The room was bathed in a faint silver hue—the last kiss of moonlight spilling through the curtains. Everything was quiet. Still. As if the world had paused to give them this moment.
His body stirred before his mind fully returned, and the first thing he felt was the warmth—soft, fragile, and impossibly close. He looked down, and there she was.
Alina.
Curled beside him like something delicate and untouchable, her breath slow and even, her face buried against his arm. One hand clung to him, small fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist—like a child clutching her father's hand in a crowd, terrified of being lost.
The comparison struck him unexpectedly, painfully soft. Something primal in him stirred.
She was holding onto him even in sleep.
Not out of lust.
Not out of want.
Out of trust.
A kind of unspoken surrender he never dared to hope for.
He didn't move—not at first. He just watched her. Her cheek pressed against his bare skin. Her lips parted in a dream. The faintest sound of breath escaping her.
And God… how peaceful she looked.
With the gentlest touch, Damon reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger longer than they should have. His thumb brushed the curve of her cheekbone, a silent confession he didn't know how to say aloud.
He had memorized this face last night—kiss by kiss, gasp by gasp. But in the stillness of morning, she looked different. More real. More his.
His mind drifted back—to the night that shouldn't have happened.
Unplanned.
Uncontrolled.
Unforgivable.
Yet here she was, lying in his arms like she had always belonged there.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memory take him:
The way she had whispered his name, not with fear—but with something that felt dangerously close to need.
The way she had trembled under his touch, falling apart in his arms like a secret unraveling.
The way her moans had filled the night, soft and sacred, each one pressing into his skin like a mark he would carry forever.
He had taken her without a barrier, without hesitation—skin to skin, soul to soul—as if his body had known long before his mind did that this woman was meant to be his. That no distance, no time, no fear could keep her from him now.
It was reckless.
It was selfish.
It was... the first time he had truly let go.
And for the first time in years—he had slept like a child.
No ghosts.
No nightmares.
Just the steady rise and fall of her breath beside him, anchoring him to something he never thought he'd deserve.
Peace.
That was the word. That was the feeling. Peace—in her presence.
He opened his eyes again, looking down at her, still tangled in him.
And he smiled.
A soft, private thing—rare, almost broken.
He leaned down slowly, placing a kiss on her hair. She stirred slightly, but didn't wake, her grip on him tightening as if she sensed he might vanish with the morning light.
He wouldn't.
Not today.
Not now.
He would stay. For this moment. For this girl. For the version of himself he only found when she was near.
And as her breath warmed his skin again, Damon whispered the words against her hair, barely audible, almost ashamed.
"Mine."
Because she was.
He shifted gently, careful not to wake her, and eased her down onto the mattress. She sighed in her sleep, turning slightly, still seeking the warmth of his touch. Damon stood slowly, the sheets rustling around him. The room felt warmer now. Or maybe it was just her.
They were both bare. Skin to air. Vulnerable. Marked.
He looked around and found the aftermath of their night—a silent testament to hunger and surrender. Clothes lay like fallen petals across the room: her blouse half-draped over the chair, his shirt on the floor, tangled with lace and silk and shadows.
He was still naked. And somehow, he didn't feel exposed. Not here. Not in her space.
He gathered his clothes and moved into the bathroom—her bathroom.
It was small. Humble. Light pink towels hung on the rack. A vanilla body wash with soft floral notes lingered in the air. Her shampoo bottle was nearly empty, a scrunchie looped around its neck like a quiet habit.
He touched the sink's edge, his reflection fogging in the mirror as steam rose.
Nothing in this space spoke of wealth. Or power. And yet, it spoke of her. That made it sacred.
He cleaned himself slowly, letting her scent linger on his skin. It wasn't like the cold, pristine luxury of his own space. It was warm. Lived in. Soft in a way he didn't know he needed.
When he stepped back into the room, still towel-drying his hair, the world felt different.
Her room. Her chaos. Her calm.
Pastel walls bathed in the morning light. Curtains dancing softly with the breeze. A desk near the window, neatly stacked with textbooks, pens, and a half-finished cup of tea. Small vases held bouquets—fresh, not store-bought. Likely handpicked. Some were beginning to wilt, but that only made them more real.
