Alina's POV
The scream tore through the silence—
raw, strangled, echoing inside her chest long before it left her lips.
"Alina—!"
She bolted upright.
Breath hitching. Sweat slicking her back.
The sheets tangled around her legs like vines, and her heart thundered like it was trying to escape.
Her hand flew to her chest, Sweat clung to her skin. Her eyes wide and unfocused.
Damon jolted up beside her, his instincts sharper than the blade under his pillow.
But it wasn't danger she feared.
"Alina?" Damon's voice sliced through the panic. Sleep-rough. Sharp.
She gasped again, barely noticing his hand reach for her shoulder.
"What happened, Bella?" he asked softly, concern painting his features. He was already sitting up beside her. "You're drenched."
She couldn't speak.
Not yet.
The dream clung to her. Kevin's voice—raw, broken—still rang in her ears.
Screaming her name.
Begging.
Begging her to help him.
Her throat felt like it was closing.
"I…" She blinked. "I saw him. Kevin. He was—he was hurt. Bleeding. Calling for me. Over and over and over—"
Damon handed her a glass of water.
His hand brushed her wrist. Cold.
Comforting, almost.
Almost.
Damon stilled.
The room didn't move.
Neither did he.
But something inside him cracked—hairline. Invisible.
She saw him?
That wasn't just fear.
It was connection.
Somewhere deep in that dream, Kevin had reached her.
And Damon—Damon felt it. Like ice settling in his spine.
Her soul still searched for someone else. Even when he held her. Even when her body was marked by his hands.
That was the part that enraged him most.
He reached for the glass and handed it to her gently.
"Drink, Bella," he said, controlling the tension in his tone. "It was just a nightmare."
He murmured. "You're safe."
But she didn't feel safe.
Not from what lived behind her eyelids.
She took the water with trembling hands, drank, and nodded.
Even though her stomach curled with unease.
Damon leaned closer, brushing damp hair off her forehead. "It's 8 o'clock, Bella. You should rest a little more."
But she was already moving—slowly, carefully.
Her body ached. The soreness between her thighs a brutal reminder of the night before.
A night she couldn't even name, couldn't even define. Pleasure twisted with guilt. Pain coated in false tenderness.
She turned away before Damon could read the truth in her eyes.
"I have to get up," she whispered, forcing steadiness into her tone. "Noah's school."
He watched her for a moment.
Silent.
Eyes unreadable.
Then he nodded.
Alina slipped out of bed with slow, practiced grace. Every step burned. But she didn't flinch.
She went into the bathroom, locked the door.
Breathed.
She washed the sweat from her face.
Pressed cool water against her cheeks.
Avoided the mirror.
When she emerged, she moved like nothing was wrong.
Dressed Noah. Packed his bag. Kissed his head.
Even managed a soft smile when Anaya came to check on her, groggy and sweet.
"Noah's ready?" Anaya yawned.
Alina nodded. "Take care of him today. I have to… drop something off."
"Want me to come?"
"No, it's okay," she said gently. "It'll just be a minute."
Anaya accepted it, thankfully, and left with Noah in tow.
The door clicked shut behind them.
And Alina's mask shattered.
She rushed to her room, grabbed her coat, and slipped her phone into her pocket.
Her fingers were already dialing.
Kevin.
She didn't even realize her hands were shaking.
Voicemail.
Again.
And again.
Her heartbeat raced.
That dream—it had felt like a warning.
Something had happened.
She didn't know what—but her soul whispered it wasn't just fear.
It was a message.
Alina didn't stop to think.
Didn't stop to breathe.
Alina
She nearly reached the door before his voice stopped her cold.
"I said I'd drop you, remember?"
Damon stood near the hallway, shirtless, calm on the outside—but something sharp flickered in his eyes. Like he was holding back a storm.
Alina turned, startled. "I—I forgot. I just… felt uneasy."
A pause. Her voice didn't sound like hers.
She opened the car door as he locked the front behind them—but halfway in, she gasped. "My phone."
She rushed back inside, heart pounding for a reason she couldn't explain.
And in the seconds she was gone—
Damon's phone buzzed.
He answered with a whisper. "Speak."
A pause.
Then—
"He escaped."
