“You know…” His voice dropped lower, rougher, edged. “…since I visited you at the shop, I’ve found myself thinking about you.”
I froze. “Why is that?” The words scraped out, though I already knew.
Damian stepped closer still. “It’s rare to find someone with so much passion and dedication for their work. That fascinates me.”
“I… I just try to do my job well.”
“You do. You have something others don’t. A gift.”
I turned, careful to arch my back just enough to keep our bodies apart. Still, his nearness clung like a second skin. The air felt electric—dense, charged, almost tangible. My pulse hammered. I tightened my grip on the artifact, holding it between us like a shield.
“Here,” I whispered.
But Damian didn’t move. He didn’t even glance at the pendant. His eyes stayed on me. As ifIwere the treasure.
“The Eye of the Phoenix once belonged to a Roman emperor,” he said softly, gaze unblinking.
“I know the depictions of Emperor Gaius Octavius Thurinus wearing it,” I said quickly. “They’re displayed in Rome. But ancient Vatican manuscripts show it in the hands of Ramses III. The Pharaoh believed it granted immortality. The text describes him performing a secret ritual, surrounded by symbols no one’s ever deciphered. After that, the pendant vanished—until it resurfaced in Rome. Emperor Gaius treated it like a talisman.”
Damian frowned, studying me as if I’d stepped out of another world.
“You’re sure about this? I’ve never heard of it.”
“You can find the manuscripts in the Vatican Library,” I said softly, “in the section reserved for the secret collections.”
His gaze shifted. Respect flickered there—yes—but beneath it slid something darker, a shadow crossing his eyes.
Without a word, he took the artifact from my hand. His fingers brushed mine as he set the piece on the velvet cloth—careful, reverent, as though he were laying down a heart.
“I should really go,” I said, turning for the door, trying to slip past him—mistake.
In one fluid motion, he caught my arm and pulled me back against him before I could react. My spine collided with his chest.
“Not so fast,” he whispered in my ear. His breath was warm, steady—far too steady compared to the pounding of my heart.
“I have to admit something,” he said. “From the first moment I saw you, I wondered what it would be like to have you. Entirely.”
His fingers settled at my waist. The touch burned, as if he were writing on me. His other hand traced a deliberate path—over my stomach, up my chest, halting at my throat.Not tender. A touch that allowed no escape.
My body betrayed me; stillness took over me, heavy and unwelcome. Inside I was all flicker—fear, heat, and an incomprehensible hunger.
“And that’s the problem,” he murmured against my skin. “I always take what I want. No exceptions. But with you… I have to hold back.”
“Why?” My voice sounded strange to my own ears—thin and unfamiliar.
“Interesting,” he said softly. “Almost like you don’t want me to.”
I swallowed hard. Every nerve stretched to breaking. His fingers tightened at my waist, his other hand at my throat, and I understood how little freedom remained. My back pressed to his stomach, my shoulders locked to his chest.
I felt every line of him—solid muscle beneath his shirt, his warmth wrapping me like a second skin.
And then I felt him—hard, undeniable—pressed against me.
A shiver ripped through me—not from fear, but from something deeper and darker I couldn’t name because I was already caught inside it.
I should have pulled away. I didn’t.
“Why do you have to hold back?” I asked again, needing the answer like air.
