Chapter 22

Damian’s POV

The smell woke me before the light did. Not sunlight coffee. Bitter, dark, cutting through the fog in my head sharper than an alarm ever could.

I turned, half expecting an empty room. But she was there.

Elena.

Standing by the table, quiet as a shadow. Not pacing, not fidgeting just… arranging things. Tray, cup, napkin, spoon. All lined up too neat, like she’d rehearsed it a hundred times in her head before setting a single piece down.

No noise. No mess. No mistakes.

It annoyed the hell out of me.

Because I wanted her to slip. I wanted a crooked edge to grab and twist. But she gave me nothing. Just silence. And silence was worse than rebellion it left me with nowhere to strike.

“You’re awake,” she murmured without even glancing back.

“Unfortunately.” My voice came out low, rough.

Her shoulders stiffened. That was it. No retort, no glare. She just kept standing there, as if my words rolled right off her.

I dragged myself out of bed and crossed the room. Picked up the cup. Strong. Black. Exactly the way I drank it.

Perfect. Too perfect. My jaw tightened as I sipped.

I put the cup down harder than necessary, porcelain clinking sharp against the saucer. The sound felt like a warning. Then I shoved the package I’d left on the chair across the table toward her.

Her eyes flicked down. Then back up. Cautious.

“Open it.”

She did. Careful, slow. Fingers unfolding tape, peeling back paper until the fabric spilled out. Black. Crisp. A collar sharp enough to cut.

Her hands stilled. Just for a second. Long enough for me to notice.

“That’s yours,” I said flatly. “From now on, you wear that. Not silk. Not whatever else you think makes you untouchable. This. A servant’s uniform. My mark on you.”

Her lips parted, but she said nothing. Just held it to her chest like it burned.

I should’ve felt satisfied. I didn’t. Something twisted inside instead. Something I didn’t like naming.

“Don’t just stand there,” I snapped, sharper than I meant. “Take it. Keep it. You’ll change soon enough.”

She nodded quickly, clutching it tighter.

“Now,” I said, pointing to the coffee in front of her, “drink.”

Her eyes widened slightly. But she obeyed. Lifted the cup. Sipped

And flinched. The heat hit her tongue too fast. She coughed, choking on it, setting the cup down clumsily.

The sound cut straight through me. My pulse jumped. My hand actually twitched, ready to reach, to steady, to what? Check her mouth like I gave a damn?

Pathetic.

I shoved the instinct down, forced it to rot into something else.

“Unbelievable,” I drawled, the venom rolling easy off my tongue. “You can gut a man in the dark without flinching, but a mouthful of coffee defeats you?”

Her gaze shot up, sharp, hurt. Then she lowered it again.

The silence between us thickened, crawling under my skin.

“Simple tasks,” I said, voice harder now. “That’s all I ask. Pour. Serve. Drink. Yet you stumble. But when it comes to distracting and whoring around and stripping? That you do perfectly.”

Still nothing. Not a word.

It drove me insane.

I shoved back my chair, stood, grabbed her arm, and pushed her toward the door. No tenderness. Just cold.

“Get out,” I ordered. “Take the uniform with you. Don’t let me see your face until night. If you must breathe, do it somewhere else.”

She stumbled, caught herself, then nodded. Hugging the package tight like a lifeline. She slipped out, door clicking shut behind her.

The quiet left in her absence pressed hard against my chest.

I raked a hand over my face. I should’ve been pleased. I’d humiliated her, reminded her of her place, shoved her out of my sight.

But I wasn’t.

Because it wasn’t the coffee. Or the silence. Or even the uniform.

It was that moment when she flinched and I wanted to move. When her eyes locked with mine, and for a second, I forgot who she was.

That weakness made me furious.

I tore off my shirt, stalked into the bathroom, let the shower scald me raw. Water burned against skin, but it didn’t erase the image of her clutching black fabric to her chest. Didn’t wash away the sound of her choking.

When I came out, steam still clinging, the anger sat heavier. I dressed fast, strapped on weapons, slammed the door behind me.

But even as I walked away, the thought gnawed, poisonous and relentless:

She was loosening something inside me. And I couldn’t let it happen.