Rage snapped through him like glass under pressure. "What the f*** do you mean escaped?"
"He broke the cuffs. Through the vent. We followed the blood trail but…"
The voice hesitated.
"…someone else took him."
Damon's voice dropped to something inhuman. "If you don't find him, I will find you."
He ended the call just as Alina came back, breathless. "Got it."
He smiled too quickly. "All good?"
She nodded.
But the ride was filled with silence.
Tense. Suffocating.
Damon drove with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping the gear like it could anchor his thoughts. He didn't speak. Neither did she.
Her fingers twitched in her lap, wanting to call again.
Kevin.
Why aren't you picking up?
Her mind whispered Kevin's name with every beat of her heart. Damon's presence beside her felt like a shadow that knew too much. Said too little.
After some hours of driving.
The apartment was too clean.
Too… wrong.
She stood in the middle of Kevin's living room, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her fingers dug into the sleeves of her coat, knuckles white.
"This isn't right," she murmured.
Everything was neat. Arranged. Ordered in a way that didn't belong to Kevin's natural chaos. His shoes weren't by the door. His charger wasn't half-plugged into the wall. His notebooks weren't scattered across the counter.
It was like someone had erased him.
Erased the mess.
Erased the life.
Behind her, Damon moved silently. Watching. Calculating.
"Alina," he said, carefully, "maybe he just left. You said he hasn't been answering calls?"
She turned toward him, eyes glassy with fear.
"No. It's not like him. He wouldn't just vanish."
A pause.
"And I had a dream…" she whispered, more to herself. "It felt like he was calling out to me. Screaming."
Damon's eyes darkened, but he masked it with a sigh.
"Nightmares aren't real, Bella."
But she was shaking her head.
"No. This one… it was. I felt it, Damon."
Her voice cracked, almost pleading.
"I heard him screaming my name. He was hurt. He needed me."
Damon said nothing.
He didn't need to.
The silence between them was thick. Weighted.
Alina turned back to the room—something tugged at her, like an invisible hand dragging her into dread.
She stepped toward Kevin's desk. Papers were aligned. The pen perfectly centered.
That wasn't Kevin.
He wasn't someone who made his life look like a showroom.
Then—
A faint scuff mark on the floor. A drawer slightly ajar.
She opened it. Inside, a torn page. Scribbled numbers. A name she didn't recognize.
Her heart dropped.
"He was looking into something," she whispered, more to herself.
"Alina," Damon said gently, stepping forward, "you're spiraling."
But she wasn't listening. Her breath hitched, her lips parted as a thought—dark and wild—sliced through her chest.
Then—
It hit her.
The masked man.
The alley. The warnings.
Her heartbeat stuttered. Her lips parted, but no sound came.
He'd told her not to speak to Kevin. Not to trust him. He'd warned her. Threatened, even—softly, silk-wrapped threats that stuck in her bones.
But she had disobeyed.
She had seen Kevin. Had whispered the things she shouldn't.
And now… Kevin was missing.
"No," she choked, shaking her head violently. "No. No, it can't be…"
Tears burned her eyes. Her nails dug into her palms.
What if he took him?
The thought spiraled through her like poison.
She stumbled upright and turned—only to find Damon standing in the doorway, watching her silently.
"Alina," he said, voice soft, controlled.
But something inside her snapped.
She rushed to him—hands gripping his arms tightly, desperately.
"Help me," she whispered. "Please, Damon, I need to find him. I need to know he's okay."
He blinked.
That wasn't what he'd expected.
"You have power," she said, breathless. "Connections. Please—file a complaint. Help me report him missing. Maybe the police can trace something."
Her voice cracked. "You said you'd protect me. This is how. Please."
And for a long second—he just stared at her.
That glassy, unreadable mask slid over his face. But his mind whirled behind it.
She was getting closer to the truth. Her subconscious already knew. But she hadn't made the final leap.
Good.
"Of course," he murmured, brushing a tear from her cheek. "Whatever you need, Bella."
In the Car – The Mask Remains
Alina looked out the window, lost in thought.
"What if he's really gone?" she whispered. "What if I'm too late?"
Damon reached across the seat, took her hand in his.
"We'll find him, Bella."
But behind his lashes, a smirk curled.
