Elara's POV

The penthouse was obscene. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering city, marble floors stretched endlessly, and everything screamed money I'd never see in ten lifetimes.

 Marcus had left me in what he called "my room," but it felt more like a luxury prison cell.

I paced, my phone clutched in my shaking hand. Dead. Of course it was dead. I'd tried the door, locked from the outside. The windows didn't open. I was trapped forty stories above the ground with nowhere to run.

The lock clicked.

I spun around as Damian entered, loosening his tie.

 He'd removed his jacket, and his white shirt clung to broad shoulders that seemed to fill the doorway. Those cold eyes swept over me, lingering on my disheveled hair and wrinkled dress.

"You didn't change." His voice was flat.

"Change into what? The slutty lingerie someone left on the bed?" I gestured toward the black lace I'd thrown across the room. "I'm not wearing that."

Something flickered in his expression. Amusement? "That wasn't me. Victoria has... opinions about how you should present yourself."

Victoria again. "Who is she to you?"

"My stepmother." He moved closer, and I backed up instinctively.

 "And none of your concern."

"Everything about this situation is my concern." My back hit the window. Nowhere left to go. "You can't keep me here.

 Someone will notice I'm missing."

"Who?" He was directly in front of me now, one hand braced against the glass beside my head. 

"Your father? He's the one who brought you to me. Friends? According to my research, you have none. You work two jobs, live alone, and spend every free moment taking care of a man who gambles away everything you earn."

The accuracy stung. "You had me investigated?"

"I investigate everything I acquire." His free hand caught a strand of my hair, rubbing it between his fingers. 

"You're surprisingly innocent for twenty three. No boyfriends. No scandals. Almost... pure."

Heat crept up my neck. "Don't touch me."

"I'll touch whatever I own." But he released my hair, his hand trailing down to cup my jaw instead. His thumb traced my lower lip again, slower this time. 

"And I own all of you, Elara. Every inch."

My heart hammered. His body was so close I felt his heat, smelled that intoxicating cologne mixed with whiskey. 

Despite everything, the fear, the anger, the sheer wrongness, my body responded. My breath quickened. My skin tingled where he touched me.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes darkened, that frozen lake cracking to reveal something hungry beneath.

"You feel it too," he murmured. "This pull between us."

"I feel nothing except disgust." The lie tasted bitter.

His smile was cruel. "Liar."

Then his mouth was on mine, hard and demanding. I gasped, and he took advantage, his tongue sweeping in to claim me thoroughly. 

His hand tangled in my hair, angling my head exactly how he wanted, while his other arm banded around my waist, crushing me against him.

I should have fought. Should have bitten him, scratched him, anything. Instead, I melted. My hands fisted in his shirt as I kissed him back with a desperation that terrified me. 

He tasted like expensive whiskey and bad decisions, and I couldn't get enough.

He groaned against my mouth, the sound vibrating through my chest. His hand slid down my spine, cupping my backside and lifting me.

 My legs wrapped around his waist automatically, and suddenly I felt exactly how much he wanted me, hard and insistent against my core.

"Damian," I gasped as his mouth moved to my neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin.

"Say it again." His voice was rough, almost unrecognizable. "Say my name."

"Damian, please."

He froze. Then, abruptly, he set me down and stepped back. The cold mask slammed back into place so fast it left me dizzy.

"Get some sleep." His voice was flat again, emotionless. "Tomorrow, we will discuss the rules of your stay here."

"Wait, what just."

"I said sleep." He turned toward the door, then paused. "And Elara? Don't mistake passion for compassion. 

I don't do gentle. I don't do love. Whatever you think just happened, it was just chemistry. 

Nothing more."

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

I slid down the window until I sat on the floor, my whole body trembling. I touched my swollen lips, still tasting him there.

What was wrong with me? He'd bought me like property, threatened me, and I'd kissed him like I was drowning and he was air.

My phone buzzed. Impossible, it was dead.

I scrambled for it, confused, and found a single text from an unknown number: 

‘He's not your real enemy. Watch Victoria. Trust no one. They're listening.”

The phone went dark again.

Who sent that? How?

And what did they mean, Damian wasn't my real enemy?