There were potted plants on the sill—tiny green lives she must have nurtured with care. He noted the scattered presence of soft toys, one still leaning against her pillow like a silent guardian.
And books—God, so many books.
Some academic, some novels with cracked spines and highlighted passages. Her world was written in ink and petals, soft cloth and scattered dreams. Not power. Not blood.
He moved slowly through the room, gathering the remnants of the night: her panties, delicate and pale, lay crumpled near the foot of the bed. Her bra tangled with his belt. Her jeans still inside out on the floor.
He picked them all up, piece by piece. Carefully. Tenderly.
As if touching them meant touching her again.
He folded her clothes, placed them on the chair, and smoothed out the bedsheet with a reverence he didn't fully understand. When everything was in place, he turned to her again.
Still asleep.
Curled into the sheets, her hair spilled across the pillow, lips slightly parted. Completely unaware of the storm she'd pulled him into.
"She was definitely not a morning person". That thought made him smile.
It was a small smile, barely there. But it came from deep within him. Somewhere untouched. Somewhere waking.
He leaned over her—bare skin brushing linen—and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. Her lashes fluttered, but she didn't stir. She just breathed, steady and slow.
He let his lips linger.
This wasn't his world.
But this room... her room... it was starting to feel like home.
As he moved toward the desk, something caught his eye.
One of her books lay half-open, face-down, like it had been read in haste and never returned to the shelf. He picked it up gently—a worn paperback, its spine creased with years of affection. Wuthering Heights.
Of course.
He let the pages fall open naturally, as if the book still remembered her touch. Near the center, something slipped free—a small piece of handmade paper, pale cream with faded ink.
A bookmark. Or maybe just a torn scrap she'd made herself.
On it, in her handwriting, slightly slanted and uneven, were the words:
"I don't know how to exist in a world where you don't."
His breath caught.
It wasn't a quote from the book.
It was hers.
A confession. Scribbled thought. Or maybe just a whisper of a dream she'd never meant for anyone to see.
He stared at it for a long moment, as if the paper had teeth, as if it had bitten something deep inside him.
She had written this. Thought this. Felt this.
And now it was his.
Without hesitation, Damon folded the paper and slipped it into the inside pocket of his shirt.
Not because he needed it.
Because he couldn't leave it behind.
Because something in him was already beginning to collect her—in fragments, in whispers, in things she wouldn't even remember giving.
He didn't know what scared him more.
How much he wanted to keep her.
Or how much of her he already did.
He glanced around once more—at the bed, the softness, the stillness—and then stepped toward the mirror.
Pulling a sticky note from the stack on her desk, he scribbled a single line in ink that bled slightly from pressure. Then, with deliberate care, he pressed it onto the glass.
A message she would find. A reminder she wouldn't forget. A seed he had no intention of letting go to waste.
As he caught his own reflection—bare-chested, hair damp, lips curved in something that was almost a smile—he remembered the cameras.
The ones he had planted in her room.
In her bathroom.
He didn't need them anymore.
Because this—this one night—had changed everything—had unmade him. Unstitched restraint, rewrote want into need, silence into resolve.
It wasn't enough.
It would never be enough.
She would come to him again.
He would make sure of it.
Again. And again. And again.
Something in him clicked—a quiet, mechanical certainty in the marrow of his bones. The smile he wore twisted into a smirk, dark and knowing. And without a word, he dismantled every hidden camera, every last watchful eye, as if to say:
I don't need to watch you anymore, little star.
Because now I know you'll come willingly.
And with that, he slipped out of the room like smoke—silent, unseen, and utterly sure…
That she was already his.
Alina woke with a soft gasp, the breath catching in her throat like a ribbon pulled too tight. A yawn escaped her lips, uncoiling into the stillness of the room. The world outside her window was already bathed in gold—sunlight spilling through the thin curtains in warm ribbons, dust motes dancing lazily in the quiet hush of late morning.
Her eyes fluttered open, slow and reluctant.
And then widened.
Noon?
