The storm had been raging for hours, pounding against the glass walls of the penthouse like angry fists. Somewhere far below, the city lights flickered through the rain, but up here, everything felt suspended in a bubble of cold darkness.
Amara sat curled up at the far end of the massive bed, her knees pulled tight to her chest. She could hear the wind howling, but what made her shiver wasn't the weather. It was him.
Damian.
Her husband.
Her curse.
Her only safe place — and her most dangerous secret.
He stood near the window, half hidden in the shadows, his white shirt unbuttoned, collar loose around his throat. The lightning that cracked through the sky for a moment lit up his face — sharp jaw, pale skin, eyes that glowed too cold to be called human.
She hated how beautiful he looked when he wasn't pretending to be normal. And tonight, he wasn't pretending. Not for her.
"Why are you standing there like that?" Amara's voice was small, but it cut through the storm.
Damian turned, his smile slow and thin — the kind of smile that made her stomach twist with fear and something darker.
"Because I like watching you." His voice was a low drawl, smooth and dangerous, like silk over a knife.
Amara's breath caught as he stepped closer. She could see now — the faint trail of blood at the cuff of his sleeve. She didn't want to know whose it was. She didn't want to know why it didn't bother her more than it should.
"You're wet," she whispered. Her eyes darted to the drops clinging to his hair, sliding down his neck. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of the rain and into her nightmare.
Damian tilted his head, like he was studying her. Then he dropped the umbrella he'd been holding — not that it had done him any good — and stalked to the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he knelt in front of her.
Amara pressed back into the headboard, her breath hitching when he lifted his hand — that same hand smeared with a hint of red — and traced her cheek. His touch was freezing cold, but her skin burned under it.
"You're trembling." His lips brushed her ear as he spoke, and she shivered harder.
"I'm not afraid of you," she lied.
A soft laugh ghosted against her neck — dark, amused, but there was something tender buried underneath it. "Liar." His thumb stroked her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes. The shadows behind him shifted — like something waited just beyond the reach of the bedside lamp.
He leaned in until his forehead rested against hers. "You hear them, don't you?" he whispered.
Amara squeezed her eyes shut. The knocks — soft, distant, echoing through the walls since he'd come back. She'd pretended not to hear. She always did.
"What do you want from me?" Her voice broke when his hand slid into her hair, tangling there like he'd anchor himself with her heartbeat.
Damian's other hand found her wrist, lifted it, pressed her palm to his chest. She felt it — the steady, unnatural calm of his heartbeat. Too slow to be alive. Too warm to be dead.
"I want you to trust me." He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes — those storm-gray eyes that made him look like a man when he wasn't one at all.
"I do trust you." Another lie — or maybe it wasn't. Because when his cold mouth brushed hers, her fear melted just enough to let the heat slip through.
Lightning split the sky behind him, lighting up the room — and for a heartbeat, Amara saw it. The shadows standing at the edges of the room — shapes that shouldn't have shapes. Watching. Waiting. Keeping him company when she couldn't.
Her gasp got swallowed by his kiss. It was cold at first — his lips a sharp contrast to the warmth flooding her veins. Then the kiss deepened, a soft groan breaking from his throat as if she was the only living thing he could cling to.
Her fingers curled in his hair. His grip on her wrist tightened — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her that she wasn't going anywhere. Neither was he.
When he pulled back, his breath was ragged, his eyes brighter than any lightning. "Promise me something, Mrs. CEO," he rasped, mouth brushing her jaw, the pulse at her throat.
"What?" she whispered, fighting the tremor in her voice.
"If they knock…" His lips trailed to her ear, fangs grazing her skin so lightly she shuddered. "Don't you dare open the door."
Before she could answer, three soft knocks echoed through the wall behind the bed — so close it felt like it came from inside the room. She froze.
Damian's mouth curved into a dark smile against her throat. "Let them wait," he murmured. Then he sank his teeth gently into her skin — not enough to break it, but enough to remind her what he really was. What she'd really married.
Her soft gasp melted into a moan as the storm roared louder outside — and the monsters behind the door knocked again, hungry, patient, and powerless as long as she stayed right here, in the arms of the man who would kill the world just to keep her warm.