Elena stayed propped against the desk long after Damien left, the cavernous office holding nothing but the quick, uneven thud of her heartbeat and the slow drift of pale clouds beyond the glass. Her lips tingled and burned, still warm from what had just happened. His kiss lingered like a warm brand on her skin, a weight and heat she couldn't shake. Thoughts crashed through her head like wind whipping loose papers across a dark street. In an instant, white‑hot rage blazed through her, sparked by his sheer audacity—the raw sting of the violation.safeHe hadn't lured her in—he'd claimed her—and somewhere inside, she'd given way as easily as a door left unlocked. Then another wave hit her—the taste of his lips, warm and quick, still lingering. That sudden jolt of knowing you're exactly where you should be. In that sudden, brutal instant, the loneliness that had shadowed her for years was gone, swept away by a raw, primal connection so fierce it nearly buckled her legs. Her body—traitorous thing—still pulsed with the aftershock, a low, warm thrum like heat radiating through her chest, leaving her both shaken and exhilarated. A sob caught in her throat as she shoved herself back from the desk. She needed to get out of this room, away from its stale air and flickering light. Her weakness tainted it, along with the faint trace of his cologne that clung stubbornly to the air and the walls. She rushed to her suite—the only space that felt truly hers—and slammed the door so hard the frame shuddered, as if the noise could drown out the battle clawing at her chest. She walked back and forth across the sitting room, the carpet soft under her feet, her mind darting from one thought to the next. This was how he planned to hold her in his grip, like a hand tightening slowly around a fragile glass. Not with locks or watchmen, but with this—this unshakable bond you can almost feel, like warm hands clasped tight. He'd turn her body and instincts against her, the way a trap snaps shut on an unsuspecting hand. He'd lure her into wanting the thing that was slowly unraveling her, like reaching for one more sip of bitter, burning whiskey. She hated herself for it—for the frail spot he'd uncovered as easily as brushing dust from a table. Desperate to feel like herself again, she marched into the cool marble bathroom and locked eyes with the woman in the mirror. She met the stranger's eyes and saw them glint in the dim light. Her gray eyes widened, dark against her pale skin; a flush warmed her cheeks, and her lips, faintly swollen, carried the unmistakable imprint of his claim. Seeing it—the undeniable proof she'd given in—hit her like a punch, sharp and cold, and the self-loathing rose all over again. She twisted the chrome knob until steam curled up from the stream, then stepped into the hot spray. She scrubbed her skin, her lips, her arms, as if hot water could strip away his touch, his scent, the ghost of his fingers tangled in her hair. But it didn't help—a cold, flat nothing settled in instead. The bond he described didn't touch her skin—it pulsed beneath it, stitched into the very code of her DNA. The harder she worked to forget him, the sharper he lingered—like the ghost of that kiss brushing her lips, a touch she couldn't shake. Hot water streamed over her shoulders, and through the noise in her head, a fresh thought pushed its way in. Her old tricks didn't work here; it was like swinging at smoke. Logic cracked and fell apart, splintering like glass against the unshakable wall of his otherworldly power.safeShe couldn't fight him with the weapons she'd once trusted—sharp words, quiet logic—because he'd tossed those rules aside and made his own. She needed a new plan, one that didn't follow the same worn path. If she wanted to survive—and somehow find a way out—she had to do more than just push back. She needed to understand, the way you need to feel the heat from a stove before you trust it's on. She needed to master the rules he lived by, spot the cracks in his armor, and turn his own tactics back on him. She didn't have room for rage or fear anymore; both felt as useless as a broken lock in a storm. She had to shut down every feeling, like slamming a window against the icy wind. She had to think three steps ahead, like a chess player eyeing the board. She had to step onto the board as an equal, moving her own pieces instead of waiting to be pushed. A cold, unshakable resolve gripped her, snuffing out the frantic heat that had been racing in her chest. She shut off the water and stepped from the shower, pulling a thick, soft towel around herself that hugged her skin like warm velvet. She headed straight for the closet, a silent mausoleum crammed with dresses she'd never worn. She shoved her dirt-streaked uniform to the side—the last scrap of her old life—and started thumbing through the racks. If she had to live in this gilded cage, she'd keep her head high and her spirit unbroken. She'd slip into the role of a spy, blending into a crowded café with a book open and her eyes quietly scanning the room. The first rule of espionage? Disappear into the crowd until even your shadow looks like theirs.