The clock on her bedside table blinked back the hour in soft red digits, uncaring. She sat upright in a panic, tangled in bedsheets like silk restraints. Her feet slid off the bed—and that's when it hit her.
A sharp ache, sudden and deep, pulsing low in her body.
She froze.
It wasn't the ache of a pulled muscle, nor the usual stiffness after sleep. No—this pain was intimate. Tender. A lingering echo of something carnal and unforgettable.
Her lips parted, a shaky exhale escaping.
Last night.
It came rushing back in fragments—his hands on her hips, the velvet heat of his mouth on her skin, the way his name had left her lips in broken whispers. The way he moved inside her, slow at first... and then not.
A flush rose to her cheeks, blood heating her skin.
She turned to the space beside her—empty. The pillow held a faint dent where his head had rested, but the sheets were cool, no warmth remaining.
Gone.
He was gone.
A hollow pinch tugged at her chest, sharp and uninvited. She hated how her heart reacted to the emptiness beside her. Hated how quickly loneliness tiptoed in, even though she had no right to expect him to stay.
And then she saw it.
A sticky note, pressed gently against the mirror. The handwriting—bold, elegant, unmistakable.
> Good morning, love. Duty calls. I'll pick you up from the hospital in the evening. We're seeing Atlanta. And after that—just you and me. Dinner.
Her breath hitched.
Dinner. Just you and me.
The words glowed like a secret.
Was that a date?
Her fingers hovered over the note, as if touching it might make the moment real. Love, he had written. Not a pet name tossed around lightly—but something chosen. Intimate. Intentional.
Her lips curved without permission.
And then she caught her reflection.
Hair tousled, wild from sleep and from the way he'd had his hands buried in it. Her lips were faintly swollen, kissed too many times to count. And when she let the sheet slip from her shoulders, her body told its own story—soft and flushed, mapped in a language of bruises and bites.
Her neck bore a tender mark just beneath her jaw. Her collarbone, traced in faint red. Her chest, her ribs, her thighs—painted in love's aftermath. His aftermath.
She looked like a secret he didn't want to hide.
A soft, almost embarrassed sound caught in her throat, and her fingers brushed over a faint bruise along her side. Her knees threatened to buckle from the sheer memory of it all. The weight of him. The way he had held her wrists. The way he had breathed her name like it was holy.
He had been gentle—at first.
But once her fear had melted, once she had opened to him, trusted him... something inside him had changed. He had taken her with a hunger so raw, so consuming, it left her gasping. Every thrust had been deeper. Faster. But never cruel. There had been care in the chaos. A strange tenderness braided into the wreckage.
And afterward—he held her.
Like something precious.
Alina turned away from the mirror, pulse racing. A knot of nerves twisted in her stomach.
We didn't use anything.
Her phone trembled in her hands as she opened her cycle tracker, eyes scanning the glowing bar.
> Low chance of pregnancy.
Relief washed over her, quiet but incomplete.
Still—she would need to stop by the pharmacy. Just in case. She couldn't afford another vulnerability. Not now.
And yet... even in the chaos of thoughts and panic, her eyes drifted back to the mirror. To the version of herself she hardly recognized. Flushed. Marked. Glowing.
She should've felt ashamed.
But she didn't.
She felt beautiful. Claimed. Desired in a way that had unraveled her completely.
He's coming back for me, she thought.
And her heart betrayed her with a shiver of anticipation.
The bathroom filled with rising steam, mist curling around her ankles like fog on a forest floor. The water poured in a steady stream, warm and soothing against her bare skin as she lowered herself into the tub. Her body ached in places no one had ever touched before.
She wrapped her arms around her knees.
Something had changed. Not just outside—but inside. A thread had been snapped and retied in a new pattern.
She wasn't untouched anymore.
She wasn't the same girl who had walked into that room.
There was a quiet knowing inside her now. A raw truth sewn into her ribs. She belonged to someone now—even if she didn't know what that meant. Even if she was too afraid to ask.
The ache between her legs whispered of all the ways he had claimed her.
The bite marks spoke of possession. Of obsession.
