Zara woke with a start.
She didn't remember falling asleep.
She didn't remember closing her eyes or shifting into the warmth wrapped around her.
But she remembered the weight of his arm across her waist.
The warmth of his chest against her back.
The faint sound of his heartbeat, steady even in sleep.
The way her body fit against his like it had done it before.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Damon was still sleeping.
This time, she allowed herself to look.
He was beautiful like this.
Not the billionaire everyone feared.
Not the media titan.
Not the predator of the business world.
Just a man.
A man who slept with one hand curled at her hip, brows slightly furrowed, lips soft, breathing deep.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Not because he looked peaceful.
But because she did.
She whispered to herself:
"This is how women get destroyed."
Damon stirred behind her.
His voice came out low and rough.
"Stop thinking."
Her breath jumped.
"You're awake?"
"Have been."
"For how long?"
"Since you started staring at me like I was a sin you hadn't decided to confess yet."
Her face heated instantly.
He chuckled softly and pulled her back against him fully, his arm tightening around her waist.
"Come here."
"I'm already here," she whispered.
"Not close enough."
He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling slowly.
Zara trembled.
"Damon..."
"We don't have to talk," he murmured. "Just... stay."
She closed her eyes.
And stayed.
For three minutes.
Four.
Five.
Until she felt his lips touch her shoulder.
Soft.
Slow.
Dangerous.
Her body reacted instantly.
And she bolted upright.
"I have to go."
Damon sat up slowly, watching her button her blouse with trembling hands.
He exhaled quietly an invisible wound.
"You're afraid."
She didn't look at him. "I'm being responsible."
"You're running."
"I'm avoiding catastrophe."
He stood.
Even the movement felt like a storm gathering strength.
"Zara," he said gently, "I'm not trying to trap you."
She finally looked at him.
And that was her mistake.
Because he looked at her the way men don't look at women casually.
The way men look when they've found something they didn't know they were starving for.
"You're looking at me like" she cut herself off.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Like what?" he asked softly.
She shook her head quickly. "It doesn't matter."
"It does," he said, stepping closer.
She stepped back.
He exhaled through his nose in frustration.
"This isn't going away," he murmured.
"Neither am I," she whispered, voice cracking. "Which is the problem."
Damon froze.
Her honesty hit him like a punch.
But before he could say anything
She grabbed her bag and rushed out of the suite.
He didn't follow.
He just whispered to the empty doorway:
"You're not the only one terrified."
She arrived at chambers twenty minutes late.
She had never been late.
Eleanor stared at her as if she'd walked in with fireworks strapped to her back.
"Good morning, Ms. Bennett. You... look..."
Zara straightened her suit jacket.
"Don't say it."
"Glowing," Eleanor whispered anyway.
Zara groaned into her hands.
"Eleanor, please be quiet."
"I'm just saying," her assistant murmured while typing rapidly, "if someone made me look that rested, I'd marry him."
Zara felt color rise in her cheeks.
"Eleanor."
"Sorry."
Beat.
"...But am I wrong?"
Zara stormed into her office before she said something unprofessional.
She sank into her chair.
Closed her eyes.
And hated herself for the smile tugging at her lips.
Damn him.
Across the city, Damon Huxley stared at his office window like a man trying to summon someone with willpower alone.
Billy, his assistant, cleared his throat.
"Sir, you've been staring at that window for twelve minutes."
Damon didn't respond.
Billy blinked.
"Is something wrong? Should I call security? Your general physician? A priest?"
Still nothing.
Billy approached slowly.
Like approaching a dangerous animal.
"Sir... you're distracted."
Damon didn't move.
But he finally spoke.
"I'm fine."
"You are absolutely not fine."
"Billy."
"Yes?"
"Get out."
Billy fled instantly.
When the door clicked shut, Damon dropped his head into his hands.
He whispered to himself:
"She's going to ruin me."
But he didn't sound afraid.
He sounded... undone.
The ethics committee reconvened at noon.
Zara walked in with her usual confidence.
But the moment Damon entered, she stiffened.
He had the nerve to smile softly at her.
Softly.
As if he hadn't kissed her senseless last night.
As if he hadn't whispered her name against her throat.
As if they didn't wake up tangled together.
She looked away quickly.
But that was the problem.
Her reaction was visible.
Too visible.
Lord Davenport paused mid-sentence and looked between them.
Zara's stomach dropped.
Another aide's eyes flicked suspiciously between them.
Damon noticed.
His jaw ticked.
He leaned toward her subtly, quietly.
"Don't look at me," he murmured.
"I'm not," she whispered.
"You are. Internally."
"Stop talking to me."
"Impossible."
Her throat tightened.
Someone behind them whispered:
"They seem... tense, don't they?"
Zara's pulse spiked.
Damon's jaw tightened.
"No more hallway moments," she hissed under her breath.
He smirked.
"Then stop looking at me like you want one."
She snapped her pen in half.
The aide sitting to her left flinched.
Lord Davenport paused again.
Zara inhaled sharply.
Damon smirked harder.
She glared at him.
He looked at her the way men look at things they want to keep.
And suddenly
She realized their tension wasn't invisible.
Not anymore.
When the meeting adjourned, Zara practically sprinted out of the room.
"Zara."
His voice.
She kept walking.
"Zara, stop."
She walked faster.
Then she felt his hand wrap around her wrist.
She froze.
Her breath hitched.
He spun her gently to face him not harsh, not controlling, but firm.
"Stop avoiding me."
"Stop showing up everywhere."
"You're in my world, sweetheart."
Her chest tightened.
She whispered sharply:
"I'm supposed to be professional."
He stepped closer.
"So be professional."
"You're making it impossible."
He leaned in.
"No," he murmured against her ear.
"You want impossible."
Her breath trembled.
"Damon"
Someone cleared their throat behind them.
They broke apart instantly.
A junior barrister.
Watching them.
Suspiciously.
Damon straightened his jacket.
Zara swallowed.
The barrister walked away slowly.
Damon exhaled through his nose.
"That," he murmured, "is a problem."
"Which is why we need to stop."
He touched her wrist again.
"You don't want to."
Her voice cracked.
"I have to."
He looked at her like she'd stabbed him.
"Tonight," he whispered.
She shook her head.
"No," she whispered painfully. "I can't."
He leaned in.
"Zara."
"No."
He lowered his voice.
"Zara."
"I said no."
He stared at her.
Really stared.
And his entire expression changed softened, darkened, something fragile flickering inside him.
"You don't mean it."
Her breath trembled.
She whispered: "Stop assuming you know me."
He whispered back:
"Stop pretending I don't."
She pulled free of his grip.
This time, he let her go.
Because he knew something:
She would come back.
Not because he asked.
But because she wanted to.
That evening, she sat in her apartment, trying to convince herself she wouldn't go.
Trying to breathe normally.
Trying to write notes for a case.
Then her phone buzzed.
One message.
From him.
DH: You're not saying no to me.
You're saying no to yourself.
And you've never been very good at that.
Her stomach flipped.
Another message:
DH: I'll be in the suite.
Don't come unless you can't stop yourself.
Her breath stopped.
Because the way her hand shook
She already knew the truth.
She wouldn't stop herself.
She couldn't.
She grabbed her coat.
And walked into the night.