Damien’s grip tightens as he hoists me off the wall and carries me deeper into the shadows, into a boarded-up shop tucked behind the alley. A rusted door slams behind us, and it echoes like a threat.
The space is dark—windowless. Empty shelves line the cracked walls. A single bare lightbulb flickers overhead, casting him in a sick, golden glow that makes the shadows beneath his cheekbones even sharper.
He throws the lock with a sharp click. I flinch.
“We’re done pretending,” he mutters, pressing me against the dust-covered counter. His breath is warm on my neck; his voice too calm. Too steady. That’s when he’s most dangerous—when he stops raising his voice.
“You think I don’t see it? The way you look at me. Like you hate that you want me.”
His hand slides up under my shirt—slow, deliberate, like he wants me to feel every inch of his fingers as they climb my ribs.
“You think if you run far enough, the craving stops?” His mouth brushes the curve of my jaw. “It won’t. You’re already mine.”
I want to deny him. I should but then his hand slides down, and I stop breathing.
His fingers slip beneath the waistband of my sweatpants, and I’m not proud of the way my hips twitch forward. I’m not proud of the way my thighs part for him like a reflex.
“You keep telling yourself it’s just survival.” His fingers drag through my soaking wet pussy and back again, slow and calculated. “But you came for me last night like your body had been waiting your entire life to be ruined by me.”
I bite my lip hard.
He lowers his mouth to mine, tongue tracing the seam, and when I gasp, he devours me—hungry, starved, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish mid-kiss.
I hate that I kissed him back. Hate it more that I need him to kiss me harder.
He pulls back only to whisper, low and threatening,
“Tell me who you belong to.”
I shake my head. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
His fingers respond for me—slipping inside, knuckles deep—and my traitorous mouth falls open.
“Say it,” he snarls. “Say. It.”
I almost do.
I’m seconds from unravelling completely when—A loud vibrating buzz echoes from the shadows.
Damien goes still.
The phone in his back pocket hums again, and his jaw tightens. He doesn’t move at first—just exhales slowly through his nose, as if something told him not to ignore it. With a reluctant grunt, he slips his hand from me—leaving me cold, breathless, aching—and answers.
I watch his face.
It shifts.
Whatever voice is on the other end makes him freeze, eyes locking on mine with something deeper than possession. Panic? No—rage.
He doesn’t say a word. Just ends the call and shoves the phone into his pocket like it’s burned him.
I try to speak, but he grabs my face with both hands.
“Who the fuck is Noah?”
The question lands like a blade.
“What?” I breathe.
