There was no tenderness in his eyes. No mercy in his voice. Just command. Cold. Final.
"No," she whispered.
His gaze turned colder. "I didn't ask for your opinion, Alina," he said, voice like ice. "I gave you an order. Strip."
She remained still, defiant in her silence—until the only word she could summon was, "Please…"
Damon's jaw tightened. Without another word, he pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Max," he said calmly, eyes locked on her, "stop the payments to the old woman. And bring me the girl."
"No!" she cried, panic surging through her. "Please—don't! I'll do it. I'll do whatever you want… just don't touch them."
He ended the call without another word.
Her hands shook violently as she reached for the hem of her clothes, her breath fractured. One by one, the layers came off until she stood in nothing but her bra and panties—exposed, trembling, broken.
"Stop," he said firmly, eyes burning into her.
"Now go… lie on the bed."
She hesitated, only for a moment.
"Spread your legs for me."
There was no fight left in her. No fire. Only silent obedience.
She moved like a ghost, laying herself down and doing exactly as he said—each movement mechanical, hollow. The defiance in her had shattered, scattered like glass on a floor that no longer belonged to her.
He had broken her completely.
And in that silence—he knew.
He had won.
She had lost.
Be a good girl and please me tonight he's just treating her like a whore and then he kissed her lips but she didn't kiss back fuck kiss me back baby he said in low voice he was hard already her resting the fire in her it's making him go so hard for her she kissed him back she closed her eyes mentally trying to somewhere his kisses trailed down
"Let me have you now without any protest"
He kissed her like she was oxygen after years spent drowning—deep, consuming, reckless. His tongue tangled with hers, not just tasting but claiming, as if he could inhale every breath she'd ever held back from him.
Alina didn't move.
Not because she wanted him.
But because she couldn't. Frozen—between fury and fear. Between revulsion… and something darker. Something she hated more than him.
Submission.
She laid down in nothing but a thin black bra, but it wasn't shame that made her shake.
It was the storm inside her.
The refusal to break.
And the knowledge that she already had.
His voice rasped against her throat. "Even now… you still taste like a sin I'll never repent for."
She shoved weakly at his chest, but her hands felt like glass—fragile, cracking. Her mind screamed, no, but her body… betrayed her in silence.
He buried his face in the hollow of her chest, lips dragging over the delicate skin between her ribs, hot and unforgiving.
"Even after taking you apart inch by inch," he murmured, voice dark silk against her skin, "you still feel untouched to me. Like I haven't ruined you enough."
His mouth descended to her cleavage—biting, sucking, worshipping. Her gasp escaped before she could choke it down. Not from pleasure.
From fear. From the ache of being known too well.
His arms tightened around her like chains.
He only left her cleavage only safe stasifacation
Damon's hand slipped between her legs, cupping her covered heat. She cried out, her spine arching in a traitorous curve.
No, her heart shouted.
Don't, her mind begged.
But her body moaned into his palm.
He slowly massaged her womenhood slowly
" So still not wet for me han"
"Let me see how much you can hold"
She reached for his hand, trying to pull him away. But he looked up—just one look, dark and dangerous—and she stopped struggling.
Because she knew what was at stake. Her grandmother. Anaya. Kevin.
She couldn't lose them.
Tears fell silently as her body betraying her again, grinding into his hand like it remembered the nights it had once burned for him.
He massaged continuosly without any break while
His mouth continued downward, kissing every inch of her belly. She tried to pull her stomach inward, to vanish, to disappear—but he followed every contour, worshipped every scar, every weakness.
When he reached her navel, he kissed around it, then inside it, his tongue circling as if it were another mouth he wanted to devour.
Her body jolted. Her breath stuttered.
Shame bloomed in her chest like a wound.
He knew her. Knew her better than she did. Knew every gasp, every fold, every place that could make her crumble.
And she hated him for it.
But more than that…
She hated herself.
He came between her thighs, slow and deliberate, like a predator taking his time.
Alina flinched, her breath hitching. She turned her face away, eyes shutting tight, fingers curling into the sheets like lifelines. Her knuckles went white.
