(18+ Mature Content – Read With Caution)
"You'll hate me tomorrow," he growled against her throat.
"Then f*ck me hard enough to forget today," she whispered back.
---
The walls echoed with the sounds of sin—moans, wet skin, broken cries that didn't belong in a house built on glass and gold.
Her hands clawed at the silk sheets, legs trembling as he drove into her—hard, possessive, unrelenting. His name spilled from her lips like a drug she didn't want to quit.
"Damien… please—"
His palm landed on the bed beside her head, muscles flexing, teeth gritted as he slammed deeper, until she could no longer tell where her pain ended and pleasure began.
"You were mine the second you walked into this house, Amara," he said, voice like thunder in her ear. "Mine to f*ck. Mine to break."
She didn't scream.
She moaned.
Louder.
Shameless.
Because this was the high she had chased her entire life.
Not the love. Not the safety. Not the promises.
The danger. The heat. Him.
His fingers found her throat, not tight enough to hurt—but enough to own. "I told you I wouldn't be gentle."
"You never are," she gasped.
And yet she came apart under him anyway, shuddering so violently her tears blurred her vision. Her body betrayed her just as thoroughly as she betrayed him every day.
He didn't stop when she came.
He never did.
Damien was the kind of man who didn't stop until she was wrecked and wet and broken wide open—crying his name like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
Tonight, he was even more dangerous. Tonight, he'd skipped the expensive scotch and gone straight for his drug of choice: her.
He flipped her onto her back without warning, dragging her to the edge of the bed like she was weightless.
Her thighs fell open before he even told her to.
"What does that make you?" he asked, pushing inside her again—slow, mean, devastating.
She bit her lip until it bled.
He leaned down and licked the blood off.
" Mine," she said, voice cracking.
"Say it again."
"Yours, Damien. F*ck—yours."
The chandelier above them trembled.
Somewhere in the hallway, a clock struck midnight.
But time didn't exist here—not when her legs were around his waist and his teeth were on her breast, not when he was filling her so deeply she couldn't think.
He grunted into her neck, whispering filth, eyes glazed. "You know what I want tonight?"/"
"What?" she panted.
"No condom. I want to fill you raw. I want my seed dripping down your thighs in the morning when you walk out of this room."
She froze, blinking up at him.
He smiled darkly. "I want everyone in this house to smell that you're mine."
Her nails dug into his back.
She was playing with fire.
And she was about to get burned.
"I want you pregnant, Amara," he growled, thrusting deeper. "With my child. I want to ruin you so completely that no other man will ever touch you without knowing I was inside first."
Tears filled her eyes—but not from pain.
From the way her heart cracked open.
He didn't know the truth yet.
Didn't know what she knew.
Didn't know what she planned.
But he said it. Just like that.
He wanted her pregnant.
If only he knew…
If only he knew it might already be too late.
---
Three Weeks Earlier
Her suitcase slid into the entryway of the mansion with a soft thud.
She hadn't seen him in two years—not since the funeral. Not since he'd married her mother. Not since he had become her legal stepfather.
Damien Knight.
Cold. Calculated. The kind of man whose smile was a lie and whose eyes saw everything.
He was also a god in a suit.
She wore red that night. Not for seduction, but for war.
She knew he'd notice.
He did.
He leaned against the banister of the grand staircase, whiskey in hand, dark eyes trailing over her body like a slow, dangerous flame.
"You grew up," he said, voice like velvet and violence. "Not a little girl anymore."
Amara smiled sweetly.
"Still yours, though," she whispered.
He flinched.
But only for a second.
That was how it started.
A touch on the shoulder. A glass shared. A night walk that ended with her pressed against the wall, his mouth on hers, his hands under her dress.
She pretended to hesitate.
He pretended to care.
By the time she was in his bed, Damien had forgotten every rule. Every line. Every reason to say no.
She played the good girl in the daylight, smiling at her mother at breakfast, laughing politely at his board meetings.
But at night?
At night she begged.
Tied to his bed.
Wearing nothing but bruises from his grip.
Damien gave her everything she asked for, not realizing she was the one taking.
Because Amara had secrets.
And one of them lived in her blood.
The night he told her he loved her, she nearly confessed.
But she didn't.
Because love wasn't the goal.
Destruction was.
---
Three Years Later
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and silence.
Amara walked through the corridor in a crisp white coat, stethoscope tucked in her pocket, and a three-year-old boy holding her hand.
His soft curls bounced as he giggled beside her, completely unaware of the storm brewing in her chest.
They had assigned her to the psych ward rotation this month.
She didn't expect him to be here.
She didn't expect to see his name on the patient chart.
But there it was.
Damien Knight. Room B7. Long-term psychiatric care.
Her world tilted.
No.
No, this couldn't be real.
She walked slowly toward the window that looked into his room. Her son followed, playing with the toy car in his hand.
Then she saw him.
Damien sat by the window in a loose hospital gown. His hair was longer. Beard thicker. His hands trembled slightly as he mumbled to himself and traced patterns into the glass.
Her legs went weak.
Her breath caught.
The man who once tore her apart in bed with growls and threats now talked to walls.
"Don't leave me, Amara," he whispered to no one.
Her heart cracked open.
She hadn't seen him cry even once not when he left his wife not when he left his step son.
Now… tears streamed down his face like rivers no one could stop.
She couldn't move.
She couldn't even breathe.
But then her son looked up at her and saw the tears in her eyes.
"Mama?" he said gently.
She dropped to her knees, clutching her chest as sobs ripped through her. The child looked confused, eyes wide.
Then, without warning, he pulled away from her grasp and walked toward the glass wall that separated Damien's room from the hall.
"Baby—no!" she choked out, but he was already pressing his hand against the glass.
Inside, Damien looked up.
And their eyes met.
For the first time in years.
Amara. Damien.
Father. Son.
Damien stared at the little boy like he was seeing light for the first time in a dark, endless tunnel.
The child smiled, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a tissue.
He pressed it against the glass, right where Damien's tears fell.
"Don't cry, uncle," he said softly. "My mommy is a doctor."
He beamed with innocent pride.
"She'll heal you."
A pause.
"Then there won't be any pain. Oktay?"
Damien closed his eyes.
And cried harder.
---
[END OF PROLOGUE]