Warmth.
That was the first thing Nayla felt when she opened her eyes.
Damian's embrace still wrapped around her like a blanket. Too snug. Too comfortable.
His bare chest had been her pillow through the night. His strong arm was still curled around her waist, as if her body was something precious, not just an outlet for his desire. As if she was chosen, possessed, and loved.
There was nothing wrong with that embrace. Their bodies entwined, their breaths synchronized, their skin melting into one another.
From the outside, they looked like two souls who never wanted to part. As if they were lost in something consuming. But if one paid close enough attention, they would notice a single, glaring contrast. Nayla wasn't holding him back.
Her body was passive and cold, like the undercurrents of a deep ocean untouched by sunlight. Her gaze was empty, fixed on the ceiling, as if this embrace was not something to be cherished. Her mind sank like coffee grounds to the bottom of a cup. There was no tender tremble, no sweet shiver to hint that she had decided to stop feeling.
Nayla Moretti was a riddle that could never be mapped with just one color. This morning, she could freeze so easily. Even though, just last night, in the same embrace, she had melted and boiled over.
She wasn't inconsistent because she was fickle. She was inconsistent because she was trying to survive.
It wasn't easy to carry a wound that, instead of healing, only festered. Especially when Nayla realized the painful truth.
The wound hadn't healed.
It had merely changed names.
From Nathan to Damian.
Silently, sanity crept back through the cracks of the quiet morning. A brutal slap of awareness lashed against her soul, forcing Nayla to conclude. All this warmth was an illusion. The incredible sensations of last night could very well have been deception. An embrace could feel like protection... and still be nothing more than chains.
Without lying to herself, Nayla acknowledged that her body still craved the man holding her. There was a hunger that constantly demanded indulgence.
But the undeniable fact remained. Her heart had long gone numb.
And Damian was no exception.
If Nathan — the perfect man in the eyes of the public — could toy with her feelings so masterfully, then a man like Damian, who didn't even bother to whisper words of love, must be even more skilled at setting traps.
This was all just a game.
And Nayla was sick of being a pawn.
A few hours ago, Damian had given her heaven. Who would've thought that heaven could be so fleeting? Now, it meant absolutely nothing to her.
There was no flutter in her chest as she watched Damian claim her body. No urge to close her eyes and drown again in this gentle illusion.
Enough. She had learned from Nathan. And now, she understood.
No matter how warm a man's touch, it guaranteed nothing.
Nathan too had once been a master of embraces like this, touches like this, whispered promises that made Nayla believe she was his one and only. The truth?
Men always knew how to make women feel special. But eventually, they also knew how to make it all feel like a beautifully wrapped lie.
And Nayla would not fall for that spell again.
Slowly, she shifted her body away from Damian's embrace, holding her breath so she wouldn't wake him. Yet even in sleep, his arm tightened around her.
"Don't," Damian rasped, half-awake. "Stay a little longer."
Nayla stared blankly at the wall. "Even in your sleep," she said coldly, "you still think you have the right to keep me."
Damian pulled her closer, his muscled arm binding her tighter.
"I don't think, Nayla," he murmured against her shoulder, kissing it like branding his claim, "I have every right to keep you."
Nayla let out a hollow, humorless laugh.
"Every man thinks he has the right. Nathan thought so too. He thought love meant ownership. You're no different."
Damian opened his eyes, holding his breath. He didn't speak immediately. His jaw clenched, his dark gaze locking onto Nayla's brown ones. Calm, yet ominous, like the ocean just before it slammed into the rocks.
"You can call me whatever you like, Nay," he said quietly, voice sharp as a blade. "Evil. Selfish. Possessive. Even cruel."
He moved closer, his fingers gently lifting her chin. There was barely an inch of space between them, and both their gazes burned without flinching.
"But don't ever compare me to that man," Damian whispered. "I don't wear masks. I don't hide behind vows or promises I don't intend to keep." He paused, then added, voice low and certain. "When I want something, I take it. And when it's mine...
I make damn sure it can't leave."
Nayla tilted her chin upward, meeting his gaze without fear. Only exhaustion and bitter irony painted her expression.
"You can chain me to your bed, Damian. You can call me yours a thousand times.
But that doesn't make it real." She let out a dry, broken laugh. "I've seen what men do when they want control. You're not something new. You're just better dressed."
Damian stared at her in silence. Too quiet. Too composed for a man containing a brewing storm.
"Better dressed?" he murmured. "No, Nayla. I'm not better dressed. I'm just honest about the monster I am."
He brushed the back of his fingers along her cheek. Gentle. Too gentle.
"You want to feel nothing?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Then let me show you just how impossible that is."
Nayla didn't flinch. She didn't push him away. Her gaze challenged him. Not out of desire, but out of pure, cold emptiness.
"Go ahead then," she said flatly. "Make me feel whatever it is I'm supposed to."
Damian froze for a fraction of a second, as if searching for the meaning behind her words. But when his hand gripped her waist and pulled her into him, there was no hesitation left.
"Careful, Nayla," he breathed against her throat. "You might just feel too much."
***
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