Damian's kiss didn't fall like dew. It crashed down like a torrential storm.
His hands were relentless, demanding, claiming every inch of her skin. But Nayla remained still. Unmoved.
Damian ravaged her body once more.
But her eyes stayed empty, even as their bodies fused.
Damian gazed down at her, his hand tangled in her hair spilled across the pillow, her skin burning under his touch. But her eyes … her eyes were lifeless.
"Say something," Damian whispered. His voice was deep, almost pleading. It wasn't a command. It was a desperate request.
Nayla blinked slowly. "What do you want to hear?" she asked emotionlessly. "That I'm yours?"
Damian gripped the sheets tightly, holding back the storm inside him. "You are literally mine," he growled.
Nayla let out a faint, empty laugh. "Then you really are no different from Nathan."
Damian rose abruptly, severing their connection. His muscles tensed, a storm raging beneath his skin.
This wasn't about possessing her body anymore. It was about owning her entirely.
And Nayla, she wasn't fighting him.
She was shutting down.
And that drove Damian insane.
"You can have my body, Damian," she said, voice calm, almost cutting. "But you'll never own my soul."
Color drained from Damian's face. His mouth seized hers roughly, furious and raw. He ripped away the covers between them, crushing her body with his own. Their skin collided, heated, slick, unstoppable.
Damian let out a guttural growl between his furious thrusts. Beneath him, Nayla didn't resist. But she didn't welcome him either.
And that … that made Damian lose his mind.
"Look at me," he snarled, pinning her wrists above her head. "Feel it. Every inch of me inside you is a promise. A curse."
His mouth raked down her neck, across her collarbone, tracing her curves. His teeth scraped her skin, leaving behind angry, purple marks. He bit, he sucked, he devoured her mercilessly.
Damian's breath was harsh, his body burning like a furnace. He hauled her up, lifted her as if she weighed nothing, and stormed to the billiard table.
"You said I'm no different," he hissed, running his rough palms up her thighs. "Then let me show you how wrong you are."
He spread her legs roughly. Bent low, hnis face mere inches from the most intimate part of her.
Damian didn't ask for permission. He didn't need it. His tongue lashed out like a whip, both punishing and worshiping. He licked, he sucked, he tormented her with deliberate cruelty.
Yet Nayla's face remained blank.
Damian snapped. He stood, slamming into her brutally, without warning.
The billiard table shook. Balls scattered across the floor. But Damian didn't care.
"You're still mine, even after being touched by someone else," he growled, biting into her shoulder. "You're mine. Even when you hate me."
Nayla gritted her teeth. She clung to the edge of the table, but her body remained cold, distant.
After what felt like eternity, Damian dragged her against him again. Still burning, still ravenous, and carried her to the bathroom.
Steam filled the air as the hot water poured down. The room grew suffocating, charged with heat and raw, violent tension.
He pinned Nayla to the wall, lifting one of her legs high, and slammed into her again.
Her hands pressed against the cold tiles, struggling to endure his feral assault. But still, her expression never changed.
"Say something," Damian hissed into her ear. "Anything."
Nayla turned her head slightly. Her eyes empty as she looked at him. And for Damian, that emptiness was the greatest insult.
With a guttural snarl, Damian pounded into her harder. In her silence, he read the rejection she never spoke aloud. And he couldn't bear it.
"What you've done to me, Nayla," he muttered darkly.
He stayed there. Inside her. Watching her face, damp from the steam, not from tears.
Their bodies were intertwined. But Damian felt like he was fucking a corpse.
Empty.
Frozen.
Nayla didn't run, but she gave him nothing in return. Not even a sigh. Her breathing rose and fell, a mere biological function, not stirred by desire.
As Damian lost control, he pulled Nayla's body harder against his. He slammed her back against the bathroom wall, a sharp clatter of falling glass breaking the air. Once. Twice. Three times. His movements grew more erratic, more desperate.
But pleasure was never what he was chasing.
He wanted a reaction. He needed Nayla to see him. To acknowledge he existed. But Nayla only turned her face away.
"Look at me," Damian growled.
Nayla remained stone still.
Gripping her face in his hands, he forced her to meet his gaze. But her eyes, those lifeless eyes, were beyond his reach.
"Goddamn it, Nayla!" Damian snarled.
He punched the rack beside her head. Not to threaten her, but because the emptiness she created inside him was eating him alive.
Blood dripped from his knuckles, but he didn't care. He simply lowered his head, resting his forehead on Nayla's unmoving shoulder.
Nayla didn't flinch. She didn't shiver. She stood there, cold and dead like a statue.
Drops of blood from Damian's fingers mingled with the water dripping from Nayla's hair.
Two colors. Two temperatures. Two different kinds of wounds.
Damian's fist clenched tighter. His knuckles cracking as he fought the urge to destroy everything around him.
His lips pressed into a hard line. A bitter taste unfurled on his tongue, like poison beginning to work its way through his system.
Damian Bellucci.
Finally, he understood. He had been defeated. Not by violence. Not by rebellion. But by a silence he could never conquer.
***
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