And when she stepped out, wrapped in a thick towel, her knees nearly gave out again—because the scent hit her instantly.
The bed still smelled like him.
His skin. His cologne. His sweat. His heat.
It wrapped around her like a phantom embrace.
She closed her eyes.
How do I face him now?
Do I act normal? Like nothing's changed? Like we didn't come undone in each other's arms?
Or do I ask—what are we?
A couple?
The word felt fragile. Impossible. And yet...
Wasn't that what it felt like when he whispered against her ear? When he said love like it meant something?
But the truth hovered like fog—thick and shapeless.
She didn't have the courage to ask. Didn't know what she'd do if he said it was just... a night. A moment. Nothing more.
The fear of the answer silenced her.
So she said nothing.
She would say nothing.
Not yet.
Instead, she dressed slowly, pulling on a soft turtleneck sweatshirt to hide the bruises she didn't want anyone to see. She tied her hair into a neat ponytail, though strands kept falling loose.
She applied a touch of lip balm. No foundation.
Smiled at the mirror.
A little too hard.
Then walked out of the room with her heart folded inside her chest like a secret.
But no matter how carefully she tried to tuck it away, she knew.
Nothing was the same anymore.
Alina pulled the sleeves of her turtleneck lower, her fingers curling into the cuffs as she walked the short path to Kevin's house.
There was a strange tightness in her chest—guilt, maybe, or something close to it.
She hadn't seen Anaya. Hadn't called. Hadn't checked if the little girl had missed her.
Because she hadn't been alone last night.
She had been with him.
Her steps slowed at the doorstep. The weight of what she couldn't say coiled around her ribs like ivy. She lifted her hand and knocked—soft, almost hesitant.
The door creaked open a moment later, and Kevin stood there.
Barefoot. Eyes slightly tired. But he smiled when he saw her.
Not the bright, teasing smile he wore for the world—but a quieter one. Warmer. Like he was relieved she was safe.
"Hey," he said, voice low with sleep and something unspoken.
Alina mirrored his smile, small and laced with apology. "Is Anaya home?"
Kevin shook his head, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. "She left for school a little while ago. She was asking about you."
Her heart tugged at that.
"Was she upset?" she asked, voice barely above a murmur.
He hesitated. Then nodded. "Yeah. A little. She thought you were alone."
Alina looked down. Alone. That word stuck in her throat like a thorn. But she hadn't been alone. Not even close. She had been lost beneath him.
She blinked that memory away. It didn't belong here.
"I was going to check in on my grandmother," she said, forcing her voice steady. "At the hospital."
Kevin straightened, already reaching for his keys. "I'll take you."
But she stepped back, too quickly.
"No—it's fine," she said. "I just... needed the walk."
There was a pause. His eyes searched hers for a moment too long. As if he saw the lie in her calm. As if he knew something had changed.
But he didn't ask.
And she didn't explain.
She just smiled, quiet and small. The kind of smile that tried not to betray the storm beneath.
"Tell Anaya I'll visit her soon," she whispered. "I miss her."
Kevin nodded, eyes soft. "She misses you, too."
And with that, she turned.
The street stretched ahead of her like a path she wasn't ready to walk, but had no choice but to follow.
Her steps were light. Her heart was not.
And in her silence, she carried a secret she wasn't ready to speak. Not yet.
The hospital air smelled faintly of antiseptic and fading flowers. A stillness hung in the corridors, not quite silence—but something heavier. Like prayers whispered too late.
Alina moved through the halls quietly, her boots echoing softly on the tiles, her hands buried deep in her sleeves. Her heart felt thinner here. As if every beat might fracture.
She reached the nurse's station, asking after her grandmother's condition with a voice that barely rose above the hum of machines and hushed conversations.
The nurse checked the chart. Then looked up, expression soft.
"No change," she said gently. "She's stable, but… no improvement yet."
Alina nodded, her throat tight. "Thank you."
She made her way to the room slowly, pushing open the door with care.
There she was. Pale. Still. Breathing—but only just.
Her grandmother's chest rose and fell with the rhythm of machines, her skin paper-thin, her presence ghostlike.
