The morning light that filtered through the stone windows felt foreign, intrusive, almost accusatory. I woke on the stiff bed, muscles aching, mind buzzing with the memory of Damian's touch from last night. Every inch of me remembered it—the heat, the insistence, the silent claim of possession that left no room for argument.
I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the sheet, heart hammering. I am a prisoner, I reminded myself. This is survival, nothing else.
The sound of the door opening startled me. I looked up to see him standing there, the same calm, predatory expression I had come to dread. The way his eyes swept over me made it clear: nothing escaped his notice.
"Good morning," he said softly, but there was no warmth in the words. "You slept."
"Yes," I replied, voice tight, careful. Keep it neutral. Don't provoke him.
He stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. His presence filled the room, pressing in on me from all sides. "You've been here less than twenty-four hours, Mara, and already your defiance is… noticeable."
I bristled. "I don't know what you mean."
He smiled, slow, deliberate. "Oh, you do. The way you hold your chin high, the way you try to act untouchable, untamed. It amuses me. But it won't last."
I swallowed, trying to steady my pulse. He's right. I am afraid. But I won't show it.
"You need to understand something," he continued, moving closer, each step deliberate, measured. "Rules exist for a reason. Obedience is not optional in this house. It is survival. And resistance… resistance earns punishment."
Punishment. The word slid over my skin like ice and fire at the same time.
"What kind of punishment?" I asked, voice barely a whisper.
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The contact was electric, a spark that should have been pain but twisted into something more, something dark. "You'll see," he said simply, eyes dark with intention. "And you'll learn quickly that every action has a consequence. Some consequences are physical. Some… are much more subtle."
I shivered, not entirely from fear.
Damian circled me slowly, studying me. "Do you understand why you are here, Mara?"
"Yes," I said, but the word tasted wrong. I don't. I can't. I'm trapped.
"You're mine. That's enough," he said, and then, almost without warning, his hand slid down my arm, brushing against my waist, pressing me gently against the cold stone wall behind me. My breath hitched. I tried to step back, but he blocked me, pinning me effortlessly.
"Your body…" he murmured, voice low, rough, "it already responds to me. That resistance you cling to? It makes you more… delicious."
Heat rushed through me, unwanted, undeniable. I closed my eyes, trying to suppress the traitorous stirring in my chest.
"I don't want this," I whispered.
His lips brushed my ear, close enough that I felt the rough edge of his breath. "You don't get a choice, Mara. Desire doesn't need permission. Neither does ownership. You're mine, body and soul, whether you like it or not."
The words were poison, intoxicating. Every nerve in my body screamed against him, yet every nerve also betrayed me, responding to his proximity, to the sheer assertion of control he wielded effortlessly.
Then he leaned back slightly, his eyes dark, measuring. "You will learn to obey. You will learn to surrender. And in time… you may even crave it."
I wanted to hate him. I did hate him. And yet, my pulse betrayed me, thudding faster, heat pooling in places I didn't want him to see. I swallowed, trying to reclaim the small shred of defiance I could hold onto.
"I won't be broken," I said, voice trembling, but sharper than I felt.
He smiled—a slow, dangerous curl of his lips. "We'll see about that," he said, then turned, leaving the room as quietly as he had entered, leaving me alone with the tremors of fear and something darker I dared not name.
The hours that followed were a lesson in subtle domination. Damian didn't shout. He didn't physically coerce. Instead, he set boundaries with meticulous precision—what I could wear, where I could go, who I could speak to. Every glance, every step, every word was observed, assessed, measured. And when I stumbled, when I pushed too far, he reminded me—softly, cruelly—that he was in control.
By nightfall, the tension had become unbearable. My body ached from the yearning I tried to suppress, my mind frayed from constant vigilance. And then he returned.
This time, the door didn't close behind him. He entered with a deliberate confidence, eyes dark, predatory. He didn't speak immediately. He simply approached, closing the distance, until we were inches apart. My heart raced, trapped in a wild rhythm I could not contain.
"You are… tempting," he murmured, hand sliding along my jawline, tracing the line of my throat. "And defiance makes it worse. You shouldn't feel this way. You shouldn't want me. And yet… here you are, trembling beneath my gaze."
I tried to look away, but his hand lifted, tilting my chin back toward him. My eyes locked with his, dark pools that promised danger, desire, and obsession all at once.
Then, in a motion that was impossibly fast, he pressed his lips to mine. The kiss was demanding, claiming, a mix of fire and restraint. I froze, shock and desire colliding violently, my body betraying my mind, wanting what I knew I should resist.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to speak against my lips. "Do you understand now, Mara? Resistance… only makes surrender more… necessary."
And in that moment, I realized with terrifying clarity: I was already ensnared. I was trapped, addicted, and utterly at his mercy.
And I hated every part of it.