I couldn't breathe.
His voice was still in my ears, ordering me to leave.
His gaze lingered like he was memorizing me. Like he was almost regretting letting me go.
Then like something snapped, I stormed off.
Breath ragged, pulse thundering. My skin still carried the scent of violence, of fear. Of him. My chest heaved as if my lungs hadn't forgiven me for surviving that room.
But I kept running.
Not to my room. Not to safety.
But from the father–
To the son.
To Damien's.
I didn't knock.
I couldn't.
I just burst in like a girl on fire.
And there he was.
Half-naked. Wet. A towel slung low on his hips. Water beaded down his abs like he was carved for sin.
He looked up, startled—then smiled. A wicked, boyish thing.
"Fuck me," I whispered, breathless, trembling. Not from desire but desperation.
Eyes burning with everything I couldn't say. Just a need to reclaim something, anything.
There was no hesitation in him. He crossed the room in three strides, pulled me to him like a lifeline. His mouth crashed into mine, rough and hungry. His hand slid up my thigh, fingers curling into my panties like he already owned me.
But then
His phone rang.
He groaned. "Stay right here. Give me a second," he muttered, reaching for it.
The spell broke.
I bolted.
Out the door. Down the hallway. Past the golden chandeliers and suffocating silence.
I didn't stop. I didn't know where I was going. Just that I had to move. Breathe. Escape.
The night slapped me in the face the moment I hit the courtyard. The wind was cruel and honest, unlike anything in this house. A breath of fresh air at last.
But I needed more than just fresh air, I needed freedom.
I needed to get away from everything.
The lies.
The walls drenched in blood and secrets.
Out of Don Pedro's sick kingdom and his stupid power and ownership.
I kept walking, trembling, barefoot, aimless.
The images wouldn't stop.
There was so much in that room.
In his dark room, there was so much weapons, like a war was about to happen.
What did he offer her to earn such loyalty?
What did he threaten her with?
What has he already taken from her?
She didn't even flinch when I walked in. It was like she loved it. Like she wanted it.
What kind of submission is that?
I picked up my pace, heart racing again–but this time with purpose. I didn't care about the guards. I didn't care if they shot me. I needed to see what was beyond those iron gates.
"Stop or I'll shoot!" a voice barked as I sprinted through the garden.
I froze. Instinct.
He came closer. Recognition softened his glare. "Shit. I'm sorry, ma'am. But you're not supposed to...."
I ignored him.
I walked past him, right through the gate.
For the first since I married the devil, I was outside. Truly outside. Not in a car. Not under surveillance.
I saw the city–it saw me too.
I was free.
I walked. God, I walked far. Until the manicured driveways faded into city grime. Until the sky darkened and the heavens cracked open and poured.
I never really loved the rain–because I easily catch a cold.
But I didn't care. Let it drown me.
The rain plastered my shirt to my body, it was cold and sharp. It felt like baptism. Like maybe it could wash away the filth, the fear, the memory of everything.
Maybe.
I walked until I couldn't anymore. My legs ached. My heart did worse.
Then I turned back.
Back to the hell I just escaped.
Why? I don't know. Maybe because I had nowhere else to go. Maybe because even hell can feel like home when it's the only place that remembers your name.
The guards weren't at the gate this time. No one was. The house was still, like it knew I was coming and didn't care.
I made it to my room.
And stopped cold.
Don Pedro was sitting there in the shadows like a storm waiting to strike.
"I sent every man I had out looking for you," he said in a low horse voice. "Why the fuck do you never listen?"
"Did you fuck her?" No anger. No jealousy. Just a flat, hollow voice like I was asking about the weather, because feeling anything would've broken me.
It was just like–poison straight from the source.
His eyes moved slowly, so slowly, over my drenched body.
My nipples poked through the soaked tank top. My hair stuck to my face. Water trailed down my skin like tears.
He didn't blink.
"Yes."
One word. Heavy. Hoarse.
He said it like a confession.
He said it like a victory.
But why did I care?
"Why do you never listen?" he asked again, quieter this time.
I laughed. A short, bitter sound.
"I don't know." I said nonchalantly. " Maybe you should just drag me to your dark room of possession, and cuff me and flog me." I breathe heavily.
He frowned. "Dark room of what?" He asked surprised.
But I ignore his question.
"And rape me... again"
The word caught in my throat, barely louder than a breath. But it filled the whole room.
The silence after that was deafening.
"Like you did to me the other night." I paused.
"Like your friends tried to do to me today." This one came out louder.
He stilled.
He moved toward me. Slowly. Deliberately.
I didn't flinch.
I wouldn't.
"What happened that night..." he said, voice even. "What I did to you the other night..." He rephrased. That mattered.
Silence hung between us.
"It shouldn't have happened."
Maybe, just maybe, I saw guilt in his eyes.
I stared at him for a while.
"But it'd happened," I whispered.
I walked past him, over to the drawer. Pulled out dry clothes. His eyes followed my every move. I could feel his stare dragging over me like chains.
I felt a fleeting moment of vulnerability, which was masked by his usual haughty demeanor.
His refusal to yield to his emotions infuriated me even more.
But somehow,
I felt drawn to the sense of protection he'd offered me, the way he'd deliberately shielded me from harm, even if he was the one who'd put me in harm's way in the first place.
I peeled off my wet clothes and wrapped a towel around me. My hands trembled. My heart did too.
I took one step toward the bathroom—
"I want out," I said, voice barely holding together. "What can I do to break out of whatever deal you and my father had?"
His answer came too fast.
"Nothing."
I stopped.
"Why?" He asked back. This question coming from him was surprising.
That single word cracked in the silence like glass.
I didn't answer immediately.
I turned slowly to face him.
"I hate you, Don Pedro De Luca," I whispered with soooo much hatred.
And this time, I think I meant every word.