Elena on the closet, a general in a warehouse, looking at the arms in her arsenal. Each hanger was carrying a potential uniform of a disguise. The heap of old clothes on the floor had once been the uniform of a victim, of a creature created as if an object. That girl was gone-and in any case, she had to be. Changing her name would breathe life into her here.
A pair of well-fitted black pants and another forest colored cashmere jumper caught her attention. The fabric of the gray-eyed woman was foreign-alien to her skin, alien as it was, offering whispers of a life she had failed to live. The feeling in her wild dress reminded her of wearing a costume; such an ill suited garment would not be expected ever to wear again. The look of her own self metamorphosis was overwhelming when she saw herself in the mirror. The rich-green cashmere sweater worked magic with the stormy eyes in complementing the deepness in her same gazes. You could not see the waitress anymore. It looked like she belonged here. The reality crept in, mingling the thoughts of power and profound.
With the muffler firmly clad around her neck, she felt some of her grip coming back. She made a deep, large breath to lend further calmness to her walk. She wouldn't listen to bull about waiting for him to callabor. She would meet him on her human terms, or at least give the impression thereof.
She found him in the main living area, looking out the magnificent expanse of windows as he had been when she came in the first time. He stood, staring down at the city, as a king enjoying his own domain. He didn't even turn as she walked toward him, but she knew he did notice her.
"The clothes look good on you," he remarked, his voice a soft rumbling so deep.
Elena chose to stop a few feet from him. She didn't spring forward, nor did she squawk with repulsion over the clothes. She forced restraint on herself and presented a tone already sharp in checkmate-kind and measured. "We need to talk," she declared.
He slowly turned with his piercing golden eyes on her. His voice scraped over her again. "It isn't good to be here."
"But I'm already here all the same, am I not? And the best thing to do is simply get on with things." The defiance in her voice had shriveled away and had instead left behind something else which had never been there before.
"So be it," he waved just a hint in a movement so bereft of emotion that it was almost chilling. And he gestured again; she moved toward the huge cushioning of the largest of the sofas in the great room.
She sat there uncomfortably with her knees on the edge of the cover and her back straight. He remained standing.
"The modern world that you know is mere glaze," he began almost professorially. "Beneath this glaze lies another world, that attributes to different rules, different powers. It is a world organized by ancient bloodlines, by powerful families that have existed in the shadows for centuries, fighting for influence and territory. I am the head of one such family."
"I see," she agreed, listening to someone she would never trust.
"Yet some are rivals," he added. "They see my power as a threat to their power. Yet the greater deal? Those that hunt us. Mercenaries who understand our existence and manipulate wanting to cage us and abuse us for our very unique capabilities. These others are wicked. They pick up on any weakness in the defenses of a family."
A feline smile began to grace Damien's lips. He was at ease now, the image of the young girl in his office with whom he had pitied her the least long forgotten. Instead, she projected a woman who thought of strategy. It was an intellectual virtue, and he discerned she was now on the verge of embracing her real self.
"Fine." He motioned to one of the oversized sofas. He then sat.
Glancing around in the room, she asked, "And what transpires now?"
His thumb started to trace her jawline. Two deep, melancholy eyes locked on her face as though intending to pierce through. "You shall now learn about your position in these here walls," he said, the evil delight showing through as he spoke. "With me." His voice was low and distant.
"My inner circle for that night shall dine with us. The pillars of his family are such-and such whom I stated before, and I am sure exceedingly eager to meet the woman who can avert or crown their Alpha in what lies ahead."