Disobeying Don Pedro came with a weight I wasn't ready for. We barely made it out of that mall.
Damien got into a fistfight with one of the robbers. It ended badly.
He got shot.
The authorities showed up just in the nick of time—anything later, it would have been worse.
Damien could've protected himself If I hadn't been there.
One of the gun men reached for me, grabbing me like I was nothing more than property. That's the problem with small looking women like me, people assume we're weak, easy to take and break.
Damien was rushed to the hospital. The bullet hadn't penetrated deeply, so they removed it quickly. But the blood… there was too much of it.
Osaro came for us.
He didn't speak to me at first. Just that silence–the kind that screams.
I knew the anger was mine to bear. I'd snuck out with Damien without telling Osaro. He was Don Pedro's right hand man, fiercely loyal and Don Pedro had personally tasked him with looking after me.
I wish I had just stayed at home.
Damien was furious. Not just about the attack—about the fact he couldn't retaliate. Couldn't punish the bastard who lay his hands on me and I wish he didn't feel that way because of me.
That ate him. I saw it. Felt it.
And I hated myself for it.
I hadn't just disobeyed an order. I'd gotten Damien–his son hurt.
"Can I tell Don Pedro what happened myself?" I asked Osaro as he led me into the house.
His jaw tightened. "He already knows, ma'am."
My stomach twisted.
"Are you gonna get in trouble?" I asked quietly.
His eyes flicked as if measuring the consequences. "Yes, ma'am."
A sharp breath escaped me, heat creeping up my cheeks.
The room felt oppressively quiet.
Too quiet.
I eased into the bath, letting the heat seep into my skin. The guilt didn't ease, no matter how much I wanted it to. Even changing into soft clothes offered no comfort.
It all felt wrong.
A knock jolted me.
It was Ma'am Pat.
She stepped in before I could answer.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" Her face was etched with concern, her voice gentle—motherly.
The moment I saw her, I crumpled into her arms, like a child who'd lost her way. She smelled of warmth, of home, of everything I'd been missing.
Her hand threaded through my hair. "It's not your fault, okay?"
"I… I got everyone in trouble," I stammered, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm so scared."
Her chest shivered beneath my face. "We're all scared. Don Pedro… he's dangerous."
The words sank into me, heavier than I expected.
"What's the worst that could happen?" I asked, my throat tight.
She drew in a shaky breath. "He kills… when he's mad."
I swallowed hard.
She paused, as if weighing each syllable. Then, her voice trembled: "But… when it's someone he cares about—he destroys everything."
My fingers quivered against her dress. My lungs felt too small. The thought of him… it made my skin crawl.
She tucked me in like a child, smoothing the duvet around me. "Try to sleep. You've had a long day."
But sleep didn't come.
I lay there, tracing the patterns of the chandelier, unable to still my thoughts. Every time I shut my lids, Damien's bleeding flashed before me ·Don Pedro's fury, the what-ifs.
I hated it.
And then I couldn't take it anymore. I climbed out of bed and tiptoed down the hall to Damien's door.
Knock. Knock.
No answer.
I opened the door anyway.
He sat on the edge of his bed, hunched over, thumb scrolling through his phone. His bandaged arm rested awkwardly on his lap, dark blood seeping through the gauze.
He didn't spare me a glance.
"Hey," I said gently.
Nothing.
"I knocked... you didn't answer. I just wanted to check on you."
Still nothing.
I stepped closer.
"Are you going to be okay?" I whispered.
He looked up and his eyes burned.
"Why are you here?" he snapped.
I blinked . "I... I just wanted to..."
"Get out."
I froze, certain I'd misheard. Yet he said it again.
"Get the fuck out."
Startled, I turned around quickly–hurt, angry and ashamed.
Going back to my room would mean being swallowed by the oppressive silence and the relentless flashes of guilt. So I stood at the threshold of Don Pedro's dark room—the one I'd sworn never to enter. I inhaled sharply, hesitated, then stepped inside, because somehow, it felt like the only place that wouldn't judge me.
My fingers brushed over the restraints. The spreaders. The clamps. The floggers.
Some of which, I vaguely recognize from fifty shades. But most of it? I didn't know their names, or purpose.
I lingered. Touched. A shiver ran down my spine. My stomach twisted.
This was no curiosity. This was fear.
And maybe... regret.
Quietly , I slipped back to my room.
And froze.
Someone was sitting in the shadows.
It wasn't Don Pedro.
The silhouette was smaller. His son. Damien.
"Damien?" My voice wavered.
He lifted his head slowly, dreamlike. Nightmare-like.
"What are you doing here?" I whispered. He'd just thrown me out.
"What, you can barge into my space–beg me to fuck you or come play nurse, but I can't come into yours?"
His words came out ragged and uneven.
"Are you okay?" I took a cautious step forward.
He rose, unsteady, dragging his feet across the floor, every step seeming to weigh him down.
"You keep asking if I'm okay....would you let me fuck you again if I said I wasn't?"
He reeked of alcohol, like he'd had a drink, or two. Or too much. And some smoke too.
"I understand that....." I tried.
"You don't understand a thing," he snapped.
"I couldn't keep you. Couldn't protect you. I'm nothing like my father."
He stepped closer. Too close. Unsteady, drunk and high.
The air changed. His breath hit me
"It's not a competition, Damien," I whispered, inching back.
He advanced.
His fingers curled around my hair, gently at first. I looked into his eyes–they were unfamiliar. The boyish look was gone; all I saw now was darkness.
"Why won't you let me–again?" His grip dug into my arms.
"Damien, let go." I struggled.
His fingers tangled tighter in my hair, possessively and unyielding.
"I said let me go." I pushed, harder.
Breath caught. Memories surged.
Our eyes locked.
"Don't do this?" I choked.
He pulled me closer.
I gasped.
"Damien, please."