Alina stepped closer, her vision already blurring.
She sat beside the bed and reached for the wrinkled hand lying motionless against the sheets. Her fingers trembled as she clasped it.
Tears came before she could stop them—soft at first, then spilling faster, like a quiet storm breaking over stone.
"I won't cry," she whispered, pressing her forehead against the back of that hand. "I promised I wouldn't cry."
But the promise shattered.
She looked up, brushing back the silver hair with trembling fingers. "I know you can hear me, Grandma," she said. "And you don't get to leave. Not yet. You don't have the right."
Her voice cracked, fierce in its softness.
"You still have things to do. I need you to wake up. I need to talk to you… about a man. About Damon." Her throat closed around the name. "I don't know what we are. I need you to tell me what to do."
She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her grandmother's forehead—cool and unmoving beneath her lips.
"Come back to me," she whispered. "Please."
She took her grandmother's palm gently into both hands, cradling it as if it were made of porcelain, as if holding it tightly enough could anchor her back to life.
"I'll be waiting for you," she whispered, voice shaking but tender. "Me and Anaya—we'll be at home, like always. Don't you dare forget that, old lady."
A smile tried to rise through her tears, fragile as lace.
She bent down and kissed the center of that palm, lingering there for a breath, like the gesture might seal her promise into skin.
Then, slowly, she stood.
Pulled her coat tighter around her frame, as though she could shield herself from more than just the cold.
And walked out—one step at a time, the corridor stretching long and hollow ahead of her. With every step, something slipped further behind: innocence, maybe. Or hope.
The doors opened, and the wind greeted her again—sharp and biting this time, kissing the tears from her cheeks like a thief stealing sorrow.
She wasn't alone.
Across the circular driveway, standing beneath the wash of the overcast sky, were two figures.
Damon.
And Atlanta.
He was dressed in charcoal, his posture regal yet effortless. A man carved from shadows and smoke. And yet, it was his eyes that struck her first—dark, unreadable, and tethered to hers like an unspoken vow.
Next to him, Atlanta's presence was softer. Calmer. A small, understanding smile touched her lips, like she already knew Alina's heart was too full to speak.
Alina's feet carried her forward, even as her mind stayed behind in that sterile room.
She didn't speak.
Didn't have to.
Something about their silence felt… rehearsed. A strange kind of gravity pulling them together, step by step, toward the cafeteria doors.
A truce, however brief. A breath held between storms.
The world blurred around them as they walked, and still her thoughts clung to the room she had left behind.
But Damon's presence was too near. Too loud in its quiet.
And though her steps were slow, her pulse was not.
With every footfall beside him, the question returned.
What was he to her now?
She didn't know.
And when she glanced sideways, when her gaze caught his for just a breath, she swore the world stopped spinning.
Because there was something in his eyes—something quiet and endless and cruelly familiar.
Possession.
It didn't roar. It didn't demand.
It waited.
And that was worse.
Atlanta broke the silence first, her voice a balm against the wind. "The cafeteria's this way," she said.
Alina followed without a word. Damon walked a half-step behind her, silent, his presence wrapping around her like a thread drawn tight through the needle of her ribs.
Inside, the cafeteria was near empty. A few nurses, a man with too much grief in his eyes stirring sugar into stale coffee. The fluorescent lights buzzed like a low warning.
Atlana went to fetch coffee for them, it was only damon and her.
He didn't touch her. Didn't speak.
But his gaze never wavered.
And that silence—his silence—felt like hands against her throat. Not squeezing. Just reminding her they could.
"You didn't sleep," he said softly in a mocking tone.
Alina looked at him. Really looked.
And in that moment, all the fragments inside her almost spilled.
But she swallowed them back. Tucked the shaking deeper into her spine.
"No," she said. "You didn't..." she stopped in the midway.
Damon tilted his head slightly, studying her like a painting he meant to memorize.
Damon leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded. His voice was velvet and venom.
"About last night?" he smirked at her.
The air stilled. Even the buzzing lights seemed to quiet.
Alina's fingers closed tighter around her backpack strap.
