Elias did not sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, Damien was there too close, too calm, too certain. The memory of that single touch along his jaw lingered like a brand, subtle yet devastating. It had been nothing. A finger. A whisper. And yet it had undone him more thoroughly than any heated argument or sharp insult ever had.
He told himself it was anger that kept him awake. Rage at the way Damien Blackwood spoke as if ownership were a fact already written. Rage at the way his body responded, traitorous and eager, to a man he was supposed to despise.
But beneath the anger was something darker.
Anticipation.
The following evening, Elias arrived at Blackwood Tower early. He hated that fact the moment he realized it. He told himself it was professionalism, strategy, preparation but his pulse told a different story. His body had already learned the rhythm of Damien's presence, the way the air seemed to tighten when the billionaire was near.
The penthouse doors opened silently.
Damien stood by the window, back turned, suit immaculate, posture relaxed in a way that only men with absolute control ever managed. The city lights painted him in silver and shadow, making him look less like a man and more like something carved out of power itself.
"You're early," Damien said without turning.
Elias stiffened. "You didn't tell me not to be."
A slow smile curved Damien's lips as he finally faced him. "No. I didn't."
That smile measured, knowing sent a shiver down Elias's spine. It wasn't amused. It was pleased.
"Come closer," Damien said.
Elias hesitated. Just for a heartbeat. Long enough for Damien to notice.
"Do not make me repeat myself," Damien added softly.
The words were not raised. They didn't need to be. Elias moved.
With every step, the tension thickened. Damien watched him approach, gaze unwavering, assessing. Evaluating. When Elias stopped an arm's length away, Damien tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Still defiant," Damien murmured. "But less certain."
"I don't belong to you," Elias said, forcing steel into his voice.
Damien stepped forward.
The distance vanished.
"You keep saying that," Damien replied quietly, "yet you come when I call. You stand where I place you. You listen."
Elias's breath hitched. Damien was close enough now that he could feel his warmth, smell the clean, expensive scent of him something dark beneath the polish.
"That doesn't mean anything," Elias said.
"It means everything," Damien corrected.
He lifted a hand not touching, not yet just enough that Elias's body reacted before his mind could. Damien noticed. Of course he did.
"Your body," Damien continued, voice low and controlled, "is far more honest than your mouth."
Elias clenched his fists. "You think this is a game."
"No," Damien said. "I think this is inevitable."
The word settled between them like a verdict.
Damien moved past him then, deliberately brushing close enough that Elias felt the whisper of fabric, the promise of contact withheld at the last second. It was maddening. Calculated.
"Sit," Damien said again, gesturing to the chair by the desk.
Elias obeyed, jaw tight.
Damien remained standing, looming not aggressively, but undeniably. The power imbalance was unmistakable. Fifteen years of experience, wealth, and control wrapped neatly in tailored authority.
"You're distracted," Damien said. "Your work has suffered."
Elias bristled. "That's not true."
Damien placed a file on the desk. "It is. And you hate that I see it."
Elias swallowed.
"You are used to fighting," Damien continued. "Used to winning through defiance. But this" He gestured vaguely between them. "this is not a battlefield where resistance serves you."
Damien leaned forward, bracing one hand on the desk, trapping Elias in his shadow. Not touching. Never touching unless he meant to.
"You are unravelling," Damien said softly. "And you don't know whether you want me to stop."
The truth of it struck Elias like a blow.
Silence stretched. Heavy. Intimate.
Finally, Elias looked up. "What do you want from me?"
Damien studied him for a long moment, eyes dark, unreadable.
"Honesty," he said at last. "Surrender comes later."
Elias laughed bitterly. "You talk like this is already decided."
Damien straightened. "It is."
He reached out then slow, deliberate and adjusted Elias's collar. The touch was brief. Clinical. Intimate in its restraint. Elias's breath caught painfully in his chest.
"You see," Damien murmured, "I don't need to rush. You will come to me on your own. Every night, every thought, every moment of hesitation will lead you back here."
Elias felt exposed. Seen. Claimed without permission.
"You're dangerous," Elias said hoarsely.
Damien smiled. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't crave danger."
The clock ticked loudly in the background. The city pulsed outside the glass walls, indifferent to the war unfolding in the penthouse.
"I won't touch you," Damien said suddenly.
Elias blinked. "What?"
"Not yet," Damien clarified. "I want you wanting. I want you aching. I want you choosing."
Damien leaned down, lips close to Elias's ear close enough that Elias felt the ghost of warmth without contact.
"When you finally ask," Damien whispered, "I will know it is real."
Elias trembled. Not from fear.
From need.
Damien stepped back, the spell breaking just enough to let Elias breathe again.
"You may go," Damien said calmly. "For tonight."
Elias stood on unsteady legs, anger and desire twisting together inside him. He turned toward the door, then stopped.
"This isn't over," he said.
Damien's eyes gleamed. "No," he agreed. "It's only beginning."
As the elevator doors closed behind Elias, his reflection stared back at him flushed, shaken, irrevocably changed.
He hated Damien Blackwood.
And he was already losing the war.
.