The drive from Papa's apartment to Damien's place took twenty-seven minutes. I counted every one.
Luca drove. Black Mercedes, windows tinted so dark the city lights barely bled through. Damien sat beside me in the back. Close enough that his thigh brushed mine every time the car turned a corner. He didn't speak. Didn't touch me again after that thumb on my lip. Just stared out at the rain-slick streets of Paris like he owned every drop.
I kept my hands folded in my lap. Nails digging crescents into my palms. The silk of my dress had dried stiff from the earlier spill. It clung in all the wrong places now. Cold. Uncomfortable. A reminder of how fast everything had unraveled.
We crossed the Pont Neuf. The Seine looked black and endless below. I wondered if jumping would be cleaner than whatever waited at the end of this ride.
The car slowed in front of a private hôtel particulier on Rue de Varenne. Tall iron gates. Stone facade older than most countries. Lights glowed soft behind tall windows. No doorman. No valet. Just quiet money. The kind that doesn't need to announce itself.
Luca pulled into the courtyard. Engine cut. Silence pressed in.
Damien opened his door. Stepped out. Waited.
I didn't move.
He leaned back in. Voice low. Patient. "Out."
My legs felt leaden. I slid across the seat. Heels hit gravel. The sound too loud in the enclosed space.
He didn't offer a hand. Good. I wouldn't have taken it.
Inside the foyer smelled of polished wood and faint lavender. Marble floors stretched forever. A grand staircase curved up into shadow. No staff visible. No noise except the soft click of the front door closing behind us.
Luca disappeared down a side hall without a word.
Damien started up the stairs. Didn't look back.
I followed. Because what else was there?
The hallway at the top was lined with closed doors. He stopped at the last one. Pushed it open.
A bedroom. Not a guest room. His.
Massive bed. Dark linens. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a private garden drowned in rain. Fireplace cold. One lamp burning low on the nightstand. The air felt heavier here. Like it remembered every breath taken in this space.
He closed the door behind us. The lock engaged with a soft snick.
I stood in the middle of the rug. Arms crossed. Chin up. Trying to look like I wasn't shaking inside.
Damien shrugged out of his coat. Hung it on a hook by the door. Rolled his sleeves higher. The ink on his forearms shifted with the movement. Dark lines. Old scars. Stories I didn't want to know.
"Strip."
The word landed flat. No preamble.
My breath hitched. "What?"
"You heard me."
I stared at him. Searched for joke. Found nothing.
"I'm not your whore."
He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. Until the space between us was barely a handspan.
"You're mine for a year. That makes you whatever I say you are tonight."
Heat crawled up my neck. Anger. Shame. Something worse.
I lifted my chin higher. "Then make me."
His eyes darkened. Pupils swallowing the iris until only black remained.
He reached out. Fingers curled around my wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to remind me he could be.
Pulled my arm down. Forced my crossed arms to open.
Then his other hand found the zipper at the back of my dress.
Slow drag. Tooth by tooth. The sound obscene in the quiet room.
Cool air hit my spine. I shivered.
The silk pooled at my feet.
I stood in black lace underwear and heels. Rain still dripping from my hair onto my shoulders.
Damien stepped back. Looked.
Not leering. Assessing. Like I was a piece on his board and he was deciding the next move.
His gaze lingered on the rapid rise of my chest. The goosebumps prickling my arms. The way my thighs pressed together.
"Beautiful," he murmured. Almost to himself.
The word shouldn't have landed like a punch. It did.
He circled me. Slow. Predator assessing prey.
Stopped behind me. Breath warm on my neck.
"On the bed."
My heart hammered so hard I thought it would bruise my ribs.
I turned. Met his eyes.
Saw the hunger there. Controlled. Leashed. But real.
I walked to the bed. Sat on the edge. Legs together. Hands in my lap.
He followed. Stopped in front of me.
Tipped my chin up with one finger.
"Look at me."
I did.
His thumb brushed my lower lip again. This time slower. Pressing just enough to part them.
"Open."
I hesitated.
His finger slid inside. Pressed against my tongue.
The taste of him. Salt. Smoke. Power.
My breath came short. Shallow.
He withdrew his thumb. Traced it down my throat. Over the frantic pulse there.
Then lower. Between my breasts. Down my stomach. Stopped at the edge of lace.
"Spread your legs."
I swallowed. Throat dry.
His hand didn't move. Just waited.
I parted my thighs. Slow. Trembling.
His fingers hooked the lace at my hip. Tugged once.
The fabric tore. Easy. Like paper.
Cool air hit wet heat.
He knelt between my legs. Face level with mine.
Eyes locked.
One hand slid to my throat. Not squeezing. Just resting. Heavy. Promising.
The other hand moved lower. Two fingers tracing the slick seam of me.
I gasped. Small. Broken.
He smiled. Dark. Satisfied.
"Good girl."
Then he pushed inside.
One finger. Then two.
Slow stretch. Deliberate curl.
My hips jerked.
His thumb found my clit. Pressed. Circled.
Pleasure spiked sharp. Too much. Too fast.
I grabbed his wrist. Not to stop him. To anchor myself.
He leaned in. Lips brushing my ear.
"Breathe, petite."
I tried.
He didn't let me.
Fingers moved faster. Deeper. Thumb relentless.
Heat coiled low in my belly. Tight. Unbearable.
My head fell back.
His hand on my throat tightened. Just enough.
Stars burst behind my eyes.
The edge rushed up.
I whimpered.
He stopped.
Fingers still inside. Thumb still pressed. But motionless.
I whined. Low. Desperate.
He chuckled. Soft. Cruel.
"Not yet."
His hand left my throat. Cupped my jaw. Forced my eyes to his.
"You come when I say."
Tears pricked my eyes. Frustration. Need. Humiliation.
He leaned closer. Lips almost touching mine.
"Beg."
I shook my head.
His fingers twitched inside me.
Pleasure flared again.
I bit my lip. Hard.
"Beg, Elena."
The sound of my name in his mouth broke something.
"Please."
Louder. "Please what?"
"Please let me come."
He smiled.
Then moved.
Fast. Hard. Ruthless.
The orgasm crashed through me like a wave. Violent. Endless.
I cried out. Back arching. Thighs shaking.
He held me through it. Fingers never stopping. Drawing it out until I was sobbing. Overstimulated. Wrecked.
When the last tremor faded he withdrew. Slow.
Brought his fingers to his mouth. Licked them clean.
Taste of me on his tongue.
Then he stood.
Looked down at me. Spread on his bed. Panting. Ruined.
"Welcome home," he said.
Soft.
Final.
I closed my eyes.
Because there was no going back.
Not anymore.