Mara woke to screaming.
Not hers...His.
She bolted upright. Heart pounding. The screams came from across the hall—raw, agonized, terrified.
She ran.
Burst through his door without knocking.
Damian thrashed in his bed—sheets tangled, body slick with sweat. His eyes moved rapidly beneath closed lids.
"No—Mom, no—I can choose—please don't make me—"
Mara rushed to him. Touched his shoulder.
He threw her.
Supernatural strength. Uncontrolled.
She hit the wall. Hard. Slid down.
Pain exploded through her shoulder.
Damian's eyes snapped open—gold, wild, feral.
Then focused. Saw her crumpled on the floor.
Horror flooded his face.
"God—Mara—did I—?" He was across the room instantly. Hands hovering. Not touching. "Did I hurt you?"
She touched her shoulder. Winced. "I'm okay."
"You're not." His voice broke. "I threw you across the room."
"You were having a nightmare."
"That's no excuse." He looked at his hands like they were weapons. "This is why you shouldn't be near me. I can't control it when I'm asleep."
She stood slowly. Crossed to him.
He backed away. "Don't."
"Damian—"
"I could kill you without meaning to."
She kept coming. Reached up. Cupped his face.
He froze.
"Then teach me," she said. "Teach me about your world. About what I am. So I can protect myself."
He closed his eyes. Leaned into her touch.
"You shouldn't have to protect yourself from me."
"Maybe not. But I want to understand."
He opened his eyes. Looked at her—really looked.
"Okay," he whispered. "After you shower. I'll explain everything."
She nodded. Turned toward his bathroom.
Paused.
"The nightmare. What was it about?"
His jaw clenched. "My mother. The night she died. I dream about it every night."
"Every night for thirty years?"
"Yes."
Her chest tightened. "Damian—"
"Go shower." His voice was gentle now. "I'll make breakfast. Then we talk."
She stepped into his bathroom. Enormous. Glass shower. Rain head. Warm stone.
She turned on the water. Steam rose fast.
Stepped in.
Hot water sluiced over her shoulders, down her back.
She closed her eyes.
And noticed something strange.
The water at her feet—it was glowing.
Faint silver light. Swirling in the drain.
She touched the tiles. They warmed under her palm.
Fear spiked. "Damian?"
The door opened immediately. "What's wrong?"
"The water—it's glowing. And the tiles, they're—"
He was at the shower door. Looking.
His eyes widened. "Your power. It's manifesting."
"I don't know how to stop it!"
"Don't panic. Just breathe."
But the glow intensified. The tiles cracked—small fractures spreading.
"Damian, I can't—"
He opened the shower door. Stepped in. Fully clothed.
Water soaked his shirt immediately.
"Look at me," he commanded. "Just at me."
She did. Gold eyes. Steady. Calm.
"Breathe with me. In. Out."
She matched his rhythm.
The glow faded. Tiles stopped cracking.
"Better?" he asked.
She nodded. Then she realized he was soaked. Shirt clinging to every muscle.
And she was naked.
Heat flooded her face.
He noticed. Smiled slightly. "I'll get you a towel."
He reached past her. Grabbed a thick white towel from the rack.
His arm brushed her breast.
Just once.
Accidental.
But she gasped.
He froze. "Sorry."
"Don't be."
Their eyes met. Steam curled between them.
His gaze dropped—just for a second—down her body.
Wet skin. Water running between her breasts. Down her stomach.
His jaw clenched. "Mara. I should go."
"Why?"
"Because I'm trying very hard to be respectful."
"What if I don't want respect right now?"
His eyes flared. "Don't say that unless you mean it."
"I mean it."
He made a sound—half groan, half growl.
"Turn around."
She obeyed.
He stepped behind her. Draped the towel over her shoulders.
Then—slowly—began drying her.
Not sexual. Tender.
Down her arms. Across her back.
His hands were gentle. Reverent.
"You're beautiful," he murmured. "Every inch of you."
Her breath hitched.
The towel moved lower. To her waist. Her hips.