The soft fabric of her panties slid down her legs, inch by agonizing inch. Cold air kissed her skin—but his lips followed soon after, hot, claiming, unrelenting.
He kissed the insides of her thighs—first gently, then deeper, his breath ghosting over the place she didn't want him to reach.
But he did.
And when his mouth found her—there, where she didn't want to feel anything—she moaned. Hard. Unwilling. Unholy.
She bit down on her bottom lip, punishing it, trying to kill the sound before it betrayed her again. But Damon had always known how to win.
And he did.
Her moan broke free, louder this time, a helpless cry of pleasure twisted with hate. She pushed herself up, trying to crawl away from him, to end the humiliation—yet his hands clamped around her hips like iron.
"You're mine," he growled against her skin, the vibration of his voice sinking into her bones. "Even when you say no… your body screams yes."
His tongue moved with devastating precision, every stroke drawing a reaction she didn't want to give. The obscene sounds of his mouth on her filled the room—wet, consuming, possessive.
Her head fell back. Eyes rolled.
She grabbed the sheets trying not to touch him but he pleasure and force made her hard and her hands grabbed his hair in desperation, trying to pull him away. But it only made him hungrier. He groaned into her, like her resistance was a drug, and he was overdosing.
And when she finally broke—when her release came like a storm she couldn't stop—he didn't stop either.
He stayed.
Tasting her.
Devouring her.
As if he'd earned it. As if she belonged to him.
As if he hadn't stolen everything.
While tasting her, he eyed her from between her legs, and the sight was breathtaking for him—the arch of her back and her parted, moaning lips. He fucking loved the scene.
He slowly hovered over her again and made sure to put his whole weight on her, kissing her lips even with the taste of her still on them. His hands moved up and undid her bra, tossing it somewhere as if he hated the fabric for hiding what belonged to him.
He hugged her bare body tightly, burying his face in her neck and kissing her skin—biting softly before trailing down to her breasts. He took her left breast and sucked it hard while massaging the other, taking his time to devour her completely. Then he did the same to the other side.
Alina moaned hard—sounds that were pleasure to his ears. He made sure tonight wouldn't be easy for her. He would fuck her hard until her inner thighs remembered who she belonged to.
He kissed her lips again, his saliva glistening on hers, and slowly made his way inside her. Her hands grabbed his arms, and her screams were buried in his mouth. He showed no mercy. When he finally pushed all the way in, he broke the kiss and said,
" Ahhhh... "She screamed.
"Don't expect mercy tonight, baby. You made me angry."
He started moving in her. Alina closed her eyes tightly, arching her back so her soft chest collided with his hard one—he loved that. Slowly, he increased his speed.
"Say who you belong to, Alina," he asked.
She hated that question because she knew what answer he wanted.
"I don't belong to anyone," she said, even through her pleasure.
Again, she had unleashed the beast within him. Now he didn't care about her pleasure—only his own. He started pounding into her harder. The bed hit the wall, and the sound of skin clapping filled the room.
"Slow down, Damon please you are hurting me ahhh," she pleaded.
"Say who you belong to, Alina," he asked again.
She said the same.
Still pounding into her, he asked, "Do you want your dear ones safe, baby? Then say who you belong to."
A sob slipped out.
"Say it," he repeated, voice now a velvet snarl. "Or I'll give them the order."
Her eyes flew open.
"No—" she gasped.
His fingers stilled. Waiting.
And her will—what little of it remained—cracked like thin ice under a burning sun.
"…I'm yours," she breathed.
It tasted like ash in her mouth.
But it saved them.
She felt it the moment he relented. His touch gentled. His mouth curved into a smile, like a wolf finally dragging its kill into the snow.
"That's my good girl," he murmured, kissing the pulse racing in her neck. "So obedient. So beautiful when you break for me."
" Now say who you belongs to " he was increasing his speed .
Finally, she gave in again. "You…"
"Name, love," he demanded, still inside her.
"Damon," she said.
"Now, for your punishment, moan my name until I tell you to stop."
