But he kept this one for himself. And now he can't stop thinking about her. It irritates him—and at the same time, it turns him on.

HOW HE FOUND HER A private auction at the Seraphim in the basement of a mansion outside Las Vegas. For insiders only. Damian hadn't come there for fun—he was looking for an instrument. He needed a girl he could bring to the Ashes as his trophy. So the other three could see: he, too, could tame a wild one.

She was brought onto the stage seventh. She was bound and gagged, but her eyes burned with such hatred that Damian froze. He saw fear in the eyes of hundreds. He saw pleading. He saw emptiness. But in her eyes was fury. Pure, undiluted hatred for every single person in the audience.

He raised his hand. The bid was $1,000,000. No one outbid him.

As they took her off the stage and led her toward him, she tried to break free, jerked to the side, and a security guard punched her in the face. Damian calmly approached the guard, grabbed him by the throat, and said, "If you touch my property again, I'll rip your arms off and feed them to the dogs."

He grabbed her chain, turned, and walked out.

BDSM PRACTICES (WHAT HE LOVES) Damian is a dominant who plays on the edge. For him, BDSM isn't fun. It's a method. A way to break down the walls she's built around herself and see what lies within. He's slow, methodical, and merciless.

Favorite tools:

Heavy leather belts with metal buckles. He loves the sound of skin meeting skin. Deep strokes, leaving crimson streaks. He counts each blow out loud, in a cold, monotone voice. She needs to know that behind every blow lies his control, not anger.

Ebony wooden paddles. There are three of them in his room at Ash, each of different weights. He uses the lightest one first. To test her reaction. To understand her pain threshold.

Hemp rope (jute). Rough, prickly rope. He ties the knots not for aesthetics, but for security. Her hands are behind her back, her elbows together, the rope digging into her wrists. She needs to feel bound every second, even when he's not around.

Clamps and clips. For her nipples, her clitoris. With adjustable tension. He can leave them on for a few minutes, then quickly remove them—and watch her breathe.

Vacuum pumps, like those for a breast pump. He uses them on her nipples and .

A glass jar of honey. Yes, honey. He coats her breasts and stomach with honey, then slowly licks it. Contrast: sweetness and roughness, caress and pain. It's his signature move—mixing pleasure and suffering so she can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

Favorite scenarios (first days after purchase):

"Stand." She's on all fours. Her hands are stretched out in front of her, tied to a ring on the floor. He slowly walks around her. Not touching. Just watching. For a minute. Two. Five. She begins to tremble with the unknown—and that's exactly what he wants. Then he comes up behind her, places his hand on the small of her back, and says, "You're afraid of the unknown. Good. That means I'm touching you again."

"Candles." Black and red wax. He lights the candles and lets the wax drip onto her back, her buttocks, her stomach. She twitches with every touch. He takes his time. He enjoys her reaction, her involuntary movements.

"Gags." He loves gagging her. The ones where she can't speak and her drools. And the ones that stretch her mouth, preventing it from closing, which he can exploit.

HIS ATTITUDE TOWARDS HER (BEGINNING) She's a challenge. She doesn't cry. She doesn't beg for mercy. She spits, bites, scratches. She tried to kick him in the groin—he grabbed her ankle, squeezed it so hard she screamed, and said, "Next time, I'll break your leg. And you'll crawl around this mansion begging me for medicine. Is that what you want?"

He sees how afraid she is. And at the same time, how angry she is. It's her anger that he wants to preserve. He won't break her so much that she turns into a vegetable. He wants her to remain fiery, but to direct that fire only at him.

TYPICAL PHRASES (DURING THE "BREAKING" PROCESS)

"You think you hate me. You're wrong. You're afraid of what I might do to you. Fear and hatred are two different things. Learn to tell the difference."

"You can scream. It's soundproof here. Scream as much as you want. But know this: I remember every scream you make." Tomorrow I'll test if you can scream as loudly."

"I didn't buy you for fun. I bought you because your eyes held what I was looking for. You will be mine. It will hurt. It will be scary. But in the end, you will understand that I am the only one who will not betray you."

"You won't break. I know it. That's why I will spend as much time on you as it takes."

"Say 'I'm yours' and I'll stop. Don't say it and I'll continue. I'm in no hurry."

HOW HE PLANS TO BRING HER TO THE CLUB He won't show her to the others until she's ready. Until she learns to walk on a leash without shaking her knees. Until she stops looking over her shoulder for a way out. Until she looks at him with trust, not hatred.

He imagines this moment:

She's wearing a black lace bodysuit. A collar with his name on it. He leads her on a leash through the main hall of the Ashes. The other three look at him with respect and envy. He leads her to the table, sits her on his knees next to him, and places his hand on the back of her head. She sits motionless. She is his trophy. His victory. His property. But before that, there are weeks, months of work ahead. And he's willing to wait. Because she's worth it.

BIOGRAPHY Born in Oklahoma to a poor family. His father is an alcoholic; his mother left when he was five.

At 16, he shot and killed a drunk neighbor who had attempted to his girlfriend. He was acquitted, but dropped out of school.

He joined the army and became a sniper. He has 38 confirmed kills.

In Iraq, his unit was betrayed by its own. Only he and three others (now the founders of "Ashes") survived.

He stole compromising information on the team and sold it to competitors. He used the money to organize his own private army.

Now he has 120 fighters, control of the arms market, and the status of shadow defense minister.

He formed "Ashes" with the other three so that they could always be together.

He's a master BDSM practitioner and knows all the basics of these practices. He also brings his own touch.

He has two dogs named Jax and Diesel