The room isn’t Damien’s.
The scent is too clean. Too sterile beneath the smoke.
The mirror in the corner—cracked. The walls—off-white, not black.
The floor—linoleum.
His smile.
Not Damien’s.
“No—”
He thrusts into me hard, claiming me in one savage motion, and I scream.
He leans down, breath hot against my mouth.
“Don’t worry, little moth,” he whispers. “You’ll love me soon enough.”
I gasp—his body pressed flush against mine, driving into me like he owns every inch he touches.
And for a second, I want to believe he does.
That this is Damien.
That I’m safe.
That this is just another one of his brutal, possessive ways of saying I’m his.
But the words don’t match the rhythm of his breath.
The cadence is wrong.
The grip is wrong.
The kiss is wrong.
He’s fucking me like he knows someone else already did.
And then—he laughs.
Low. Mirthless. Razor-sharp.
Not Damien.
I freeze.
The weight of his hips slamming into mine doesn’t stop, but something in my chest does.
He leans down, lips brushing my cheek, and whispers:
“Does he make you cry like I do?”
I shove at his chest, suddenly shaking.
He lets me.
He wants me to see.