She hated it—he was treating her like a whore—but she had no choice.
"Damon… Damon… Damon…"
Now he slowed down, giving her pleasure. His name came as a moan from her lips.
Finally, when he was about to release he pulled out and came over her stomach.
He carried her as if she waited nothing to the table and bend her and push himself in
" Damon please stop I can't take you any more " she said inbetween her pleasure.
Yet he didn't stop.
He continued he took her in everycorner of his room she was as drenched with his essence.
They never knew how many hours had passed—how many times she shattered beneath him like fragile glass, or how often he buried himself within her, chasing salvation in the ruins of her resistance.
Time dissolved between their bodies, lost in the feverish haze of obsession and silence, of breathless cries and unspoken war. The night had long since died, and still, he didn't stop. His madness knew no end. He was a man possessed—driven not by lust, but by a hunger far more dangerous. A need to feel alive, to drown in her until the rest of the world ceased to exist.
He took her again and again, in different positions, in different corners of his room as if trying to claim every shadow with her name. Her voice—hoarse and trembling—pleaded with him to stop. Her body, sore and trembling, begged for mercy. But he didn't stop. He couldn't.
Because Alina had become the only thing that silenced the screaming inside his head. And in taking her, over and over again, he wasn't making love—he was surviving.
To Damon, she was death incarnate—soft and warm, clothed in beauty, but always just one heartbeat away from slipping through his fingers. And he couldn't allow that.
He had meant to stop, hours ago. But every time he looked into her tear-filled eyes, every time her broken whimpers clawed at his soul, he found himself drowning deeper. Being inside her was the only place he didn't feel hollow.
And finally, when his madness gave way to silence—when the chaos receded and stillness dared return—it was morning.
The sky outside had turned a soft grey, like mourning silk.
Her body, now bare and bruised, trembled beneath his. Her lips parted as she gasped for air, and the final words that left her mouth weren't screams. They were a whisper. A curse. A prayer laced with venom and pain.
"I swear in the name of God, Mr Carter…" she breathed, each syllable coated in exhaustion and fury. "Even if you beg for my forgiveness, I will never give it. I will never forget… and I will never stop hating you for what you did to me."
She lay there like a fallen angel—ravaged, broken, and breathtaking. Her chest rose and fell like the tide after a storm, and her lashes fluttered as sleep took her like mercy.
Damon stared down at her, every inch of his body drenched in sweat. The marks on his skin—etched by her nails, born of pleasure and protest—burned like holy wounds.
He hovered above her, unable to pull away, caught in the gravity of her silence.
Something in her voice had shattered him. Not the hatred. Not the pain. But the finality—the way her words rang like the last toll of a funeral bell.
His heart clenched.
His soul, if it still existed, ached.
And for the first time in a very long time, Damon felt something foreign—regret.
He lowered his forehead to hers. Their sweat mingled. Their breaths still mirrored each other, even in the aftermath.
"Never forgive me, love," he whispered, voice raw and hushed. "Because I will never forgive myself."
And a single tear—silent, foreign, uninvited—slipped from his eye and landed on her cheek.
He failed to realise the angel in her is broken not by anyone but by him.
The room was silent now—too silent.
The chaos of the night lingered like fog, thick with sweat, salt, and something far more broken.
Damon rose slowly, breath still uneven, muscles drawn tight. Without a word, he grabbed a towel, dipped it into cool water, and returned to the bed where she lay.
Alina didn't move.
Her body was limp, emptied—her lashes wet with tears long spent. Bruises bloomed across her skin like wilted violets. Her cheeks weren't flushed with desire, but with exhaustion. Her lips parted slightly, trembling even in sleep.
He cleaned her gently—slow, deliberate strokes. As if wiping away the evidence could erase the damage. The towel ghosted over her thighs, her arms, her chest.
She didn't even flinch.
When he finished, he slid into the sheets beside her. The bed creaked, a haunting echo of everything it had endured.
He turned toward her.
Watching.
Studying.
There was something in her face—something he couldn't name. Hatred. Emptiness. Surrender. Maybe all three. Tangled into a silence that screamed louder than words ever could.
He tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
> "Won't you stay with me, Alina?" he whispered into the dark.
His own mind laughed.
No one will stay with you. No one will love you.
It mocked him.
And it was right.
She would run.
Of course she would.
Because some cages aren't built with bars. They're built with fear. With silence. With the kind of control that makes a person forget where freedom ends and captivity begins.
So he pulled her close.
Held her like chains forged from obsession.
She didn't resist.
But that didn't comfort him.
> "You belong to me," he murmured into her hair, his voice soft—a lullaby dipped in poison. "And if blackmail is what keeps you here… so be it. You'll never leave me, Alina. Never."
There was no guilt in his heart.
Only possession.
Only the cold, quiet certainty that he had broken something sacred—and that he would never let it heal.
Not because he couldn't care.
But because in the ruins of her…
He finally felt whole.
Alina woke to stillness.
Afternoon light spilled through the half-drawn curtains—soft, golden, cruel.
It touched her skin like mockery, warm against the cold wreckage of her body.
Her lashes were stiff with dried tears. Her throat burned—raw from crying, from begging, from being silenced.
She moved slightly—then froze.
Damon.
He lay beside her. Bare-chested. Still.
His breathing was calm. Steady. Watching her.
And in that single, terrible moment—
Terror. Revulsion. Powerlessness.
They flooded her like a wave that wouldn't let her breathe.
Even the sound of his breath near her ear made her stomach twist.
She flinched back, her body's instinct to escape stronger than thought.
But—
His arm clamped around her waist.
Too firm. Too familiar.
Too his.
Pain spiked between her legs—sharp, immediate, unforgiving.
She whimpered.
> "Don't struggle, baby," he murmured, voice gravelled from sleep.
"You're making me hard again. Unless you want another round... stay still."
Her body stiffened.
Her soul tried to run, but her body had already surrendered to survival.
Tears slipped quietly down her face.
He smiled at her stillness—mistaking trauma for obedience.
> "Good morning, bella," he drawled, fingers tracing lazy, chilling paths down her spine.
"You gave me more than enough last night. Even your silence is beautiful."
Her lips parted. Trembled.
> "You got what you wanted," she whispered hoarsely.
"Now will you let me go?"
He turned to her slowly, like a shadow shifting.
> "Shut up, Alina," he said, voice hardening.
"Don't wake my beast again. You won't survive it this time."
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.
The taste of blood was a strange comfort—something that still belonged to her.
> "I need to go," she breathed. "Noah and Anaya… they'll be looking for me…"
He was quiet.
Too quiet.
His eyes studied her, unreadable.
> Even now… she thinks of them.
Even now, she protects everyone but herself.
He leaned in.
Nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in like sin.
> "How can I let you go when you're this innocent?"
"This breakable… and still mine?"
She closed her eyes. Her voice cracked like glass.
> "Please, Mr. Carter," she whispered.
"Let me go. I can't endure this again."
Something inside him paused.
The way she said it.
Mr. Carter. Not Damon.
Not anymore.
That name—the one she once spoke with softness—was gone.
Replaced with distance.
And disgust.
Just for a breath, he let her go.
She scrambled upright, shaky, limbs trembling.
Her legs buckled—
And before she could hit the floor, his arms caught her again.
> "Don't touch me!" she cried, shoving against him with what little strength remained.
He didn't let go.
> "Don't confuse mercy with permission," he hissed.
"You know what happens when you resist me."
She froze.
Not because she surrendered.
But because she had nothing left to fight with.
Not today.
Damon carried her to the bathroom.
She was limp in his arms, drained of resistance, her eyes half-closed with fatigue.
He set her gently into the tub, and as her bruised skin met the cool porcelain, a sharp hiss of pain slipped from her lips.
He paused.
But only for a second.
Then he turned and walked out—leaving her alone with the silence, the steam, and her pain.
She stayed under the shower too long.
Maybe she wanted to wash away the memory. Maybe she just wanted time to fall apart where he couldn't see.
Water poured over her like forgiveness she didn't believe in.
