Chapter 3: Cocky Smile, Cold Eyes
The first thing Elena noticed when she pushed through the skyscraper's revolving doors wasn't the icy blast of the lobby's AC or the gleam of marble floors under her boots—it was him.
Damon Blackthorne.
He stood there like he owned not just the building, but the air everyone was breathing inside it. One hand shoved casually in the pocket of his fitted charcoal slacks, the other lazily swirling a glass of red wine, like it wasn't ten in the morning but midnight at some decadent party.
Every single detail about him screamed money and menace. The expensive suit, cut sharp enough to slice; the watch on his wrist, worth more than her yearly rent; and most of all, the way he looked at people. Cold, dark eyes—grey storm clouds caught between dusk and night—that pinned, evaluated, dismissed.
And then they landed on her.
His mouth curved. That cocky, shit-eating smirk that made her blood boil and her knees threaten betrayal at the same damn time.
"Miss Hart," he drawled, voice velvet over steel, smooth and mocking all at once. "Back so soon? I thought after last night's… misunderstanding, you'd crawl back to whatever hole you came from."
The receptionist behind the desk nearly spat out her coffee.
Elena, for her part, stopped in her tracks, lifted her chin, and fired back. "First of all, fuck you. Second, what the hell are you even doing down here? Don't billionaires usually hide in their penthouses, jerking off to their bank accounts?"
A man in a navy suit coughed violently into his hand. Someone else muttered "Jesus Christ" under their breath. But Damon—Damon just smiled wider.
He shifted, sauntering closer with that predatory ease that turned heads across the lobby. People scrambled out of his way without him even glancing at them. He wasn't just walking—he was stalking, and everyone with half a brain could feel it.
Elena held her ground, though her pulse was a fucking drum in her throat.
"You wound me, darling," he said, stopping just close enough that the scent of him—dark, heady, spiced wine and something sharper, more primal—wrapped around her. His voice dipped low, meant only for her. "And here I was, thinking you might've missed me."
Elena's laugh was sharp and loud enough to carry. "Missed you? Ha! I'd rather chew glass."
But before she could spit more venom, Damon moved.
So fast. Too fucking fast.
One blink, and he was right there, a breath away, towering over her. His cold eyes dragged down her body—deliberate, slow, shameless—before locking back onto hers.
Her chest rose hard against her blouse, breath gone shallow.
"Back. The fuck. Up," she snapped, shoving a hand at his chest. But the moment her palm met his suit, she realized two things.
One—his body was solid, carved muscle under expensive fabric, immovable no matter how much force she threw at him.
Two—his heart wasn't beating.
Her stomach dropped.
He leaned closer, so close his lips almost brushed the shell of her ear when he whispered, "You should be careful what you wish for, sweetheart. Some men bite."
The words poured through her like hot honey spiked with poison. Her belly clenched; her thighs pressed tighter without her permission.
"Jesus Christ," she hissed, yanking her hand back like she'd been burned. "You're insane."
He chuckled, low and dangerous, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye again. "Maybe. But you like it."
---
By the time Elena stormed into the elevator, she was shaking.
She jabbed the twenty-second floor button so hard the panel beeped in protest. The doors slid shut, leaving her alone with her reflection—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, hair a little messier than it had been this morning.
"Goddamn him," she muttered under her breath, dragging a hand down her face. "Cocky, smug bastard. He's not even—he's not—"
Her body betrayed her with a heated throb low in her stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut. No. No way in hell. She hated him. She was supposed to hate him.
The elevator dinged, doors sliding open.
She stepped out into the corridor lined with cubicles and fluorescent lights, ready to bury herself in the boring interviews she'd come here for.
Except, of course, Damon didn't stay in the lobby.
No, the arrogant fucker followed.
He appeared seconds later, stepping out of the elevator like a goddamn wolf striding into a sheep pen. Every employee in the vicinity stilled, their typing slowing to clumsy stutters as their gazes slid nervously to him.
He leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed now, eyes locked on her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"You following me now?" Elena hissed, spinning toward him.
"Making sure you don't get lost," he said casually. "This building's a maze."
"I know my way around."
"Do you?" His smirk sliced her open, his voice dropping. "Because right now you look very, very lost."
Her chest squeezed. That double meaning. That challenge. She hated the heat that flushed her cheeks, hated that her heart thrashed like a fucking rabbit's.
She shoved her notepad hard against his chest. "Here. Hold this while I work. Maybe it'll keep your hands busy."
His fingers closed around it with absurd grace. But he didn't just take it. No, he brushed her hand with his, slow, deliberate, a spark of something crackling between their skin that made her flinch back.
"Careful, darling," Damon murmured, voice sin dripping from every syllable. "If I hold on too long, I might never let go."
Her cheeks burned hotter. "God, you're insufferable."
"And yet," he countered smoothly, leaning down just enough for their faces to hover way too close, "you can't stop looking at me."
Elena wanted to scream. Or kiss him. Or maybe both.
Then, just for a second, something flickered in his gaze.
His pupils—sharp, thin, like a predator's. A shimmer of something dark and inhuman before they snapped back to normal.
Elena's stomach plummeted. Her lips parted, voice barely a whisper. "What the hell are you?"
The smirk never faltered, but his eyes… his eyes turned colder, unreadable, like shadows had swallowed them whole.
"Careful," he said again, but this time it wasn't mocking. It was low, dangerous. Almost like a warning. "Curiosity is a nasty habit. And I'd hate to break you."
The words chilled her blood, but goddamn it, heat still rushed through her veins.
"I'm not afraid of you," she forced out, though her voice cracked slightly.
Damon smiled, wicked and slow, revealing just the faintest glint of something sharp where his teeth should've been ordinary.
"You should be."
---
Elena's knees nearly buckled.
Because she swore—no, she knew—she'd just seen his teeth lengthen. Not dramatically. Not full-blown monster shit. But enough. Enough that her chest constricted with both fear and… something hotter.
And just like that, Damon pushed off the wall, tossed her notepad back into her hands with insulting ease, and strolled down the corridor like he hadn't just scared the absolute fuck out of her.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
"What. The fuck," she breathed, clutching the notepad like a lifeline.
Employees slowly went back to typing, pretending not to have noticed anything. But Elena couldn't look away from Damon's retreating figure. Broad shoulders, confident stride, that air of danger wrapping around him like a tailored suit.
And she realized something terrifying.
Part of her wanted to follow.
Just as Damon disappeared around the corner, Elena's phone buzzed with an unknown number. She answered, still shaken.
A low, unfamiliar voice crackled through the line: "You don't know what you're dealing with. Stay away from Damon Blackthorne, or you'll end up dead."
Her blood ran cold.