They wouldn't.
Not until he allowed it.
And not before he was done teaching Kevin—a lesson.
---
At the Police Station
They walked in together.
Heads turned. Officers straightened.
The name Damon Carter carried weight. No one questioned his presence. No one hesitated when he spoke.
"A missing person. Kevin . Last seen yesterday morning. We want full involvement. Full discretion."
The inspector nodded too quickly. "Understood, sir."
Alina gave the details. What little she had. Her voice trembled, but Damon's hand at her back was steady—too steady.
They promised to investigate. To circulate photos. Trace call records. Pull CCTV.
She nodded, hope fluttering in her chest.
But Damon was already walking her out. Hand on her waist. Smile calm.
She was biting her lip, nervously watching a poster of missing persons on the wall.
He offered his hand. She took it without hesitation.
Once in the car, she slumped against the window.
Thank God. Something was finally happening.
---
Damon's POV
He returned to the police officer where they made a complaint .
"Close the case. Tell them it's under internal review."
A beat.
"And if anyone digs deeper, remind them who signs their f***ing budget."
" If you coperate you can get your rewards". He grinned at the officer who was in shock.
" ok sir", the officer smiled and bowed like a dog.
Damon patted his shoulder like a king would a servant and walked back toward Alina, his expression already softened.
He was the storm and the shelter. The monster and the savior.
She would never know.
----
"Bella," he whispered, slipping an arm around her.
She didn't pull away.
She leaned into him.
He almost smiled.
Good girl.
"You did the right thing," he said. "They'll find him. I promise."
She didn't speak.
Just nodded.
But in the corner of her mind—something still itched. A whisper too faint to name.
And in his mind—
He knew.
ALINA'S POV
The engine purred softly behind them.
A sleek black car halted near the curb, its tinted windows glinting under the pale morning sun.
Damon's jaw clenched. His gaze never left her.
"Get in," he told her gently, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
She looked up, startled. "You're not coming?"
"Duty calls," he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead—too soft for the storm rising in him. "First, I need to take care of something."
His eyes flicked to the driver. "Make sure she lands safely. Her safety is your only priority."
The driver's Adam's apple bobbed. "Y-Yes, sir."
Alina hesitated… then leaned forward and kissed Damon's cheek.
That simple touch—
It undid something in him.
He stood frozen, watching her go—like a shadow leaving his soul. As the car pulled away, something warm tried to bloom in his chest.
He crushed it.
> "I can never get over this little woman," he muttered, almost bitter. "Even when I want to."
He turned, face carved in stone, and stepped into the next vehicle.
"Drive," he ordered.
"To the warehouse, sir?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
---
DAMON'S POV – THE WAREHOUSE
The door slammed open.
Concrete walls. Chains. Rusted tools. The stench of failure.
Damon's presence was an executioner's breath—cold, certain, final.
His men—killers, extortionists, men who feared nothing—quaked beneath his silence.
One tried to speak.
"Sir—"
Damon gripped his collar and slammed him into a steel beam.
"He escaped."
The words were lethal in their stillness.
"W-We left him for dead—he wasn't moving—"
BANG.
" Liar i hate lies".
The man collapsed, painting the floor red.
Another tried to speak, to beg.
BANG.
Damon turned.
A third man fled.
Too slow.
Damon's boots echoed like a predator's growl.
He didn't use the gun.
Only hands.
Flesh tore.
Bones shattered.
Teeth hit the ground like loose stones.
"YOU THINK I BUILD EMPIRES TO BE MOCKED?"
He ripped a chair from the floor and hurled it across the room.
"HE WAS A WARNING. A SIGN. AND YOU LET HIM SLIP INTO THE DARK WITH MY NAME STILL ON HIS TONGUE!"
Silence.
Then a whisper.
"We thought he was dead…"
Damon crouched beside the blood-slicked man. His voice dropped.
"You don't get to think."
Then—stillness. The kind only death understands.
He rose.
Calm.
Breathing shallow.
Covered in red.
He kicked over a crate—exposing a GPS tracker, blood-smeared, blinking uselessly.
"Wipe it all. Burn the evidence. Now."
One man hesitated. "But, sir—"
Damon turned.
The man bolted.
Didn't make it far.
