Chapter 5: The Contract from Hell
The storm outside cracked lightning across the city skyline, white light slashing through the penthouse windows. Elena flinched, heart already pounding from Damon's words.
You shouldn't have come here.
Her back was still against the glass, his shadow cast over her like a damn warning. His cocky smirk—the one that pissed her off and turned her on in equal measure—was gone. Replaced by something colder. Sharper.
Damon Blackthorne looked less like a billionaire playboy and more like… something else. A predator disguised in Armani.
Her voice shook as she forced it out. "Then why bring me here? Why lock the elevator, Damon? You could've left me downstairs."
He didn't move for a beat. Then, slowly, he pushed off the window and crossed the room, pouring himself another glass of wine. His back was to her, broad shoulders tense under his shirt.
"You're a problem," he said finally.
Elena blinked. "Excuse me?"
He turned, glass in hand, eyes glinting under the lightning. "You ask too many questions. You don't scare easily. And you've got this… habit of putting your nose where it doesn't belong."
She scoffed, shoving hair out of her face. "So what, you lure me up here to threaten me? Newsflash, asshole—I don't do well with intimidation."
That cocky smile crept back, but it was darker now. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm not threatening you."
He set the glass down, slid open a drawer in the sleek black desk by the windows, and pulled out a folder. He tossed it onto the table between them.
"Read."
Elena crossed her arms. "What the fuck is this?"
"Your salvation," Damon replied smoothly.
She rolled her eyes but snatched the folder anyway. She flipped it open—and froze.
Her name. Her details. Everything.
Page after page of legalese, all leading up to a single header across the top:
Non-Disclosure and Personal Agreement: Elena Hart
Her stomach twisted. "What the hell is this?"
"A contract," Damon said simply.
"No shit, Sherlock. What kind of contract?"
He stepped closer, voice dropping into something silken and sharp. "One that keeps your pretty mouth shut. One that ties you to me."
Elena's throat went dry. She flipped through the pages, scanning lines that looked more like shackles than agreements. She wasn't allowed to discuss Damon, his business, his habits, or his… condition.
Condition.
Her blood chilled at the word.
"You can't be serious," she said, slamming the folder shut.
"I'm always serious," Damon replied, sliding a pen across the table. "Sign it, Elena."
Her temper flared. "Oh, fuck you. I'm not signing shit."
His eyes glinted, storm-dark and dangerous. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table, and for the first time she noticed his veins—dark, almost black, running like shadows under his skin.
"You don't understand," he said quietly. "This isn't optional."
Her heart hammered. "Try me."
He smirked again, but this time it was sharp enough to cut. "If you don't sign, you'll be a liability. And liabilities…" His gaze dropped to her throat, hungry. "…get eliminated."
Elena's knees weakened, but she forced steel into her voice. "You're insane. You think I'm going to just roll over and put my name on your creepy-ass vampire NDA?"
The silence after that word—vampire—was thick.
Damon's eyes darkened, and for a fraction of a second, his teeth lengthened.
Her stomach flipped. Holy. Fucking. Shit.
She wasn't crazy. She hadn't imagined it in the hallway.
He really had fangs.
---
"Say that again," Damon murmured, circling the table toward her.
Elena's back hit the edge of the desk. "Vampire." Her voice cracked, but she forced it louder. "That's what you are, isn't it? You drink blood, you move fast as hell, you—"
He was in front of her in an instant, one hand slamming down beside her hip, the other gripping her chin and tilting her face up toward his.
"Careful," he whispered, voice low and dangerous. "Names have power."
Her breath hitched, heat coiling low in her stomach despite the terror flooding her veins. His grip was firm but not painful, his cold fingers searing her skin in a way that made her thighs press together.
"You can deny it all you want," she said through clenched teeth. "But I know what I saw."
He studied her, silent for a long, charged moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved.
"Maybe I should show you."
And before she could move, he lowered his mouth to her neck.
---
Elena gasped, shoving at his chest. But his body was solid, immovable, heat radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt.
His lips brushed her skin—soft, maddening. His teeth grazed just barely, enough to make her entire body shiver.
"You're trembling," he murmured against her throat.
"Because you're a psycho," she hissed, though her voice shook for all the wrong reasons.
His chuckle vibrated against her skin. "Oh, darling. You're trembling because you like it."
Her hands fisted in his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
"Say it," he demanded softly. "Say you like it."
"Go to hell," she spat.
Lightning flashed again, thunder rattling the windows. Damon pulled back, smirk wicked, fangs unmistakably visible now.
"Too late for that," he said simply.
---
He released her, stepping back. Elena sagged against the desk, pulse racing.
Damon slid the folder toward her again, pen glinting under the light. "Sign, Elena. Or next time, I won't stop at a tease."
Her hand shook as she picked up the pen.
She should run. She should scream. She should get the fuck out while she still could.
But instead, she hovered over the dotted line, caught between survival and the electric pull of the monster smirking at her.
The pen trembled in her hand, hovering just above her name. Damon leaned close, fangs glinting, voice a whisper hot against her ear.
"Choose wisely, sweetheart. Sign your soul to me… or bleed for me."