And then—Atlanta returned, her timing unintentional, but perfectly cruel.
She set the coffee cups down with a bright smile, breaking the moment in two.
Alina reached for her drink, grateful for the excuse to look away. "What brings you here?" she asked, trying for casual.
Atlanta shrugged, cheerful as ever. "You said it was okay for you to babysit Noah today. So Damon dropped by to talk about it." She paused, then her voice softened. "He told me about your grandmother. I figured you'd be devastated, so I came to see you. Thought I could cheer you up."
Alina blinked at her. That gentleness—so stark against the storm inside—tightened her throat.
"Thank you, Atlanta. But you didn't have to—"
"Come on," Atlanta cut her off, eyes twinkling. "Then what are sisters for?"
Alina stilled.
"Sisters?" she echoed, the word fragile in her mouth.
Atlanta reached across the table, squeezed her hand. "Consider me your elder sister. And younger ones are supposed to listen to their older sisters. It's, like, the sibling code or something."
Alina let out a watery laugh. "You made that up."
"So what?" Atlanta grinned. "Sounds real enough."
They laughed together, soft and light. A fleeting warmth in the chill.
But across the table, Damon said nothing.
He just watched.
His gaze, quiet and razor-edged, lingered on Alina. Admiring her. Unblinking. Unrepentant.
She was trying so hard not to meet his eyes. Not to remember the weight of last night. Not to feel the way her pulse still shifted when he was near.
And when she laughed with Atlanta—small and sweet and aching—Damon chuckled.
Low. Dark.
Damon watched her laugh.
Not the way others did. Not with ease. Not with the soft luxury of distance.
He studied her.
The tremor in her smile.
The flicker in her gaze.
How every laugh she gave Atlanta came at a cost.
Because it wasn't meant for him.
Because it wasn't about him.
Because it was a part of her that still lived outside his grasp.
And Damon had always hated what he couldn't own.
He sipped his coffee but tasted nothing. His eyes never left her. Not for a second.
Not when she tucked her hair behind her ear.
Not when she blinked too quickly.
Not when she laughed again—so soft, so willingly, for someone else.
He leaned forward again, just slightly, letting his knee brush against hers beneath the table—casual, innocent to anyone else.
But not to her.
Never to her.
Alina flinched.
Just a fraction. Just enough for his mouth to curl.
Atlanta didn't notice.
But Damon did.
And so did Alina.
He watched her swallow hard and force another smile at Atlanta.
As if that would save her.
As if anything would.
Atlanta stirred her coffee, then turned to Alina with that bright, earnest energy she wore like armor.
"So, Alina," she began, tone casual—too casual. "I actually need a favor. A big one."
Alina looked up, cautious. "What kind of favor?"
"I need you to babysit Noah," Atlanta said, and then rushed on, "Starting tomorrow. Twenty-four hours, just for a few days. I'm leaving for a business trip tonight. It came up last minute."
Alina blinked. "Twenty-four hours?"
"I know it sounds like a lot," Atlanta said, waving a hand like she could swat the weight of it away. "But you're the only person I trust with him. Really."
Alina hesitated. Her gaze flicked—unwilling but instinctive—toward Damon.
He didn't speak. Just lifted his cup to his lips, eyes steady on her like he already knew what her answer would be.
Atlanta leaned forward, her voice dropping, softer now, almost pleading.
"Noah's... you know how he is. He gets cranky. He's a picky eater. Throws tantrums like his father. He won't sleep unless someone reads to him." She smiled a little. "But he likes you, Alina. That's rare for him. You've got some kind of magic, I swear."
Alina parted her lips to protest, but Atlanta pressed on.
"I'll pay you double. Triple if it gets too much. Just—please." Her smile faltered for half a second. "I don't know why, but I feel like he'll be safe with you. Like you're the only one who could actually make him feel... okay."
There was a pause. Something unspoken flickered across Atlanta's face—too quick to name, but sharp enough to pierce.
Alina felt it sink into her chest, heavy and cold.
"And don't worry about your sister," Atlanta added gently. "Bring her with you. There's plenty of space at the mansion. You'll have your own room. She'll be comfortable. You won't have to worry about a thing."