---
LATER – DAMON'S CAR
Blood beneath his nails.
His breath fogged the window as he stared at his own reflection.
Beautiful. Empty. Haunted.
He lit a cigarette with fingers that didn't shake anymore.
> "Find him," he whispered to no one. "Before he finds her again."
---
KEVIN – UNKNOWN LOCATION
The machines beeped.
IV bags dripped steadily into broken veins.
Kevin lay in a hospital bed—barely human, barely breathing.
A doctor murmured to a nurse. "Three fractured ribs. Punctured lung. Broken jaw. He's been through something… inhuman."
The nurse's eyes welled. "Who did this?"
"No name. No files. The woman who brought him didn't stay. She just vanished."
He looked back at the sleeping figure, draped in gauze and quiet pain.
"Whoever she was… she saved his life."
The nurse asked, "Should we file a police report?"
"Yes," the doctor replied. "If they find him, maybe they'll find whoever did this."
DAMON – HIS OFFICE, NIGHT
The study reeked of old books, leather, and silence too deep to breathe.
Damon leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed, when his phone lit up.
Unknown Caller.
But he knew the number.
He didn't answer immediately.
He stared at it—like one stares at poison, wondering if drinking it would finally kill the past.
The ringtone buzzed again.
His thumb slid across the screen.
He didn't greet. Just listened.
A beat of silence. Then—
"So you're fucking a chick now?"
Antonio's voice.
His father's voice.
Coated in smoke and arrogance and decay.
Damon's jaw clenched so hard it ached. He said nothing.
"What's her name, son? Or are you too ashamed to admit she's just another dirty hole to bury your mistakes in?"
The word "chick"—from his mouth—aimed at Alina.
It seared.
Damon's rage rose like bile in his throat.
He wanted to snap the phone in half. Drive it through the desk. Set fire to the office.
But instead, he said, voice flat as ash:
> "What do you want?"
"Oh, now you're the polite one?" Antonio laughed. A sharp, guttural sound. "Don't play innocent. I told you. Veronica's waiting. You're engaged."
Damon inhaled through his teeth.
> "You don't get to tell me who to fuck."
"Mind your tongue, Damon—I'm your father."
> "Then speak like one."
There was a pause.
Then a hiss.
"You're not going to ruin this election for me. Veronica is the daughter of a goddamn senator. I won't let some café whore stain our name."
That was it.
The edge cracked.
> "Say her name ," Damon said, quietly.
"What?"
> "Say her name. Say Alina with your filthy mouth, and I swear I'll fly down there and choke you with your own silver tongue." He thought to himself.
He can't reveal anything about her right now untill his plan succeed.
A beat.
"So soft now, are we?" Antonio sneered. "I raised you better. The Damon I built wouldn't be crying over some skirt—"
Damon hung up.
No goodbye.
Just silence.
And rage.
---
He sat back, fingers twitching.
The phone clattered to the desk.
> "Fottuto bastardo," he muttered in Italian. "Fucking parasite. Rotten blood."
He stood.
> "Veronica," seduced my father too you bitch.
He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles blanched.
Memories returned without mercy.
Bloodied belts.
The sound of skin tearing.
The stench of alcohol and cologne.
His father bringing women home—dragging them inside while Damon hid behind the stairs.
And sometimes, not even hiding helped.
> "Watch, boy. This is what men do. This is power."
The taste of vomit. The ringing in his ears.
He doubled over.
Silent.
Breathless.
Tears leaked past his clenched eyelids—not weakness, but stored poison spilling over.
Then—
A memory that didn't belong in that darkness.
Alina.
The memory of her cheek against his.
The way her lips had pressed there—light, warm, unafraid.
Not like a lover.
No. Not even like someone afraid of him.
But like someone… who cared. Without agenda. Without condition.
Like a child might kiss a broken man.
Like a mother pressing calm into a restless boy's skin.
Damon's breath hitched.
> "What the fuck is wrong with me…" he whispered.
He slumped back into the chair.
Eyes closed.
But the darkness behind his lids was not empty.
It was full of her.
---
He saw himself standing still.
Frozen.
And she was running.
Barefoot. Laughing.
Alina—running through a field of wildflowers.
