Morning sunlight filtered into the vast Rothwell estate kitchen, casting pale gold streaks across the marble counters. I stood there, my hair loosely tied back, sleeves rolled to my elbows, slicing vegetables with deliberate care. Cooking wasn't really something a Rothwell daughter should be doing—at least not in my father's eyes—but I liked it. It grounded me. It gave me a moment where I wasn't Evelyn Rothwell, the pawn in business negotiations, but just a woman who could control the heat of a stove and the rhythm of a knife.
The house was too quiet. That kind of silence always made me uneasy, because it usually meant he was around. Damien.
Even the staff seemed to sense his presence whenever he was near—movements slowed, voices dropped, like the entire house knew it belonged to him the moment he stepped in. I hadn't heard him arrive this morning, but that didn't mean he wasn't here. Damien had a way of appearing like a shadow—silent, controlled, yet suffocating.
I tried to shake off the thought and focused on the cutting board, but my hand trembled the moment I heard the deep creak of leather shoes against the polished wooden floor. Slow. Purposeful. Coming closer.
My breath hitched. I didn't turn. I didn't have to. My body already knew it was him.
The air behind me shifted. Heat pressed against my back, a presence so solid it felt like the air thickened. Then—without warning—his arms slid around me, strong and cold, pinning me against his chest.
The shock made my body jolt. The knife slipped. A sharp sting ran through my palm as the blade cut into my skin.
"Ah—" I gasped, the sound escaping before I could stop it. Blood welled immediately, bright red against pale skin.
Damien's arms didn't loosen. If anything, his hold tightened as though even my pain was something he wanted to claim. His face lowered until his lips brushed the shell of my ear, his voice a whisper—low, calm, terrifying.
"You should be more careful, Evelyn. What if that pretty hand of yours gets ruined?"
I trembled. "D-Damien, let go—"
But he didn't. His grip was possessive, unyielding, the kind that told me it wasn't a request I could ever make. My free hand pressed against the counter for balance, while my injured palm throbbed, blood sliding down my wrist in thin, hot trails.
He finally released me—not with kindness, but with a deliberate slowness, as if reminding me that letting go was his choice, not mine. He reached for a napkin, caught my bleeding hand, and pressed the cloth to it with startling precision.
For a moment, his eyes met mine. Cold. Obsessed. A storm hidden under ice.
"You know how a man addicted to cocaine can't stop craving it?" he said, his lips curving into something between a smirk and a threat. "That's how I get addicted to you."
My heart hammered against my ribs. His words weren't romantic—they were dangerous, binding, a confession and a warning all at once.
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Because deep down, I knew he meant it. Every syllable.
The napkin pressed firmly against my hand, his grip almost bruising. I tried to pull away, but Damien didn't allow it. His thumb brushed over the edge of the wound as though he was testing my pain, measuring how much of it he could own.
"You flinch too easily," he said quietly, not looking at me but at the blood soaking through the white fabric. "Do you know what that tells me, Evelyn?"
I swallowed hard. "That… I'm human?"
His eyes flicked up, sharp as glass. "No. It tells me you're not used to being touched by me. And that—" his voice dipped lower, colder, "—is something I intend to change."
The words made my stomach tighten. I wanted to push him back, but my body refused to move. The kitchen felt smaller, suffocating, like the walls themselves leaned in at his command.
"Damien, this isn't—"
"Isn't what?" He stepped closer, pressing me against the edge of the counter. His height towered over me, shadowing the morning light. "Isn't right? Isn't normal? Or isn't something you can fight?"
My breath came shallow. I hated how he could twist every word I hadn't even said yet.
He leaned down, his lips brushing dangerously close to my ear. "Tell me, Evelyn. Do you want to go back home?"
The question wasn't innocent. It was laced with possession, like he was asking if I dared to think of a world outside of him.
I shook my head slightly, my voice trembling. "This is my home."
A soft, humorless laugh escaped him. "No. This is mine. You…" His fingers tilted my chin up until my gaze locked into his unrelenting stare. "…are mine."
The cloth slipped from my hand, forgotten, as he held me there, his eyes consuming every ounce of resistance I thought I had left.
I wanted to scream at him, shove him away, tell him he was wrong. But my body betrayed me—my heart raced, my skin burned where his hand touched, and my thoughts blurred.
Damien's smirk returned, faint but chilling. "Good girl."