(Evelyn's POV)
The penthouse was quiet, the storm outside having softened to a drizzle that tapped gently against the glass. I wrapped the blanket tighter around my shoulders, trying to calm the lingering shiver that wasn't entirely from the cold. Damien sat on the sofa, calm, unyielding, a presence that seemed to fill the entire room. The way he leaned back, dark eyes scanning me, made me feel simultaneously exposed and safe—a contradiction I couldn't reconcile.
I had tried to act normal. Tried to ignore the tension, tried to convince myself that nothing was happening between us. But every inch of him, every subtle movement, every low laugh, reminded me that the game had already begun—and I was losing.
He tilted his head slightly, his dark gaze locking on mine, unreadable, yet charged. "You called me Damien," he said softly, almost a whisper, but the words struck through me like a blade.
I froze, my heart hammering. My throat went dry, and I felt the blanket suddenly too thin against the heat of embarrassment rising in my chest. "I… I didn't," I stammered, shaking my head. "I mean… I didn't mean—"
He raised a brow, not unkindly, but with an intensity that made me falter. "You did," he said, voice low, deliberate. "Don't try to hide it."
I bit my lip, trying to regain control. I shouldn't have said it. It was dangerous. Too revealing. And yet, I couldn't deny the truth that had clawed its way to the surface.
"I… I wasn't thinking," I murmured, avoiding his eyes, focusing instead on the mug in my hands, desperate to anchor myself. But I could feel him leaning closer, the space between us shrinking.
"You weren't thinking," he repeated, voice dropping lower, smooth but edged with command. "Or maybe you were. Maybe you knew exactly what you were doing."
I flinched, knuckles whitening as I gripped the mug. "I… I don't know what you mean."
His gaze bored into mine, dark, penetrating, unrelenting. "Don't lie to me," he said, leaning forward so that the heat radiating from him pressed against my shoulder. "I feel everything you're not saying. Every hesitation, every heartbeat, every subtle movement. You know."
I swallowed hard. Denial felt fragile, inadequate. The warmth of his body, the low timbre of his voice, the faint scent of cologne mixed with something uniquely his—it all wrapped around me, ensnaring my senses. I could feel the tension, the magnetic pull, the silent claim he was laying over me.
And then he moved closer.
Not a brush, not an accidental touch. A deliberate, slow, commanding motion. His hand hovered near mine, brushing my arm, lingering, letting me feel the weight of his dominance. The heat of his palm seared through the fabric of the blanket, and my body betrayed me. My legs edged closer without my consent. My fingers trembled.
"I… I shouldn't—" I started, but my protest caught in my throat.
"You shouldn't what?" he whispered, low, intoxicating, as he leaned even closer, the intensity of his gaze locking me in place. "Resist me? Deny yourself? Deny the truth?"
I shook my head, words failing. Every attempt at denial evaporated under his presence. My pulse raced, chest tight, heat rising in ways the blanket or tea could never explain.
"You called me Damien," he murmured again, closer now, breath brushing my lips. "And you didn't stop. That tells me everything I need to know."
My eyes widened. He knew. He knew who I realized him to be. My mind raced, heart hammering, yet I couldn't move. I was trapped in the pull of his eyes, the steady, dangerous heat pressing me to him.
Before I could speak, he closed the last fraction of distance between us.
The kiss hit me suddenly—hard, commanding, and perfect. His lips claimed mine like a statement I had no choice but to accept. My fingers clutched the blanket instinctively, body reacting to the dominance, the heat, the raw force. His hands pressed into my waist, pulling me closer, pressing into the curve of my hips. The blanket slipped slightly, leaving me exposed to the full intensity of the moment.
I tried to pull back, push him away lightly, but he was unrelenting. The kiss deepened—slow, then hard, claiming, and demanding. Every instinct in my body responded. My pulse thundered, adrenaline and desire colliding in ways I hadn't anticipated.
"You… you can't—" I gasped, voice catching between breaths, hands weakly trying to resist.
"Shh," he murmured, teeth grazing mine, teasing yet dominant. "No arguments. You know the truth now. You can't hide it. Not from me. Not from yourself."
And I couldn't. Adrian Vale was a lie. Damien Kane was here. And he had me, body, mind, heart.
Just as the tension peaked, the penthouse door opened.
"Evelyn?"
My eyes shot open. Damien's gaze flicked toward the intrusion, sharp and alert. Clara stood there, soaked from the rain, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes wide with disbelief—and unmistakable jealousy.
I stumbled back, covering myself with the blanket. "Clara—"
She scanned us both: Damien's hand on my waist, the lingering heat in the air, the blanket too small, the undeniable closeness. Her eyes narrowed. "What… what is going on here?"
Damien didn't move. His smirk softened slightly, dark eyes flicking to me, then back to Clara. "Can't you see we're… occupied?" he said, calm, indifferent, utterly in control.
Clara blinked, incredulous. "Occupied?"
Heat rushed to my cheeks. Adrian Vale… Damien Kane… Clara didn't know. She had confessed her own feelings to me, and now here she was, seeing the intimacy I shared with the man she liked. The betrayal stung, sharp and raw, though only I understood the truth.
"You're… with him?" Clara's voice wavered, disbelief and anger mingling. "You're… here… together?"
Damien's smirk widened, faint, indifferent. "It's complicated," he said. "Clearly, you're upset. That's… entertaining."
Clara's gaze hardened. "Evelyn, how could you?" Her voice broke, hurt and jealousy flashing in her expression. "You know I like him! I told you!"
I swallowed hard, caught between guilt and fear and the raw intensity radiating from Damien. "Clara, it's not—"
"It's not what?" she demanded. "You're… he's… you're with him?"
Damien tilted his head, unbothered, silence heavy. He didn't smile, didn't move, didn't reassure her. Indifference radiated from him, a quiet assertion that this was his space, his choice.
Clara's eyes flicked between us. Her anger, hurt, jealousy—all raw, sharp. I realized this was her first real confrontation with the idea she couldn't have him. And only I knew the secret she was blind to.
"You can't just—" Clara started, voice trembling, but Damien cut her off.
"Occupied," he repeated, gaze unwavering on me. "You've interrupted, yes. But it's nothing that can't wait."
Clara stiffened, opening her mouth, closing it again. Damien's indifference, his control, left her frozen in disbelief.
I looked up at Damien, heart pounding, breath uneven. His eyes met mine—dark, intense, indifferent to Clara, yet completely aware of his effect on me. He didn't release me. The message was clear: this moment, this connection, was his, and nothing would disrupt it.
Clara's gaze shifted, scanning the tension. She had no idea who she was really looking at—but I did. And so did Damien.
The rain outside continued its soft rhythm, a muted echo of the storm inside. And I knew, deep down, that nothing—Clara, the city, the storm, even my own hesitations—could undo the truth of Damien Kane's presence, dominance, and the pull he had on me.
And in that knowledge, the first shiver of surrender ran through me—toward him, toward the secret, toward the danger that was now my own desire.