Hair flying. Fingers outstretched.
And then—
She turned.
Grabbed his hand.
Not to seduce. Not to manipulate.
To pull him with her.
Out of the dark.
Into something bright.
Something clean.
A place his soul had no right to belong.
And yet—
Her hand gripped his.
As if she believed he could follow.
As if he deserved to.
---
Damon gasped, eyes flying open.
Sweat beaded his temple.
The study was cold, but he felt like he was burning alive.
He stared at his hands.
The same hands that had strangled, beaten, broken.
Now trembling.
As if haunted by the ghost of a girl who kissed him like he was good.
> "No." He growled to himself. "She doesn't know who I am. What I am."
And yet—
Her touch remained.
Not like a lover's stain.
But like a child's prayer.
And that terrified him more than his father ever could.
The city blinked outside his floor-to-ceiling windows—cold, sharp, and sleepless.
But Damon didn't look.
He sat on the edge of the couch, a glass of whiskey untouched beside him. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the fabric wrinkled from a restless night. Sweat clung to his spine, but it wasn't heat—it was memory.
Her lips. Her hand. That goddamn kiss.
His jaw locked.
He needed to forget.
So he picked up the phone.
"Selena," he said flatly. "Come."
The line went dead.
And twenty minutes later, the door buzzed.
---
SELENA ARRIVES
The door opened, and she stepped in like lust in stilettos.
Selena—voluptuous, deliberate, everything men dreamed of when they were too weak to want more.
She wore a crimson silk trench coat, barely belted at her waist.
Beneath it: black lace lingerie, sheer and cut like temptation.
A matching garter hugged her thighs, lips painted wine-red, lashes thick like smoke.
"Miss me?, you took too long to call me again I missed our fucking sessions" she purred, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Damon didn't answer.
He only stared.
And for a moment, Selena's smile faltered.
But she recovered.
With slow, trained grace, she walked toward him, the trench falling from her shoulders like water. Her curves were perfect—full hips, soft waist, perky breasts pushed high in the lace bra that barely contained her. She straddled him without asking.
> "I can make you forget," she whispered, grinding her hips against his. "Like last time. Remember how you said no one fucks like me?"
Her mouth moved to his neck.
Her hands roamed—down his chest, to his belt buckle.
But Damon…
felt nothing.
Not a twitch. Not a flicker. Not even disgust.
Just—
Nothing.
His hand caught her wrist.
Cold.
Still.
"Get off me."
She paused. Giggled.
"I know that tone. You like to play rough—"
"I said," he repeated, eyes dead and voice darker than shadow, "get off."
But she didn't listen.
She leaned in, her tongue tracing the edge of his ear.
"Rough night?" she purred.
"You're tense," she whispered, lips brushing his ear. "Too many thoughts in that beautiful head of yours."
Her hands moved to his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his shirt.
"I can make you forget," she said softly, pressing a kiss to his throat. "Whatever it is. Whoever it is. Let me erase it."
That was her mistake.
---
DAMON – SNAPS
In one blink, his hand was around her throat—tight, firm. Icy. Controlled.
His eyes locked on hers. Empty. Alive with warning.
"What did you just say?"
Selena blinked, confused. "I said I'll help you forget—"
His grip tightened.
Slowly.
"You think I want to forget her?" he whispered, voice low and trembling with rage. "You think you're capable of that?"
" Damon ( cough) stop (cough)".
Selena's breath caught. "I-I didn't mean anything, I was just—"
"Just what?" Damon's voice dropped to a snarl. "Just spreading your legs like a remedy? Just another body in silk thinking I'm desperate enough to replace what she left in me?"
She tried to pull back.
He didn't let her.
His lips curled.
> "Try to erase her from me… and you'll meet the part of me that never forgets — only destroys."
Selena froze.
He shoved her off his lap like she was filth.
As she fell on the floor grabbing her neck by taking deep breaths
Her lips trembled.
"D-Damon—"
"Don't beg," he whispered. "It won't work this time."
She scrambled back, clutching her coat to her chest.
"But you called me—!"
"To remind myself why I don't want anyone else," he growled. "And you did your job."
She didn't say another word.
Didn't even try.
Just ran—barefoot, half-dressed, out the door and into the elevator, gasping for breath like she'd just escaped death.
" whore". he said in his low base tone.
The silence returned.
He sat motionless.
Selena's perfume still clung to the air—sweet, musky, synthetic.
But it couldn't cover the scent of Alina's hair.
The taste of her innocence on his cheek.
Damon leaned back, covered his face with his hand, and laughed once.
A short, bitter sound.
> "What the hell are you doing to me, little dove… I was never supposed to feel."
He wasn't sure if it was love.
But it was worse.
It was need.
And it was winning.
INT. MANSION – NIGHT
The halls were quiet.
Too quiet.
Alina sat in the drawing room, curled on the edge of the velvet settee, arms wrapped around her knees. Alfie lay beside her, head in her lap, sensing the heaviness she couldn't hide. Guilt clung to her skin like smoke.
Kevin.
She kept thinking of Kevin.
His voice. His warnings.
And now… silence.
She swallowed hard.
> "I dragged him into this. I'm the curse. I'm the shadow."
Tears threatened, but she blinked them away. She had to be strong. Damon would come soon, and she didn't want him to see her broken—
Then the door opened.
Fast.
Heavy.
Damon.
His coat hung open, chest heaving like he'd run the whole way. His eyes scanned the room—wild, storming—until they found her.
Alina stood, startled.
And in three long strides, he was in front of her.
No words.
No warning.
Just arms.
Tight around her.
Holding her like she might vanish if he let go.
She stiffened at first, breath caught in her throat.
But the scent…
The warmth…
> "Damon…" she whispered.
Before her name could finish leaving her lips—
He kissed her.
Not soft. Not slow.
Hungry. Wild. Possessive.
Like he'd been starving.
Like his lungs were failing and her mouth was air.
His hands tangled in her hair, one arm tight around her waist, pulling her flush against him as if to press their souls into one breath.
She gasped into the kiss, but he didn't stop—not until her knees buckled and her lungs cried for air.
Only then did he pull back.
Eyes burning. Lips swollen. Breath ragged.
> "I'm sorry, baby," he murmured, voice rough with need. "I needed you. Needed to feel you. Right now."
But Alina—
Alina trembled.
Tears had already spilled down her cheeks, quiet and uncontrollable.
She broke.
Right there in his arms.
Damon froze.
> "Hey—hey, baby girl…" he cupped her face with both hands, wiping the tears with his thumbs. "Talk to me. What happened? What's wrong?"
She collapsed against him, arms wrapping around his neck, face buried in his shoulder.
And he felt it—
The shaking.
Small.
Silent.
Violent.
She clung to him like he was the last solid thing on this earth.
> "It's me," she whispered brokenly. "I'm the bad omen. Damon, I dragged Kevin into this. He tried to protect me… and now I don't know where he is. I feel it—something's wrong. I was foolish. So foolish…"
He held her tighter.
> "I thought I was safe," she sobbed. "Because he wasn't watching anymore. Because I wasn't being followed. Because when I'm with you—I don't feel haunted. But what if it's not over? What if he comes back? What if—"
He cut her off.
With his lips.
But not like before.
This time—it was slow. Deep. Quiet.
A kiss meant to silence not her voice, but her fears.
His mouth moved against hers with reverence—covering her, calming her, claiming her.
And she let him.
Because he felt like safety.
And she didn't know...
He was the danger she feared.
The masked man.
The nightmare.
The storm.
Yet here she was—seeking shelter in his arms.
> "Shh," he whispered against her mouth. "I've got you. I've always got you."
But in the corners of his mind, something twisted.
The guilt.
The power.
The knowledge that he caused it all.
And now, he was her only relief.
Her only illusion of safety—
> Wrapped in the arms of the very monster she feared.
He carried her to the bed—
As if she were made of glass.
Delicate. Fractured. His.
He laid her down gently, like one wrong move might shatter the fragile light she carried inside her. And then, without a breath of warning, he kissed her again.
Slower now.
Deeper.
Hungrier.
His tongue tangled with hers, slick and possessive, his breath hot against her cheek as his mouth moved over hers, smearing his need into her until she was gasping against his lips. His saliva slicked across her mouth, messy, unrelenting—like he wanted to taste her until nothing of her was left untouched.
Then his lips trailed down.
To her jaw.
Her neck.
He kissed her with a hunger that belonged to something primal—something broken. Every mark he left bloomed like a bruise of devotion. Each graze of his lips made her gasp, and he only groaned deeper in response, like the sound of her falling apart beneath him was his oxygen.
His kisses were greedy. Childlike. As if he were a boy starved of sweetness and she was his first taste of sugar.
And he took his time.
Worshipped her.
Made her feel like something sacred.
Then—he buried his face in her cleavage, kissed her hard, sucked until the wet sounds filled the room like music only he could hear. His mouth was relentless—feral—but reverent.
His hands slid across her curves like he'd known them forever, but still treated each inch like a discovery.
With a single practiced motion, he unhooked her bra—never breaking the rhythm of his kiss.
Then he buried himself in the softness of her chest, his breath scalding, his tongue sinful. She moaned, and her fingers dove into his hair, pulling him closer, deeper.
He pressed his weight into her, chest to chest, skin to skin, as if he couldn't bear the idea of even a sliver of space between them.
> "Ahh… hmm… Damon…" she whimpered, the sound trembling against the walls.
And he thrived on it.
He drank every sound, every arch of her spine, every tremble in her fingers.
He kissed her until she melted.
Until she gave in—still not knowing the danger she lay beneath.
By the time he kissed down her stomach, she was trembling.
Soft.
Vulnerable.
Bare.
He trailed kisses down her belly, warm breath grazing her skin as she instinctively tried to tuck it in—but he didn't let her. He lingered at her navel, sucking softly, swirling his tongue like it was the center of his world.
Even though he had taken her so many times—too many—she still felt new to him. Always new.
Then, without a word, he slid off the final layers that clothed her.
And what he found made his hunger sharpen.
"So wet for me already, baby," he murmured, almost in awe.
His palm cupped her gently—then with slow, mounting pressure. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles. Watching her unravel became his obsession.
Her body responded like it knew him. Like it belonged to him.
When she arched and whimpered his name—when her legs shook and her hips rolled helplessly into his touch—he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
He wanted to break her.
And then hold every ruined, aching piece.
And when she shattered—wet and warm and undone in his palm—he licked his fingers slowly, deliberately, and whispered against her lips:
> "So sweet for me, baby girl."
Then—he lifted her again.
In his arms, like a prayer.
Carried her to the table nearby, bare and glowing in the silver light.
He bent her forward gently.
Before she could speak—
Before she could breathe—
He pushed inside her with one slow, deep thrust.
She gasped.
> "Ahhhhh.....Damon… what are you—ahhh…"
Her voice broke into a moan.
And then she was his again.
He moved.
Hard.
Deep.
Measured.
Each thrust struck the sound from her lungs. Her voice rose in waves, her breath shattering with each impact as she braced herself against the wood. He watched her in the mirror—watched her body bounce, watched her breasts move in rhythm, watched her lips part in soft, helpless cries.
Her eyes fluttered shut from the pleasure—too much, too sharp, too fast.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, one hand squeezing her breast, the other gripping her hip.
He kissed her shoulder, then her neck, then her lips—reaching around to catch her mouth from behind without breaking the rhythm of his thrusts.
And still—she moaned.
She cried out for him, and only him.
When she came again, pulsing and shaking around him, he didn't stop.
Even when she whispered, brokenly:
> "I… I can't… Damon… please…"
He didn't stop.
He kissed her spine.
Grunted softly against her shoulder.
And when he was on the edge, breath ragged, he pulled out with a sharp gasp and spilled himself across her lower back—his groan low, guttural, unfiltered.
Her legs buckled.
He caught her.
Held her.
Lifted her like something precious and placed her back in the bed.
She lay there, trembling.
Skin flushed.
Breath shattered.
Heart pounding like war drums beneath her ribs.
Damon leaned in.
Kissed her temple.
Whispered her name like salvation.
Then lay beside her.
One hand over her chest, feeling her heartbeat thunder beneath his palm.
The girl he had ruined.
The girl he had marked.
The girl who still clung to him—unaware he was the shadow in her nightmares.
And he held her tighter—
As if he could convince himself that what they had was real.
Even if it was born from darkness.