Ann woke to the sound of the storm returning — rain slamming the windows like desperate fists trying to claw their way in. Damian's side of the bed was empty but still cold, as if he'd never left her at all.
She pushed herself up, wincing at the bruises blooming along her wrists — tiny purple kisses from the night before when he'd held her too tightly, like he was afraid she'd slip through the cracks he'd carved in her own mind.
The shadows clung to the corners of the room again — quieter tonight, almost shy. But Ann knew better than to trust them. They'd learned to wait.
She wrapped the silk sheet around her shoulders and stepped onto the cold marble floor. Damian's scent — rain, smoke, expensive sin — lingered in the air. It led her to the hallway, then down the winding staircase to the private lounge he kept locked from everyone else.
The door stood ajar now. The same door she wasn't supposed to touch. But the silence behind it called to her like a heartbeat in the dark.
She pushed it open.
Damian stood by the tall windows, his shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Blood streaked his forearm — not his. A thin line of red dripped onto the marble and vanished like the floor itself was thirsty.
He didn't turn when she stepped inside. But his voice found her anyway — that cold silk sliding under her skin.
"You should be sleeping."
Ann's fingers dug into the sheet wrapped around her chest. "You're hurt."
Damian laughed softly — the sound too empty to be human. "It's not my blood."
She saw it then — the dark stain trailing from the door to where he stood. A man's shadow lay crumpled near the fireplace, face hidden, limbs twisted at an angle that told her he'd never leave this house alive.
Ann's throat closed. She wanted to run — but her bare feet stayed rooted to the cold floor.
Damian finally turned. His pale eyes found hers like knives. But his mouth softened when it curved into that smile that always made her forget who he was.
He stepped closer, dripping blood between them as he cupped her face with his clean hand. His thumb brushed her lower lip, smearing a faint line of red where he touched.
"He knocked," Damian murmured. "He thought you'd answer."
Ann's pulse skittered. The shadows behind him danced — like they were feeding on the heat rolling off her skin.
"What did you do?" she whispered.
Damian tilted his head, eyes glinting. "I reminded him whose door he knocked on."
He took her wrist gently, lifting it between them. Her pulse fluttered under his touch — alive, warm, still hers. For now.
"Do you trust me, Ann?"
She tried to speak. Tried to lie. But his grip tightened just enough to squeeze the truth from her tongue.
"Yes."
Damian's smile sharpened. He brought her wrist to his mouth, brushing his lips over her skin where her heartbeat trembled against his teeth.
"Then trust this."
His teeth sank into her wrist — not deep enough to hurt, but enough to break the skin. Heat flared, then cold. He licked the blood slowly, like a vow whispered in a dead language.
Ann's knees buckled. The shadows shivered, pressing closer.
When he pulled back, a single drop of her blood clung to his lower lip. He didn't wipe it away — he wanted her to see it there, part of him now.
"You're mine," he breathed. "Body, soul — fear, flesh, warmth. Every knock at that door is for me. And every time you answer, you remind them that I own what they want."
Ann's breath hitched. The storm outside slammed the windows so hard the glass trembled — but the only thing that felt dangerous was his mouth when he kissed her wrist again, sealing the wound with his tongue like a dark benediction.
Somewhere behind them, the dead man's shadow twitched in the firelight — but Ann didn't look. Damian's fingers were at her throat now, cold and careful, guiding her closer until there was nowhere else to run except into him.
The shadows could knock all night — but she knew, in that moment, that the real danger was already inside the house.
Inside her.