Chapter 6
The days that followed were different.
I stopped trying to escape. Not because I accepted captivity — but because there was nowhere safe to escape to. My father had sold me. My fiancé had planned to murder me. The life I thought I had never existed.
Damien noticed the change. He began leaving his study door open when he worked. Began allowing me access to more floors. We ate meals together in silence that grew less hostile with each passing night.
One evening, I found him in the library, shirt unbuttoned, whiskey in hand, staring at a book without reading it.
"What was she like?" I asked from the doorway. "My mother. When she visited you."
He didn't look up immediately. When he did, his expression was unguarded — a rare, dangerous thing.
"She smelled like lavender. She'd read to me every Tuesday." A pause. "She once told me that mean people are just scared people. That one stayed with me."
"Do you believe it?"
His eyes met mine. "No. Some people are just mean."
I walked in and sat in the chair across from him. The fire crackled between us.
"Are you mean, Damien?"
"Yes."
"Then why haven't you hurt me?"
His jaw tightened. He set the glass down and leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes burning with an intensity that stole my breath.
"Because you're the only thing in this world I'm afraid of breaking."
The words landed in my chest like a fist.
Neither of us moved. The air thickened. I could feel my pulse in my throat, in my fingertips, between my thighs.
"I should hate you," I whispered.
"You should."
"I don't."
His nostrils flared. His hands gripped his knees like he was physically restraining himself.
I stood. His eyes tracked me as I closed the distance between us. Standing before him, I could feel the heat radiating from his body. Every muscle was locked tight.
"Tell me to stop," I said.
"I can't."
When my lips met his, it was like setting fire to gasoline. His hands found my waist immediately — rough, desperate, pulling me onto his lap. The kiss was consuming. Not gentle. Not careful. It tasted like whiskey and something darker. Need.
His mouth moved to my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point. I gasped, fingers gripping his shoulders.
"This changes things," he murmured against my skin.
"Things already changed."
He pulled back, searching my face with those impossible dark eyes. I expected him to stop. To retreat behind his walls.
Instead, he stood — lifting me with him like I weighed nothing — and carried me out of the library and up the stairs. My legs wrapped around him, my heart racing wild.
He kicked open his bedroom door and laid me on the bed with a gentleness that contradicted everything I knew about him.
"I won't be gentle everywhere," he warned, hovering over me.
"Good."
What followed was nothing like anything I'd experienced. Every touch was claiming. His hands mapped my body like he was memorizing it. When he entered me, I cried out — from the stretch, the fullness, the intensity of his gaze locked on mine.
He didn't look away. Not once. Like he needed to see every reaction, every gasp, every moment I came undone.
And when I shattered beneath him, his name torn from my lips, he followed — his forehead pressed against mine, a sound escaping him that sounded almost like pain.
After, we lay in the dark. His arm was draped over my waist, his thumb tracing circles on my hip.
"This doesn't mean I've forgotten what you did," I told him quietly. "Taking me. Caging me."
"I know."
"But maybe..." I paused. "Maybe we start with the truth from here."
"Then here's a truth," he said against my hair. "Your father called today. He wants to meet with you."
I stiffened.
"He says he can explain everything." Damien's arm tightened around me. "I don't trust it."
Neither did I. But the girl in me — the one who remembered her father's bedtime stories — needed to know.
"I'll see him," I said.
Damien was silent for a long moment.
"Then I'll be there. Whether you want me to or not."
I stopped trying to escape. Not because I accepted captivity — but because there was nowhere safe to escape to. My father had sold me. My fiancé had planned to murder me. The life I thought I had never existed.
Damien noticed the change. He began leaving his study door open when he worked. Began allowing me access to more floors. We ate meals together in silence that grew less hostile with each passing night.
One evening, I found him in the library, shirt unbuttoned, whiskey in hand, staring at a book without reading it.
"What was she like?" I asked from the doorway. "My mother. When she visited you."
He didn't look up immediately. When he did, his expression was unguarded — a rare, dangerous thing.
"She smelled like lavender. She'd read to me every Tuesday." A pause. "She once told me that mean people are just scared people. That one stayed with me."
"Do you believe it?"
His eyes met mine. "No. Some people are just mean."
I walked in and sat in the chair across from him. The fire crackled between us.
"Are you mean, Damien?"
"Yes."
"Then why haven't you hurt me?"
His jaw tightened. He set the glass down and leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes burning with an intensity that stole my breath.
"Because you're the only thing in this world I'm afraid of breaking."
The words landed in my chest like a fist.
Neither of us moved. The air thickened. I could feel my pulse in my throat, in my fingertips, between my thighs.
"I should hate you," I whispered.
"You should."
"I don't."
His nostrils flared. His hands gripped his knees like he was physically restraining himself.
I stood. His eyes tracked me as I closed the distance between us. Standing before him, I could feel the heat radiating from his body. Every muscle was locked tight.
"Tell me to stop," I said.
"I can't."
When my lips met his, it was like setting fire to gasoline. His hands found my waist immediately — rough, desperate, pulling me onto his lap. The kiss was consuming. Not gentle. Not careful. It tasted like whiskey and something darker. Need.
His mouth moved to my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point. I gasped, fingers gripping his shoulders.
"This changes things," he murmured against my skin.
"Things already changed."
He pulled back, searching my face with those impossible dark eyes. I expected him to stop. To retreat behind his walls.
Instead, he stood — lifting me with him like I weighed nothing — and carried me out of the library and up the stairs. My legs wrapped around him, my heart racing wild.
He kicked open his bedroom door and laid me on the bed with a gentleness that contradicted everything I knew about him.
"I won't be gentle everywhere," he warned, hovering over me.
"Good."
What followed was nothing like anything I'd experienced. Every touch was claiming. His hands mapped my body like he was memorizing it. When he entered me, I cried out — from the stretch, the fullness, the intensity of his gaze locked on mine.
He didn't look away. Not once. Like he needed to see every reaction, every gasp, every moment I came undone.
And when I shattered beneath him, his name torn from my lips, he followed — his forehead pressed against mine, a sound escaping him that sounded almost like pain.
After, we lay in the dark. His arm was draped over my waist, his thumb tracing circles on my hip.
"This doesn't mean I've forgotten what you did," I told him quietly. "Taking me. Caging me."
"I know."
"But maybe..." I paused. "Maybe we start with the truth from here."
"Then here's a truth," he said against my hair. "Your father called today. He wants to meet with you."
I stiffened.
"He says he can explain everything." Damien's arm tightened around me. "I don't trust it."
Neither did I. But the girl in me — the one who remembered her father's bedtime stories — needed to know.
"I'll see him," I said.
Damien was silent for a long moment.
"Then I'll be there. Whether you want me to or not."