> "This is for grandma. For Anaya. Only for them, my family."
She kept whispering it, over and over, as if the repetition would make the pain more bearable.
As if it would make what happened… survivable.
When she finally emerged, wrapped in a towel, her skin pink and trembling, he was there.
Of course he was.
The demon never strayed far.
Without a word, he handed her clothes.
She took them in silence and turned back into the bathroom to dress—quick, robotic movements, not bothering to look in the mirror.
When she stepped out, a smell hit her—pasta.
Her stomach growled loud enough to embarrass her.
Damon was at the table, sleeves rolled up, setting down a steaming plate.
> "Come. Eat," he said, his voice low but firm.
She hesitated.
> "Who made this?" she asked, voice hoarse. "There's no staff here."
He looked at her, an unreadable flicker in his eyes.
> "I cooked," he said simply.
"Don't worry—I won't do it again unless you ask."
She said nothing.
> "I don't want it," she muttered. "I'm not hungry."
> "Are you sure?" he asked, eyes sliding toward her stomach—
—right on cue, it growled again.
She flinched.
He walked to her slowly.
> "Come here."
She didn't move at first. But she knew.
She knew what happened when she refused.
So she walked toward him with dead steps.
He pulled her gently into his lap—gentle in action, threatening in meaning—and picked up the fork.
Twisting pasta.
> "Open your mouth," he said.
She kept it shut.
His grip on her waist tightened.
> "If you won't open it," he whispered near her ear, "I'll find another way to make sure you eat."
She opened her mouth.
He fed her.
Fork after fork.
Until the plate was empty and her eyes were glassy and hollow, every bite tasting like surrender.
Later, in the car, the silence was unbearable.
Alina stared out the window, body pressed against the door as if she could somehow disappear into it.
Damon drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually in his lap. But his gaze kept drifting to her—silent, watchful, possessive.
She didn't meet his eyes.
Not once.
When they pulled into the mansion driveway, she reached for the door handle. But his voice stopped her cold.
> "If you speak a word of this to anyone—Noah, Anaya, or anyone else…"
He leaned closer, his voice suddenly softer, more venomous.
> "Then I'll take you again," he whispered, eyes burning into her. "Right there. In front of them all."
His lips twitched—not with amusement, but with the thrill of watching her break.
Alina's face blanched.
She looked at him, horrified, humiliated. A flush crawled up her neck, not from desire—but shame.
And still, he smiled.
He didn't need to shout.
He didn't need chains.
He was the cage.
> "Do you understand?" he repeated.
She nodded once.
Not because she agreed.
But because she couldn't afford to lose what little she had left.
Return to the Mansion
Damon didn't come in with her.
Alina walked into the mansion alone, her steps light, but her soul dragged behind her like a heavy shadow. In the living room, Noah and Anaya looked up—Noah the first to notice her.
> "Where were you?" he asked immediately, words like rapid-fire.
"You didn't pick up your phone. What happened? Are you okay? Did something—?"
Anaya cut in gently, tugging Noah's wrist to pull him back.
> "Relax, she told me. Remember?"
She turned to Alina with a soft smile.
"She went to talk to Damon. To confess, remember?"
Alina gave a weak nod.
It was the lie she'd spun on the phone—because she couldn't think of anything better.
Anaya had believed it. Noah, not so much.
> "Talk to Damon? Seriously?" he scoffed, narrowing his eyes.
"Why would someone like Alina propose to my uncle Damon? That's weird."
> "Oh, don't be such a grandpa," Anaya shot back playfully.
"You talk like a cranky uncle."
> "And you talk like a child," Noah snapped.
They bickered—sharp, but familiar.
For a fleeting moment, it felt like before.
Alina forced a smile.
"How did you get here An?" she asked with curiousness as she said not to return.
" oh that Damons driver came to pick me up, do you know ali I left like a princess when the driver came and opened the door for me".
" I'm sure he loves you" she chuckled with the innocent.
Alina didn't reply to anything and just said
> "I'm tired," she said softly. "Going to rest a bit."
