He stepped forward, the mask slipping into place automatically, but for once he didn't hide behind coldness.
"I…" he began, but the words tangled. He frowned, then forced them out. "I may have said some… things. Harsh things. That I didn't mean."
Elena blinked, then slowly stood from her chair. She tilted her head, her lips twitching. "Wait… Damian Volkov just tried to apologise?"
He scowled. "Don't push it."
But her chuckle broke through the night, soft and melodic. She covered her mouth as if trying to hold it in, but failed.
"Oh my God, you did. You actually did. This is—this is priceless."
His eyes narrowed. "You're enjoying this far too much."
She walked closer, teasing glint in her eyes. "You're lucky I didn't record it. Can you imagine? Damian Volkov apologising. The world would never believe it."
He was about to snap back, but then she bit her lower lip. The playful gesture, unintentional or not, sent a spark of heat coursing through him.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. He didn't think. He didn't rehearse.
He simply closed the distance, his hand slipping around her waist, pulling her against him as his lips claimed hers.
The kiss was firm, urgent, filled with the tension of words unsaid.
To his surprise—and secret relief—she melted into it, responding with equal heat, her hands clutching at his shirt.
When they broke apart, slightly breathless, he brushed a thumb across her cheek. "Finish laughing at me now?"
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Maybe. Depends if you give me more reasons to laugh."
He groaned low in his throat, torn between annoyance and desire. "You'll drive me insane."
"You already are," she teased softly.
For a moment, they simply stood there in the night breeze, the closeness between them heavier than any words.
But then Damian cleared his throat, his voice returning to that clipped, commanding tone—though softer this time.
"How did it go? With my mother?"
Elena brightened instantly, her earlier amusement shifting to warmth. "She's wonderful. And your grandfather too.
They were both so kind, Damian. I… I was so nervous, but they made me feel welcome."
He searched her face, reading the truth there. The relief he felt was unexpected.
"She even told me stories about you." Elena's lips curved into a grin.
"Apparently, you once locked yourself in your room for three days because you lost a chess game to her."
Damian stiffened. "She told you that?"
Elena laughed outright, clutching her stomach. "Yes! And she said you refused to eat until your grandfather bribed you with chocolate cake."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering a curse in Russian.
"Unbelievable. She had to bring that up."
Elena's laughter grew, light and bubbling. "I can't believe you—Mr. Stone-Cold, Mr. Untouchable—threw a tantrum over chess!"
His glare was sharp, but it lacked venom. "Careful, cupcake. I could still throw you over my shoulder and lock you in a room until you throw a tantrum."
Her laughter softened into a smile.
Elena's breath trembled when she whispered, "Damian…"
He silenced her with another kiss, slower this time. Less of the ruthless man who demanded, more of the man who wanted.
His lips brushed over hers once, twice, tasting, learning, savoring.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, clutching him as though she needed him to anchor her.
Elena swallowed, her cheeks warm, her heart racing so fast she thought he might hear it. She should pull away. She should. But she didn't.
In one swift motion, Damian scooped her into his arms, her legs spread round his waist, lifting her as though she weighed nothing.
She gasped softly, her hands flying to his shoulders.
"Damian—"
He carried her through the mansion's halls, his long strides purposeful, until he reached his room. The heavy door closed behind them with a soft click.
He set her down gently on the bed, his body hovering over hers, his hand braced beside her head.
His cold, perfect mask was gone. What she saw now was raw hunger mixed with something dangerously close to need.
Elena's chest rose and fell rapidly. She bit her lower lip, nervous and shy, but the way his eyes darkened at that small gesture made her tremble with anticipation.
His thumb brushed across her mouth. "Don't do that unless you want me to lose control."
She whispered, "Maybe I want that."
A deep growl rumbled from his throat before his lips crushed hers again, harder, deeper.
She responded, matching him kiss for kiss, until her whole body felt like it was on fire.
His hands moved slowly, deliberately—sliding over her waist, tracing the curve of her hip, slipping beneath the hem of her blouse.
Every touch left goosebumps in its wake.
Elena shivered. "Damian…"
His shirt tossed aside, her blouse slipping from her shoulders. Every barrier removed brought them closer, skin to skin, heat against heat.
When he finally sank into her, it was slow, deliberate—every movement measured, every sound from her lips memorized.
Her gasp turned into a moan, and he captured it with his mouth, devouring her.
There was only the rhythm of their bodies, the crash of their breaths, the whispered names.
"Elena…"
"Damian…"
She clung to him as though he was the only thing keeping her grounded, and maybe he was.
And he moved within her as though she was the only thing that had ever mattered, and maybe she was.
Hours slipped, Until finally, when exhaustion collided, he collapsed beside her, pulling her into his arms.
She lay against his chest, her cheek pressed to his heartbeat, her fingers drawing idle patterns over his skin.
For the first time in years, Damian Volkov didn't feel like a king or a monster. He just felt like a man—holding the woman who made him lose control.
The morning light filtered softly through Damian's massive bedroom curtains. Elena stirred slowly, her lashes fluttering open.
For a moment, her cheek pressed against the smooth pillow, she reached out with her hand, instinctively searching for him.
The space beside her was empty.
Her brows furrowed as she sat up, the sheets falling from her bare shoulders. He left?
The events of the night rushed back in vivid detail—his touch, his kiss, the way he had whispered her name like she belonged to him.
Her cheeks flamed hot as her fingers brushed her lips.
Shaking her head quickly, she slipped out of bed, her knees still weak from the intimacy they shared.
She reached for her nightie that had been tossed aside the night before, pulling it over herself hurriedly.
Her hands smoothed down the fabric as though that would erase the evidence of what happened.
Her heart pounded. She couldn't let Tatiana see her like this. She couldn't handle the teasing this morning.
"God, please," she muttered under her breath, running her fingers nervously through her hair. "Don't let Tia see me."
She cracked the heavy door open just enough to peek out into the hall. Her wide eyes scanned left, then right. The corridor was still.
Taking a deep breath, she tiptoed out, the cool marble floor chilling her bare feet
. She walked as quietly as possible, her fingers clutching the hem of her nightie to hide her trembling hands.
Halfway down the corridor, she spotted movement—her heart lurched—but it was only a maid carrying a tray.
The maid glanced at her, eyes widening slightly at the sight of Elena in her nightclothes emerging from the master's bedroom, but she lowered her head respectfully and continued walking without a word.
Elena let out a shaky sigh of relief. "Okay… almost there," she whispered to herself, forcing her legs to move faster.
She finally reached her own room and slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her.
But the moment she turned, she froze.