I froze, my hand was still on the knob as I stared at the brass keyhole like it might sprout fangs and bite me.
"Lock it." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of an order that wasn't meant to be questioned.
I swallowed hard, my throat even for some reason, suddenly went desert-dry. Lock it? As in… lock myself in with him? In his lair? Yeah, great idea, Selene. Let's make it easier for him to murder me and dump me in one of those polished marble fountains outside.
I turned, finally daring to glance back at him. Damian hadn't moved. He was still lounging in the armchair near the window, as one of his legs stretched lazily; then his fingers tapped against the armrest, as if he had all the time in the world. The shadows made his jawline look as if it were carved out of something dangerous. His eyes, though—they pinned me. That kind of stare that makes you feel like you're already caught before you've even tried running.
"Why?" My voice cracked before I could stop it. I hated that. Hated the way he made me sound small.
His lips twitched, a ghost of amusement—or was it irritation? "Because I asked you to."
Oh, brilliant. That explained nothing.
The silence stretched, and it was so thick that I could even hear my heartbeat rattling in my ears. Every instinct screamed at me to turn the handle and fling the door back open and bolt down the hallway until my legs gave out. But then… his mother's venomous smirk flashed in my head. His brothers' sneers. The way they had circled me like sharks. And the one thing standing between me and their teeth had been him.
With a shaky breath, I slid the latch into place. The sound clicked, sharp, final, like a gun being cocked.
"There." I tried for sarcasm, but my voice came out thinner than I'd like. "Happy?"
"Not yet," Damian said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Come here."
Oh, for f*ck's sake.
-----------------------------------
The moment the click of the lock faded into silence, Damian's voice cut across the air like a low hum of a storm brewing.
"Sit."
One word. No emotion. No rise or fall. Just an order.
I hesitated as my hand was still delaying near the brass knob behind me, but something in the weight of his tone had my legs moving before my mind caught up. I sat at the edge of the chair near the corner of the room, spine stiff, fingers curling into the fabric of my damn skirt as though I needed something to hold on to.
Damian stood for a moment, his back half turned, as if measuring the air between us. The nerve of the guy. Then, slowly, he pivoted, eyes narrowing in on me like a hawk to prey.
"So tell me…" His voice was measured, but beneath it was a thread of heat, dangerous and sharp. "What exactly gave you the courage to stand up to my family the way you did?"
My lips pressed together. I felt the back of my throat tighten. He wasn't shouting, not even raising his voice — but somehow, that made it worse.
Did he expect me to sit there and watch his family drag my dignity through the mud? They treat me like dirt under their shoes and worst of it all, they called me a 'whore' and disguised it in wisdom, well to be frank, his mum is good at that.
I tried to sound defiant, but even I could hear the slight tremor. "What did you expect me to do? Bow? Beg? Let them walk over me like a doormat?"
His brows arched, faint amusement flickering, though his eyes remained hard. "I expected you to use sense. You realize you've made things worse for yourself, don't you?"
My jaw clenched, and my fingers tapped against my thigh to steady myself. "Maybe. But at least I said what needed to be said. I'm not going to sit there like a mute while your mother and brothers strip me down with their words."
For a moment, silence. Then a low chuckle escaped him, humorless. "You're reckless. Do you even understand the weight of the room you're in? The family you're dealing with?"
My heartbeat drummed, but I forced her chin up. "Maybe I don't. Or maybe I do — and I just don't care anymore."
That made something flicker in his eyes, something unreadable. Damian stepped forward, not quickly, but with deliberate, measured strides. His presence seemed to swell, making the room feel smaller.
I found herself holding my breath as he reached for the collar of his shirt, fingers unbuttoning it slowly, one button at a time. Her eyes widened as he tugged the shirt free from his shoulders in a smooth, careless motion, tossing it onto the bed without looking back.
My pulse spiked. I just tried to convince myself he was just being dramatic — stripping off his shirt to prove some point, to intimidate me further. But the air had shifted.
He started walking toward me, each step unhurried but heavy, and oh God, I could feel the tension coil tighter and tighter inside my chest.
My voice, though small, slipped out before I could stop it. "What… what are you doing?"
Damian didn't answer. He didn't need to. The silence was louder than anything he could have said.
"Damian..."
The distance between us began shrinking, his gaze never breaking from mine.
Oh f*ck, I'm officially screwed.
-----------------------
My lungs forgot how to breathe when Damian stopped in front of me. For a heartbeat, I thought he'd keep towering over me, lording that height, that presence, until I crumbled. But instead… he bent. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself down until he was kneeling right before me.
I froze. My knees pressed instinctively tighter together, my back began digging into the chair, but his eyes—those eyes—never let me escape.
"Tell me, Selene." His voice was low, velvety but sharp. "Do you want me to go downstairs right now… and tell them what happened that night?"
My stomach dropped, and I could swear I almost hear it hit the floor.
He leaned closer, his breath brushing my skin like fire. "Should I tell them how you... moaned my name that night? How you—" He cut himself off with a faint smirk, leaving the rest dangling in the silence, cruelly unfinished.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "Stop," I whispered, but it came out thinner than I wanted. Pathetic.
His brows arched as if daring me. "Stop? Why? It's the truth, isn't it?"
I shook my head, words stumbling. "You wouldn't…"
"Wouldn't I?" He tilted his head, as if studying me, savoring my panic. "You seem awfully sure of what I would or wouldn't do."
My throat tightened. For a moment, I thought the tears would win, but I bit them back, clutching at the edge of the chair like it could anchor me. "Please, Damian." My voice cracked. "Don't."
And then, before I could think, before my pride could drag me back into silence, the question tore out of me—raw, desperate, unguarded:
"Damian… just tell me the real reason you still keep me here."
The room seemed to stop. The words echoed inside my head, heavier with each repetition. For the first time, it was me pressing him for answers, me tearing at the mask he wore so carefully.
I searched his face, waiting, praying, dreading—anything.
But all I got was silence. His silence.
And that was somehow worse.