The storm outside had quieted, but inside Damian's penthouse, the shadows still whispered along the walls like they were waiting for her to slip. To forget. To open another door she couldn't close.
Ann lay awake in the tangled sheets, Damian's cold arm draped over her waist like a lock and key. His chest pressed to her back, his breath cold against her neck — steady, slow, too calm for someone whose secrets kept scraping at the door.
She didn't dare move. Every time she shifted, his fingers twitched — a silent reminder that he didn't sleep like other men did. Or maybe he didn't sleep at all.
"Are you awake?" she whispered, afraid of waking him and more afraid he'd answer.
Silence. Then a low hum in the dark — his lips brushing her ear. Always awake. That's what his breath said without words.
His arm tightened, pulling her closer until she could feel the icy drag of his bare skin against hers. He smelled like cold rain and old storms — the kind that drown whole cities if they stay too long.
"You're thinking too loud," he murmured, voice a hush that made her spine shiver. "About the door. About them."
Ann's lips parted. She tried to deny it, but his hand slid up, pressing over her mouth before she could lie.
"I warned you," Damian whispered. His mouth found her temple, cold lips dragging down to her jaw. "If you open another door, I won't close it this time. I'll let them drag you through and I'll follow you down."
A chill shot through her bones at his promise. But his hand moved from her mouth to her throat — gentle, almost soft, a mockery of tenderness as his thumb stroked her pulse.
"You think I'm the monster," he breathed. "You're wrong, Ann. You are."
She wanted to ask what he meant, but the words tangled in her throat when he rolled her onto her back, pinning her to the cold silk sheets. The shadows above them trembled like they were listening — hungry.
Damian's eyes found hers in the darkness — pale, cold, unblinking. "Say it," he demanded, his knee nudging her legs apart, pressing between her thighs until the warmth he'd stolen was trapped under him. "Say who you belong to."
Ann's lips trembled. Her heartbeat skittered against his palm. "You."
"Again." He dipped his head, mouth grazing her collarbone where her fear tasted sweetest.
"I belong to you," she breathed.
His laugh was soft, cruel. "Good girl."
The knocks came again — faint this time, as if the thing behind the door had grown tired of waiting. Damian's smile turned sharp against her throat. "Let them knock. They'll never have you."
He kissed her then — a cold, devouring kiss that stole her breath so fast her vision blurred. His hand slid lower, tracing the shape of her ribs, her hip, the place only he could touch. The shadows pressed closer, wrapping around the bedposts like vines — watching, hissing, powerless.
When he pulled back, his voice was a vow carved into the darkness. "No more doors, Ann. No more secrets. You want to run? I'll find you. You want to hide? I'll break your walls."
Her pulse hammered under his touch, but she didn't look away. "What if I stay?"
Damian's grin was wicked and sweet all at once — a promise and a curse. "Then I'll never let you go."
Outside, the night fell silent — like the storm had bowed to the darkness that lived in their bed. The last knock faded into nothing.
And when Damian's mouth claimed hers again, the shadows shrank back into the walls — locked out by the only thing they feared more than her warmth.
Him.