Damian
She thought she could run.
I watched her struggle against my men, her wide eyes darting desperately to the sunlight spilling through the glass doors as though freedom had been just one touch away. Hope flickered in her gaze, only to die the moment I caught her hand against the handle.
And God, it was beautiful—the way her face collapsed when she realized she'd lost.
Most people begged. Most cried and broke quickly. Elena hadn't begged. Not yet. She'd tried to fight fate.
That spirit of hers was dangerous. But it was also what made her interesting.
I walked back into the sitting room slowly, deliberately, letting silence settle until the air grew thick enough for her to choke on. My men shoved her into a chair. She refused to look at me, her lashes wet, her fingers trembling as she clutched the armrest like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
I circled her, my shoes clicking softly against the marble. She flinched at the sound, every muscle tensing when I stopped behind her chair.
"You tried to run." My voice was quiet, even. I didn't need to shout; my calm always unnerved them more. "After I warned you."
"I don't belong here," she whispered hoarsely. "You can't keep me."
I leaned down, my lips just beside her ear. She stiffened when my breath brushed her skin.
"Can't?" I murmured, letting the word linger. "Sweetheart, you've seen what happens when someone thinks they can take what's mine. And make no mistake—you're mine now. Which means when you disobey…" I dragged the pause out until she shivered. "There are consequences."
Her shoulders trembled beneath the weight of my words.
I straightened and circled back to face her, resting my hands lightly on the arms of her chair. She looked up at me then, finally, and I caught it—the mixture of fear and defiance burning in those eyes. It only made me want her closer.
"Punishment," I said simply. "But not the kind you're imagining. I don't bruise what I plan to keep."
Her lips parted, confusion flickering across her face.
I let the silence drag before delivering the first part of her sentence. "From tonight onward, you won't be staying in the guest room anymore." I leaned closer, my eyes locking on hers. "You'll be moved to mine. Where I can… monitor you. Personally."
Her breath hitched. That reaction—half terror, half something else—sank into me like a drug.
She opened her mouth to protest, but I caught her chin gently between my fingers, tilting her face up. Not rough. Just enough to hold her still. Her skin was warm, fragile, trembling against my touch.
"You'll sleep in my room, eat at my table, breathe under my watch," I said softly, dangerously. "And if you so much as glance at a door again without my permission…" I brushed my thumb across her jaw, watching her shiver. "…you'll learn just how creative I can be with punishments."
Her eyes glistened, and I couldn't resist it—I bent down slowly, so close our lips hovered a breath apart. I didn't kiss her. Not yet. Restraint was its own kind of torture. For her. For me.
Instead, I whispered, "Tonight, sweetheart. Don't forget."
I released her chin at last, straightening, my mask of composure sliding back into place. I turned to my men with a flick of my hand. "Take her upstairs. Prepare her things."
She gasped softly, clutching the chair as though she could hold onto it, as though that simple piece of furniture might anchor her to safety. But it was useless.
As they pulled her to her feet, I caught her gaze one last time.
Shaking. Wide-eyed. Beautiful.
Fear was a language I understood well. But the way it mingled with something else in her—confusion, curiosity, that spark of fire she hadn't extinguished yet—made me certain of one thing.
This was only the beginning.
And whether Elena realized it yet or not, she was already exactly where she belonged.