Ann sat at the edge of the massive bed, her fingers trembling on her lap as she watched the shadows dance on the walls of the CEO's penthouse suite. The soft hum of the city lights outside did nothing to calm the wild thumping of her heart. She still wore the silk robe he had given her — black, soft, and just a little too intimate.
A low click at the door jolted her from her thoughts. The door swung open, and there he was — Damian Blackwood, the man she had married in secret, the same man whose cold eyes could make boardrooms tremble, yet whose touch could melt every inch of her resolve.
He said nothing at first. He just stood there in his crisp shirt, the top buttons undone, revealing just enough of the inked patterns that coiled around his chest — marks she had traced with trembling fingers in the dark. His eyes, stormy and unreadable, pinned her in place.
"Why are you sitting here alone?" His voice was low, calm, but there was that sharp edge that always made her stomach flutter with fear and want.
Ann swallowed. "You locked me in, Damian."
A ghost of a smile curved his lips as he walked toward her, slow and deliberate, like a predator cornering its prey. "For your own safety. You know that."
"For my own safety or your own secrets?" she shot back, her voice softer than she intended.
He stopped right in front of her, tilting her chin up with his cold fingers. The touch sent a shiver through her entire body. "You're my wife, Ann. Everything I do is to protect what's mine."
She hated how her pulse raced when he said mine. She hated how she leaned into his touch even as her mind screamed to run.
"I'm not a thing to be locked away, Damian."
His thumb brushed her lower lip, silencing her protest. "And yet… here you are. Wearing what I gave you. Waiting for me."
Her breath caught when he bent closer, his scent — expensive cologne and something darker, dangerous — wrapping around her senses. She should push him away. She should demand answers about the secrets he kept behind locked doors and whispered midnight phone calls.
But when his lips brushed hers, soft at first, tasting, teasing, her thoughts scattered like ashes in the wind. He deepened the kiss, one hand tangling in her hair while the other slipped under the silk robe, finding the bare skin of her waist.
Ann gasped against his mouth. Her fingers fisted the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. The heat of him, the roughness of his palm on her skin, burned away every reason she had to fight.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. "Say you trust me," he murmured, his breath warm on her lips.
She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But the words lodged in her throat. There were too many secrets. Too many nights she'd heard him whispering on calls when he thought she was asleep. Too many times he came back smelling of gunpowder and lies.
"Damian…" Her voice was barely a whisper. "What are you hiding from me?"
His eyes hardened, and for a moment the softness vanished, replaced by that cold, calculating darkness she sometimes glimpsed in board meetings and midnight threats. He brushed her cheek with his thumb, but the tenderness felt like a warning.
"Trust me, Ann. That's all you need to do."
Before she could protest again, he kissed her — deeper, more demanding, stealing her breath and her doubts all at once. He lifted her easily, laying her back on the bed as if she weighed nothing at all. The silk robe slipped open, baring her to the warm air and his hungry gaze.
His lips trailed from her mouth down her neck, tasting her skin, marking her with every kiss. And for a moment — just a heartbeat — Ann let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, his secrets wouldn't destroy them both.
Outside the locked door, shadows waited. But inside, there was only the warmth of his touch, the rough scrape of his stubble on her skin, and the dangerous promise in his whispered words.