His hands slowed. "Tell me to stop."
"No."
The towel brushed the curve of her ass. Just once.
She sucked in a breath.
He paused. "Too much?"
"No. Keep going."
He exhaled shakily.
The towel moved up her spine. Then to her hair. Squeezing water from the strands.
His fingers threaded through. Gentle. Careful.
She leaned back—just an inch—into him.
His chest was warm against her back. His heart pounded.
"Mara," he whispered.
"Hmm?"
"If I keep going, I won't stop at the towel."
She turned in his arms. Looked up.
His eyes glowed faintly. Gold. Hungry. Restrained.
She lifted a hand. Touched his jaw.
"You don't have to be perfect," she said. "Just honest."
He caught her hand. Pressed a kiss to her palm.
Then—slowly—lowered his head.
His lips brushed her temple. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth.
She turned her face. Met his.
The kiss was soft. Slow. Sweet.
No rush. Just warmth.
When he pulled back, his thumb brushed her lower lip.
"Breakfast?" he murmured.
She smiled. "Yeah. But first—"
She tugged his wet shirt.
"Kiss me again."
He did.
And this time—he let himself hunger.
His tongue swept into her mouth. Claiming. Tasting.
His hands gripped her waist—pulling her flush against him.
She felt his erection through wet jeans. Thick. Hard.
A moan escaped her.
He groaned. One hand slid up her back. Into her hair. Tilted her head.
Deepened the kiss.
She melted. Her hands explored his chest. Traced muscle through soaked fabric.
Felt his heart pounding.
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard.
He rested his forehead on hers.
"Soon," he whispered. "Soon I won't have to stop."
She nodded.
Then—hand in his—let him lead her to the kitchen.
Where two plates waited. Two mugs. Sunlight on the table.
And on the counter—her phone.
Screen lit with messages.
Twenty-three missed calls.
All from Jenna.
And one text: "WHERE ARE YOU? LUCIAN WAS HERE. HE'S LOOKING FOR YOU. CALL ME."
Mara's stomach dropped. "Who's Lucian?"
Damian's face went hard. "My brother."
"You have a brother?"
"Had." His voice was ice. "He died to me the day he sided with our father."
Her phone buzzed. Incoming call. Jenna.
Mara answered. "Hello?"
Heavy breathing. Then: "Mara? Oh God—are you okay?"
"I'm fine. What's wrong?"
"A man came to the office. Looking for you. Tall. Silver hair. Blue eyes. Called himself Lucian Blackthorne."
Damian's jaw clenched.
Jenna continued: "He said—he said you were in danger. That Damian kidnapped you. That you need rescuing."
Mara looked at Damian. "He's lying."
"Are you sure? Because he seemed really concerned. And he said—" Jenna's voice dropped, "—he said he's your true mate. That Damian stole you from him."
Mara's blood ran cold.
"Where is he now?"
"He left. But Mara—he left flowers on your desk. With a note."
"What does it say?"
Jenna read: "Cousin keeps what isn't his. Come to Pier 17 tonight. Midnight. Come alone, and I'll tell you the truth about how his mother really died. — L."
The phone slipped from Mara's hand.
Damian caught it. Ended the call.
"He's baiting you," Damian said. "It's a trap."
"But what if he knows something? What if—"
"He knows nothing except how to manipulate."
"Then why are you scared?"
His eyes met hers. And she saw it. Fear.
"Because," he said quietly, "what if he's right? What if you're not meant for me?"
Before she could answer—
Her wrist burned.
She gasped. Looked down.
The silver mark was back. Glowing. Spreading.
Not just a crescent anymore.
Now it looked like a timer.
Numbers forming in silver light:
29:18:47
29:18:46
29:18:45
Ticking down.
Damian stared. "No. No, that's not—"
"What is it?" Mara whispered.
"A countdown," he breathed. "The bond—it's time-limited."
"How long do we have?"
"Twenty-nine days."
"And then what?"
He looked at her. Eyes haunted.
"Then one of us dies."