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The scent of citrus and sun-warmed concrete welcomed Amara back to the place she never thought she'd call home again.
The long, tree-lined driveway stretched before her like a path into another life. The mansion rose at the end, still as intimidating as it had been years ago—stone, sleek, cold, modern, and expensive. Just like the man who owned it.
Her stepfather.
She stepped out of the Uber, her suitcase clunking to the ground behind her. The summer heat clung to her skin, the air thick with humidity. Her tiny denim shorts stuck slightly to her thighs as she adjusted the strap of her tank top. She hadn't bothered with a bra in the heat—it wasn't like she was expecting anyone but her brother to be home.
But fate had other plans.
The heavy oak door swung open before she could knock.
Damien knight.
The years hadn't softened him. If anything, they'd carved his face into something sharper—something more dangerous. He wore black slacks and a fitted charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled up, veins visible along his forearms. His eyes were like cold steel under thick lashes, and his hair, once a messy black, was now artfully disheveled, streaked with hints of grey at the temples.
He looked like sin in human form.
And he looked nothing like her father.
Her breath caught in her throat, though she forced herself to smile. "Damien."
He didn't return the smile. He just stared. His eyes moved over her—once, slowly. From the bare curve of her shoulder to the hint of nipple pressing against the thin cotton of her top. To her navel ring glittering beneath the tank. To her legs—long, tanned, toned—exposed and unapologetic.
His jaw clenched, but his face remained unreadable. "You're early."
"I wanted to surprise Aiden."
"Your brother's still at practice. He'll be back in an hour."
She bit her lower lip and tilted her head, stepping past him into the cool interior of the house. "Then you're stuck with me for now."
She didn't see the way his eyes lingered on her ass as she passed, the subtle shift in his posture as he took in her scent—sweet, a little sweat, a lot of trouble.
The house hadn't changed much, but it smelled like him. Clean cologne, leather, expensive scotch.
She wandered into the living room, throwing herself onto the wide sofa, legs folding under her in a way that made her shorts ride up even more. She caught him glancing. Just once. But it was enough to light something warm in her belly.
God, he was even hotter than she remembered. And that was saying something, because even when she was fifteen and confused about her hormones, she'd thought he was devastatingly attractive. He was still broad-shouldered and intense, but now... now there was something more. A quiet danger. An authority that made her heart stutter in her chest.
He walked past her, his voice tight. "Your room's been cleaned. Same one as before."
"I figured," she said casually, though her heart was hammering. "You still treat me like I'm a kid."
He paused.
Turned.
There it was again—that flicker. The heat behind the ice.
"You're not a kid anymore, Amara."
She swallowed. Hard.
He said it so low, so dark, that she felt it between her thighs.
She stood, suddenly very aware of her nearly sheer tank top and the way her nipples had hardened. "Thanks, I guess. You've changed."
"So have you."
He said it without looking at her. As if looking would betray something he didn't want her to see.
But she'd already seen enough.
The afternoon passed in a haze of tension. She showered slowly, letting the water run over her flushed skin. The image of him—his arms, the deep timbre of his voice—wouldn't leave her mind. Her fingers drifted lower, brushing over the ache he'd awakened with just a look.
Was it wrong?
Maybe.
But it was also irresistible.
By the time her brother came home, the heat between her legs was only matched by the heat in her cheeks.
Dinner was awkward. Her mom had gone out of town for a conference, leaving the three of them alone. Aiden talked a mile a minute, laughing about some soccer game, oblivious to the thick silence between his father and sister.
Amara met Damien's eyes once.
Just once.
And it was like being stripped bare.
He looked at her as if he wanted to tear her apart and punish himself for it.
Later that night, after Aiden had gone to bed and the house was cloaked in velvet silence, Amara wandered downstairs for water.
She didn't expect to see Damien in the kitchen.
He stood by the counter in just a pair of dark lounge pants, shirtless, a tumbler of whiskey in hand. Moonlight pooled over his sculpted chest, catching on every line of muscle, every scar, every tense breath.
She stopped in the doorway, staring.
He didn't notice her at first.
Then he did.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, voice low and rumbling.
"Too hot"she replied, walking in, pretending not to notice how his gaze dipped over her bare legs, her braless chest in the loose sleep shirt.
"You should be careful walking around like that," he said, turning to pour himself another drink.
"Like what?"
He turned. His eyes burned into her.
"Like you're asking to be fucked."
She froze. Her breath caught in her throat. Blood roared in her ears.
He stepped forward. Not enough to touch—but close enough to feel the electricity.
"I'm not your father, Amara," he said darkly. "But I've tried to treat you like a daughter. Don't make me stop trying."
She should've felt ashamed. Angry. Disgusted.
She felt wet.
"I'm not a little girl anymore," she whispered.
He didn't move. His jaw clenched again.
"I noticed."
A pause. A breath. A lifetime.
Then he stepped away.
"Go to bed," he said gruffly, turning his back on her.
But she didn't miss the way his hand trembled slightly on the glass. Or the way his chest rose and fell faster than before.
She walked away with shaky knees, biting back a victorious smile.
He wanted her.
And she had every intention of making him break.
She was fire wrapped in temptation, and every second she was near made his control unravel thread by thread.
He watched the sway of her hips as she walked away, her sleep shirt riding up dangerously high.
She didn't know what she was doing.
Or maybe she did.
Maybe that was what scared him most.
He took a long drink of whiskey, the burn barely cutting through the other burn growing inside him.
"She's just a girl,"he muttered under his breath. "My son's sister my wife's daughter."
And yet... all he could think about was how soft her lips looked.
How easy it would be to pull her into him.
To teach her what men like him did to girls like her.
And how much she would beg for more.
END OF CHAPTER 1
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Author's Note:
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