Like an angel. Like a curse. Like a reminder I’d never let her go. Her legs were slightly parted, one hand resting open on the blanket, the other tucked beneath the pillow—so vulnerable, so perfect it drove me insane. Her breath was soft, barely audible, yet it crawled under my skin, burning through my veins like a poison I swallowed willingly.
She knew. She had to know—how she destroyed me, how she bound me tighter with every innocent look, never once fearing me. And me? I was a predator watching its prey, claws already sunk too deep to retract.
My cock throbbed—again. Third time tonight. Because of her. I lay there, tense, battling the images my mind shoved at me. Her moans, the way she moved beneath me, for me, my name breakingfrom her lips like a prayer that made her my goddess, and me her servant, damned to worship.
I could take her. Now. Not gently. Not tenderly. My breathing grew heavy, rough, as my gaze fixed on her throat. That delicate, pulsing point where her life beat called to me. I saw my hand there, felt the tremor of her skin beneath my fingers. Just imagining her shivering under me, her desire pooling as I took her breath away, made me hard. I grabbed my cock, squeezing as if I could strangle the need.
A curse. She was my curse. My possession. Whether she wanted it or not. Whether she understood it or not.
Her taste was still on my tongue—sinful and devastating—a brand I couldn’t shake. My body rejected the peace she gave because I didn’t want peace. I wanted control. I wanted violence wrapped in beauty. I wanted to bind her with every breath until she no longer knew where she ended and I began.
Fuck.
I had to leave. Now. Away from her warmth, her scent, her deceptive innocence that weakened me. If I stayed, I wouldn’t just fuck her. I’d break her.
The blanket slipped as I stood, forcing myself not to look back. But I did. Her skin shimmered faintly in the pale spill of streetlight through the curtains—a sight that nearly dragged me to my knees. I clenched my jaw, strode into the living room, poured whiskey, and downed it.
The burn wasn’t enough. Another.
Then I grabbed the phone.
“Simon,” I breathed, my voice cutting sharp through the silence.
“Boss?”
“I sent you an address—Woodstock. Get me a list of every man who’s ever lived there, ages twenty to thirty-five. I want to know who Daisy Elfhorn’s been with. I want a name.” Rage coiled tight inside me, vibrating through my bones. “And when you find him, make the bastard suffer.”
“How much?” Simon’s voice was flat, emotionless.
I stared out the window, the city a black ocean beneath me. “Make him wish he’d never lived. Break his hands—every finger. Let him run. When he thinks he’s free, end him. He needs to know it was because of her.”
“Understood.”
I ended the call. The glass in my hand was empty, cold—a mirror of the silence spreading through me. An icy, suffocating void. I was her shadow, her guard, bound to watch over her. But now? Now she lay in my bed, her skin marked by me, her taste still on my tongue. A part of me I could never lose.
Damn it. He’d probably kill me if he knew. But I didn’t care. I didn’t just want her. I needed her. And that was the most dangerous truth of all. I’d tried to keep my distance. God, I had tried. But she was already in me—my head, my veins, my flesh. Too deep to cut out. Too deep not to destroy her—or be destroyed myself.
I wanted to protect her. Shield her from the world. And at the same time, I wanted to break her—force her to kneel, trembling, knowing she belonged to me. Not to anyone. Not to this world. To me.
I lifted the glass and drank the last drop. Harsh. Bitter. But nothing burned like the truth: I was lost. She was my downfall. And I would do anything—kill, die, make her hate me—just to keep her.
She was mine.
And this was only the beginning.
Chapter 8 Daisy
The Egyptian Museum in Rome breathed secrets and shadows. The soaring ceilings and ornate columns pressed down with their weight of history. Footsteps echoed against the marble as we drifted past glass cases filled with relics from another world. Statues, sarcophagi, scrolls—each one whispering fragments of the dead. I was in my world.
Would we finally uncover proof of the Phoenix pendant’s authenticity here?
“We need to search for depictions or records that might show the Phoenix pendant, or symbols tied to Ramses the Great and his reign,” Damian said, his back to me as he studied a wall painting.
I felt the distance radiating from him. Every time I tried to move closer, he shifted away, gliding to another part of the gallery as though compelled to keep space between us. An hour slipped by like this—him speaking quietly with curators, me combingthrough artifacts. Whenever I approached, he turned. Two shadows circling the same obsession, never touching.
Room after room we searched—statues, jewelry, fragments of kings—until, in a quieter gallery, we came upon a case that immediately stood apart.
“Look at the details. The craftsmanship—it’s incredible,” I said, pointing.
