The ride home was unbearable. The city lights flashed past the tinted windows, a blur of gold and white, but I hardly noticed. Damien sat perfectly still, his posture rigid, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near his knee. His eyes were fixed forward, unreadable, calculating. The air between us was thick with unspoken words.
I wanted to speak. To demand answers.
Instead, I swallowed hard and said nothing.
Every time I dared part my lips, I felt the weight of his gaze like a hand pressing down on my chest. He doesn't care what I think. He doesn't care what I feel. The thought twisted inside me, cold and sharp.
---
When we arrived, his movements were precise, controlled. The car door closed behind him with a quiet authority that made my chest tighten. I barely had time to step forward when he was beside me, his long coat brushing against my arms.
"Inside," he said, low and commanding. No invitation. No softness.
My hands trembled as I followed, gripping my bag. I wanted to protest, to demand explanations. My voice faltered: "Damien—"
He turned his head, eyes like knives. "Do not start."
Every word he spoke was a blade, cutting through the space between us. I nodded, too afraid to challenge him further.
---
Once inside, the tension snapped. "You humiliated me!" I burst, unable to hold it any longer. "At my parents' house! In front of Clara! You—"
He cut me off with a single step forward. Close. Too close. I could feel his heat, the quiet threat that lived in his presence. His hand shot out and gripped my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
"You think I care about humiliation?" His voice was sharp, low, terrifying. "I decide what happens. You chose to stay silent. You chose this."
My chest heaved. "I didn't choose anything!"
He moved closer, closing every inch of space. My breath hitched. "Do you think I'm gentle? Do you think I wait for permission?"
I stepped back instinctively, my hand brushing the counter. A knife slid slightly under my fingers—I gasped, and in a moment of fright, it cut my palm. Blood bloomed instantly, warm and bright. I hissed.
Damien's eyes flicked down for a fraction of a second, just enough to see it, then back to me. No concern, only intensity. "Clumsy," he said. His voice was calm, cold, like he had all the time in the world. Then, without warning, he reached for me.
Before I could react, his arms wrapped around me, lifting me off my feet. My gasp caught in my throat. "Damien! Put me down!" I struggled, but his grip was iron.
"You're coming with me," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Now."
I tried to resist, my hands pressing against his chest, but he didn't falter. He carried me to his room, each step deliberate, a warning in every silent beat. The door closed behind us with authority, shutting out the world.
---
Once inside, he set me down just enough to spin me around. His hands caught my wrists, pinning them lightly against his sides. "Look at me," he ordered. I couldn't help but obey. His gaze was suffocating, intense, and I could feel every pulse of him like a drumbeat against my own.
He leaned in, his lips crashing onto mine. Forceful. Possessive. Dominant. I tried to push back, but it was useless—he held me like he owned every part of me, every thought, every hesitation. The kiss burned, claiming me entirely, and for a moment I couldn't breathe.
When he finally pulled back, I was shaking, chest heaving, tears pricking my eyes.
"Why are you crying?" His voice was sharp, but beneath it was a flicker of something raw. Not soft. Not gentle. Just… awareness.
I couldn't answer. My tears betrayed me, and I looked away.
"You're reckless," he said, brushing the hair from my face with one rough hand. He pressed a thumb to my cheek, just enough to feel the dampness of my tears. "But I don't care."
He pulled me closer, lying down so that I was pressed against his chest. My hands clenched at his shirt. His heartbeat was steady, relentless, like he was warning me: this is him, this is what you've chosen.
I pushed against him lightly. "Stop," I whispered. "Not like this."
He stiffened for a moment but didn't pull away completely. His fingers traced a line down my arm, deliberately, possessively. "I decide what happens here," he said simply. "You're mine."
The statement left no room for argument. No room for escape.
I stayed silent, pressed against him, torn between terror and desire. My mind screamed for freedom, but every fiber of my body betrayed me, drawn into his orbit.
And in the quiet that followed, I realized something terrifying: he was my poison. My addiction. My storm. And I didn't want the cure.