Anaya looked at her like an eagle to find if something was wrong with her sister but she found nothing.
Noah frowned, but said nothing.
---
Later that Afternoon
Alina descended the stairs quietly, fingers trailing the bannister. But her steps slowed as her gaze caught the scene in the hall.
A man stood near the piano—mid-fifties, broad-shouldered, sharply dressed. His aura was thick with authority, his presence unmistakably powerful. He looked like Damon—but older. Rougher. Like time had hardened him into stone and smoke.
Beside him stood a woman.
Stunning. Mid to late twenties, maybe. Every inch of her was perfection—silk hair, icy poise, dressed in designer elegance. The kind of woman men carved statues for.
Alina paused, lips slightly parted as she took in her beauty—until the woman's voice lashed out.
> "Who are you?"
Sharp. Disdainful. Like she tasted something sour.
Alina straightened.
> "I… I'm Noah's caretaker."
The woman's gaze raked her with barely veiled disgust.
> "Lowlife people… rotting the earth. That brat too."
Alina flinched.
She looked down, shame rising like bile.
And then she felt it.
A gaze. Hot. Unblinking.
She glanced up—and froze.
The man was staring at her.
Not just looking. Staring.
His eyes crawled over her like oil. Predatory. Practiced.
Her skin crawled.
> "Excuse me," she whispered and hurried toward the kitchen—shoulders stiff, chest tight.
---
In the Kitchen
Carolin and another maid were preparing lunch, the gentle clatter of pots and a faint radio hum filling the room.
> "Who were they?" Alina asked quietly, voice trembling despite herself.
Carolin turned, surprised.
> "You don't know?" She wiped her hands on her apron.
"That man is Antonio Carter. The boss's father. And the woman? Veronica. His fiancée."
> "Fiancée?" Alina blinked.
> "Yep. Senator's daughter. They've been engaged for months. Big deal."
The words didn't just sting.
They shattered.
> So that's what I am. A secret. A body. A night.A mistake. A stupid girl in love with a man who already belongs to someone else.
A tear broke loose, slipping down her cheek before she could stop it.
She wiped it away just as Carolin called:
> "Can you stir this? I'll be back in a minute."
> "Sure," Alina murmured.
She took the spoon, moving in slow, dazed circles. Her mind spiraled with fragments of memories and aching betrayal.
Then—
She felt it.
Presence.
Too close.
She turned—
Antonio.
Her body locked up.
> "Mr. Antonio…" she said, trying to step back—but the counter pinned her in place.
> "So you know me?" His tone was casual. Mocking.
He was inches from her.
> "Y-Yes, sir."
> "So you're the new girl." His voice was low and thick with suggestion.
"The caretaker… and the new whore my son's keeping."
The word sliced into her.
Whore.
Her chest constricted. Her eyes stung.
He leaned in, breath heavy with cigarettes and something fouler.
> "He's always had good taste,"
" that bitch selena and know you",he murmured, his voice slick.
"But you... you're divine. I'm sure you taste divine too.How old are you?"
she disgust with every words came from his mouth.
> "N-Nineteen," she whispered.
> "Mmm. A teen." He chuckled darkly.
"That explains it. That's why he's keeping you."
His fingers grazed her arm.
"But I'll tell you something… I'm better in bed than my son.
How much do you want? Hmm? I'll pay double."
She gasped, jerking away—but he grabbed her wrist, hard.
> "Please… let me go."
> "Don't lie to me, sweetheart.
Girls like you—trying to climb your way up on your back. It's written all over you."
She struggled harder, panic overtaking reason.
> "I'm not that kind of girl—please—"
> "FATHER."
The voice thundered.
The room froze.
Damon.
He stood in the doorway. Hands in pockets. Composed.
But beneath it—
Rage.
It simmered like poison beneath still water.
> "Ms. Alina," he said, voice like steel.
"Noah's asking for you. Go."
She tore herself free and ran—faster than she'd ever moved.
She didn't look back.
But she felt it.
Damon's gaze.
Like fire under her skin.
And for the first time—
She didn't know if it meant safety…
…or something much, much worse.