"Don't waste this on fury," Damian whispered. "There are better things to do with fire."
Lorraine's breath hitched. His mouth was only heartbeats from hers now. And though she hated it—hated it—her body remembered his reputation. The honeyed words. The veiled power. The silk-wrapped dagger of a man who killed with fans and smiled while doing it.
He leaned in closer, as if about to kiss her.
But Lorraine didn't flinch.
Didn't back down.
Didn't run.
Instead, her gloved finger lifted. Slowly, deliberately, she traced the line of his lips, then ran it just beneath his nose.
"Do it," she said, her smirk curling like smoke. "And I'll show you magnificence you won't recover from."
For a moment, the air was thick with tension—desire, defiance, something darker neither of them wanted to name. Ten seconds passed in silence.
Then Damian suddenly staggered back.
"Wha—what did you… what did you do?" His fingers pressed to his forehead, confusion flashing across his features.
