The storm didn't ease up. If anything, the thunder grew louder — a constant growl that seemed to crawl into the walls, rattling the shadows that flickered at the edges of the penthouse.
Amara lay half beneath Damian's weight, her breath shallow as he pressed soft, lingering kisses down her throat, over the place where his teeth had grazed her.
She'd almost convinced herself that the knocks were in her head — until they came again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
This time, closer. Louder. Like someone stood right behind the bedroom door, their fist resting against the polished wood, waiting for her to forget who she belonged to.
Damian paused. She felt his breath hitch against her skin — the faintest flicker of annoyance that turned the air cold for a heartbeat.
"Don't." His voice was softer than a whisper but left no room for argument.
Amara swallowed. Her hand found his hair, fingers weaving through the wet strands as if she could anchor him to her and drown out everything else. But the knocks came again.
Three. Slow. Mocking.
"Damian…" she breathed, her voice cracking.
He lifted his head, his eyes burning into hers — that unnatural gray that gleamed like cold ash caught in moonlight. "Don't answer them, Amara." His thumb brushed her lip, tracing the place he'd bitten her before.
She nodded — but her gaze drifted past his shoulder, to the dark gap beneath the bedroom door. A faint line of light spilled through it now.
She shouldn't look at it. But she did. And when she did, the knocks grew softer — more like a gentle tap. A promise. Come see. Come see.
Damian's cold hand slid around her throat, not tight — just a reminder. His mouth brushed her ear, his words dragging a shiver through her whole body.
"You're mine," he murmured. "What's knocking… isn't for you. It's for me."
She knew he was right. He'd brought the darkness with him — dragged it in like a stray dog that refused to stay outside. He'd told her once, half asleep, that some monsters didn't need a door. They just needed permission.
And maybe, deep down, some sick part of her liked it. The danger. The cold kiss of fear tangled with the heat in his touch.
The knocks stopped. Silence pressed against her ears so thick she could hear the thunder of Damian's heartbeat — slow, measured, impossible.
She thought it was over. She almost let herself believe it.
Then — a whisper. Soft. Scraping under the door like fingernails. Her name.
Amara.
Her whole body tensed. Damian froze, his eyes snapping toward the door like he could see straight through it. His lips brushed her ear again, this time a threat and a promise tangled in one.
"Don't move."
But something in her chest rebelled. A heartbeat that wasn't his. A question that wanted an answer. What if she did move? What if she opened the door?
She slipped from beneath him so slowly she felt his growl rumble against her spine. He didn't grab her — not yet. He wanted to see if she'd betray him. He liked the game.
Her bare feet touched the cold floor. The storm roared louder, drowning out every warning in her head.
She reached the door. Her fingers hovered over the handle.
Behind her, Damian's voice — dark silk, sharp steel. "Amara."
She looked over her shoulder. He sat on the edge of the bed, shirt open, eyes burning holes through her. His next words cut deeper than any knife:
"If you open that door, you'll never sleep in this bed again."
Her breath shuddered. Her palm pressed to the handle. The thing on the other side exhaled her name like a lover.
She turned the knob.
The door cracked open. A cold wind slapped her face. No hallway. No lights. Just a tunnel of shadows and soft whispers.
She felt him behind her — Damian's cold hand sliding around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. His lips brushed her temple.
"You want to see what waits for you?" His teeth grazed her ear, sharp enough to draw a gasp. "Then look, wife."
He pushed the door wide.
The shadows poured in like ink, curling around her ankles, up her bare legs, cold and soft and hungry.
Somewhere inside the dark, something knocked again — but now it was inside the room, inside her head, inside him.
And as his other hand tangled in her hair, tugging her head back to kiss her throat, Amara finally understood — loving a monster meant loving the darkness, too.
The knock would never stop. And neither would he.