Sure, honey. And I'm the Pope. Just... be careful, okay? He's not just some rich playboy."
"I know he's not just some rich playboy. He's my insufferable, judgmental, probably-a-mafia-boss stepbrother!" I groaned, collapsing onto my bed. "This is going to be a long year."
***
Days turned into weeks, a slow, simmering tension a constant presence in the villa. I tried my best to avoid Damien, to slip through the house like a ghost, but it felt impossible. He was everywhere. In the mornings, he was in the kitchen, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, his eyes following my every move. In the evenings, he'd be in Sebastian's study, the low murmur of their voices drifting through the house, sometimes punctuated by a sharper, more urgent tone.
I'd often catch glimpses of him, shirtless, in the gym Sebastian had built in the basement. His body was a testament to raw power, sculpted muscle rippling under tanned skin as he lifted weights. Each time, I'd quickly avert my gaze, my cheeks burning, but the image lingered, an unwelcome intrusion in my thoughts.
One afternoon, I was rummaging through the fridge, dressed in an old t-shirt and a pair of worn denim shorts, when his voice, low and gravelly, startled me.
"Still raiding the fridge, I see."
I jumped, nearly dropping a carton of juice. "Can't you ever just make a normal entrance? You always sound like you're materializing out of thin air."
He leaned against the doorframe, a towel slung over his shoulder, his chest bare, still glistening with sweat from a workout. My eyes immediately dropped to the floor. "I live here, Amelia. I don't need a grand entrance."
"Well, maybe a little warning would be nice. And maybe put on a shirt? Some of us aren't used to... that." I gestured vaguely in his direction, my voice a little higher than usual.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips. "Distracting, am I? I thought you were above such trivialities." He took a step closer, and I felt the heat radiating off him. "And as for your attire, principessa, I thought we had this conversation. You're practically inviting trouble." His eyes swept over my shorts, lingering.
"I'm in my own house! I can wear what I want!" My voice was a desperate whisper.
"Technically, you're in *my* house." His voice was a low growl, a hint of something possessive in its depths. "And I'm warning you. This isn't a game. There are men around, Amelia. Men who don't care about your 'appropriateness.' You need to be more mindful." He took another step, and I pressed myself against the fridge, my heart hammering.
"Are you threatening me?" I managed, my voice barely audible.
"I'm protecting you." His hand reached out, not to touch me, but to rest on the fridge door beside my head, effectively trapping me. His scent, a mix of sweat and his familiar cologne, filled my senses. "Whether you like it or not, you're under my roof now. And under my protection."
My breath hitched. "I don't need your protection."
"Oh, you do. More than you know." His eyes, dark and intense, held mine. "Now, go put on some proper clothes. And stay out of the kitchen when I'm training." He pushed away from the fridge, the spell broken, and walked away, leaving me trembling and strangely breathless.
***
"Did you see that new guy, Steve, in our history class?" Milly asked, nudging me during lunch. "He's totally been staring at you all morning. He's kind of cute, right?"
I glanced over. Steve, a lanky boy with an earnest smile, was indeed looking in my direction. He quickly looked away, a blush creeping up his neck. "He seems nice, I guess."
"Nice? He's adorable! And he actually looks at you like he's interested, unlike some people who just glare and make snide remarks about your fashion choices." Milly gave me a knowing look. "Go talk to him!"
"Maybe later." I picked at my pasta. The thought of Damien's words, his possessive tone, still echoed in my mind. *This isn't a game. There are men around, Amelia.* It was ridiculous. He was just being a controlling jerk.
Later that day, as I walked home from school, I noticed a sleek black car idling a block behind me. My pulse quickened. It wasn't the first time. I'd seen it before, sometimes parked near the villa, sometimes trailing me. A dark, tinted window slid down, revealing Vincent, Damien's second-in-command, behind the wheel. He offered a curt nod, his expression unreadable.
"Just making sure you get home safe, principessa," he said, his voice flat. "Boss's orders."
My blood ran cold. Damien was having me followed. He wasn't just being a controlling jerk; he was *actually* serious about his "protection." It was infuriating, terrifying, and in a twisted way, it made my stomach flutter with an emotion I refused to name.
***
A few nights later, Sebastian and Mama were out at some charity gala. I was curled up on the sofa, trying to focus on my history textbook, when a noise from downstairs startled me. A muffled thud, then a low curse.
My heart leaped into my throat. I crept to the top of the stairs, peering down into the dimly lit foyer. Damien stood there, his back to me, fumbling with something at his side. He wore a dark, unbuttoned shirt, and I could see the edge of something metallic glinting at his waistband.
"Damn it." He muttered, and I realized he was struggling to re-holster a gun. A very real, very large gun.
My breath caught in my throat. Milly's words echoed in my mind: *He runs the family business now. The real business.*
He finally secured the weapon, then straightened, running a hand through his dark hair. He looked tired, a faint bruise visible on his cheekbone, and a fresh cut near his temple. He turned, and his eyes, dark and weary, met mine.
His expression hardened instantly. "What are you doing up? And what are you wearing?" His gaze swept over my oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts.