The city lights blurred past the tinted windows as the car carried them away from the warehouse. Elara sat stiffly beside Damian, the phantom weight of the knife still in her hand, the captive's scream still echoing in her ears. Every blink replayed the moment—the slash, the blood, the broken look in the man's eyes.
Her stomach twisted, but Damian's arm draped lazily along the back of the seat, his fingers brushing her shoulder in casual possession. He didn't look haunted. He looked… pleased.
"You're quiet," he said finally, his tone smooth, almost teasing.
Elara swallowed hard. "What do you expect me to say? You made me—"
"I made you stronger." He cut her off with that familiar calm, his voice both soothing and suffocating. He turned, studying her, his eyes sharp in the low glow of the passing streetlamps. "You think I wanted to hurt you? No. I wanted to see you rise. And you did."
Her throat constricted. She hated the way his praise stirred something inside her, a dark warmth curling in her belly despite the horror.
"I don't feel strong," she whispered.
Damian leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear. "That's because you've only just tasted power. Give it time, and you'll crave it."
She shivered, not from cold.
His hand slipped from the back of the seat to her neck, fingers brushing the delicate line of her throat. He didn't squeeze, didn't restrain—just rested there, a weight that reminded her how easily he could take everything. And yet, his thumb stroked slowly, almost tender.
"You're trembling," he murmured.
Elara shut her eyes, fighting to steady her breath. "Because of you."
Damian chuckled softly, the sound dark and intoxicating. "Good. Fear sharpens you. But it's not only fear, is it?"
Her eyes snapped open, and she met his gaze. His pupils were dark pools, endless, pulling her under. She wanted to deny him, to scream that he was wrong, but her body betrayed her—her pulse racing, her breath quickening under his touch.
His lips curved in a knowing smirk. "You're beginning to understand. Pain and desire, fear and strength—they live side by side. And under me, you'll learn how to wield them both."
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. "And if I don't want to learn?"
Damian's hand slid from her throat down to her collarbone, his fingers trailing slowly, deliberately, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "You already are, little dove."
The car slowed, pulling into the gates of his estate. The iron bars shut behind them with a heavy clang, sealing her fate once more.
Inside the mansion, the silence was worse. Damian led her through the marble halls, his hand never leaving her back, guiding her with an intimacy that felt both protective and possessive.
At her door, she hesitated, her hand hovering over the handle. "I don't… I don't think I can sleep after what happened."
Damian's eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper. "Then don't sleep."
Her breath caught. His meaning was clear.
Before she could retreat, his fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that burned hotter than any cruelty. "You're mine now, Elara. And I take care of what's mine."
The space between them crackled. She should have pulled back, but her body betrayed her again, leaning subtly into his touch.
Damian's lips hovered close, not kissing, not yet—just enough for her to feel the heat of him, to make her ache with the dangerous possibility. His voice was a promise and a threat all at once.
"Tonight, you'll see what belonging to me really means."