Alina opened her mouth. Closed it again.
Then Atlanta reached across the table, her hand warm against Alina's cold fingers.
"Please," she said. "Say yes."
And from across the table, Damon watched.
Watched them.
His eyes—dark, unreadable—burned into Alina with quiet intensity.
He didn't smile. Didn't interrupt.
But something about his stillness wrapped around her like a net.
But something about his stillness wrapped around her like a net.
Alina finally nodded. "Alright. I'll do it," she said quietly. "Anaya will be safe there."
Atlanta's face lit up with relief and unguarded joy. "Oh, thank you, Alina!" she exclaimed, reaching across to squeeze her hand. "You have no idea how much this means to me."
She stood, gathering her things in a flurry of motion. "Okay, I have a ton of last-minute shopping to do. You'll come by tomorrow, yeah? I'll text you all the details."
Alina nodded again, and Atlanta beamed.
"Great. I'm off, then." She hugged Alina tight, then turned to Damon and gave him a quick embrace too. "Behave," she teased him playfully, then added over her shoulder, "Don't torture her, Damon."
With that, she was gone, her footsteps echoing away down the corridor.
And they were alone again.
The quiet settled in like a breath held too long.
Damon leaned back in his chair, arms folding leisurely across his chest. His gaze found Alina's like a touch she hadn't asked for.
It was him who broke the silence.
"So, baby..." His voice was low. Smooth. Unapologetic. "About last night." A smile curved his lips—slow, dangerous.
Alina's heartbeat lurched.
She didn't want to talk about last night.
Didn't want to feel how her skin still remembered the weight of his touch. How her breath still caught when she looked at him too long.
And yet, her mouth betrayed her.
"I know what it was," she said, too quickly, too stiffly. "It was just a one-night stand, right? You're not ready to take things further, and I get it."
A lie, because she was ready to take things further.
The words left her lips in a rush, a shield she threw between them.
Damon's smile didn't falter. If anything, it deepened.
But his eyes…
They burned darker now.
Not with amusement.
With something else. Something quieter. More dangerous.
He tilted his head, watching her unravel with every word she forced herself to say.
And then, slowly, he leaned in. Voice a velvet snare.
"Is that what you think it was?" he asked.
His gaze darkened—
Not with distance,
but with the fury he refused to show.
It lived in the tight line of his jaw,
in the stillness of his fingers wrapped around the arm of the chair,
in the sharpness of a breath that didn't quite escape his chest.
But when he spoke,
his voice was velvet again—smoothed over,
controlled like a storm held behind glass.
"If it was nothing…"
he said slowly, each word dipped in heat he wouldn't let burn through,
"…then why would I invite you to dinner date, love?"
Love.
Soft, deliberate.
Like a promise disguised as a threat.
Alina blinked.
The world—her world—tilted.
Dinner?
He wasn't leaving?
The words barely made sense,
crashing against the walls of her panic like waves suddenly retreating.
She rose to her feet before she could stop herself,
feet stumbling across the silence between them like it was nothing.
And then—
She was in his arms.
Arms she had feared.
Arms she had tried to forget.
But now—now they felt like home she wasn't allowed to want.
She wrapped herself around him—
tight, trembling,
as though if she didn't, he might vanish like the rest.
Her voice broke against his shoulder.
"I thought…"
Her breath caught. She pressed her face into his chest.
"I thought you would leave me."
Tears came then—soft, not loud.
Not begging.
Just truth spilling without permission.
"Like everyone I've ever loved."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, clutching him like she might drown otherwise.
And Damon…
He didn't move at first.
Not right away.
But slowly, his hand came up, cradling the back of her head—gentle, so gentle it almost didn't feel like him.
No one saw the war behind his eyes.
Not even her.
Because in that moment,
he wasn't the man who ruined her sleep.
Wasn't the shadow in her dreams.
Wasn't the danger wrapped in silk.
He was just Damon.
And for now—
He let her hold him.
Let her cry.
Let her believe.
Even if it was a lie he'd make real—
just long enough to keep her.