So there I was, back pressed to the wall like some damsel in distress—which, spoiler alert, I am not. But apparently Damian didn't get the memo as always.
He stared at me like I was a crime scene waiting to be solved. He always did.
"What did you hear?" His voice was low, and I knew it was dangerous.
"Nothing," I said, my best poker face sliding into place. Lie of the century, obviously.
He took a step closer, and then another, until there was absolutely no oxygen left in the room and I was officially caged between Mr. Tall-Dark-Broody and the wall. His hands then bracketed me, one on each side, which was very alpha male of him.
"Try again, Selene."
My heart skipped (traitor), and I sighed. "Fine. I heard the whole thing. Fiancée, Helena Brooks, blah blah fashion empire, blah blah Damian as a prize. Ring a bell?"
His jaw tightened. "And why," he said slowly, "were you eavesdropping?"
I smirked, because sarcasm is my coping mechanism. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because I love standing in dark hallways hoping to overhear rich people drama. It's my new hobby. Right up there with, you know, not dying in your house."
His eyes narrowed, and for a second, I thought that maybe he might actually laugh. He didn't, of course he didn't, how could I forget that Damian Rossi doesn't laugh.
Instead, he pulled back just enough to guide me toward the sofa in his room. The cushions were so ridiculously soft I nearly melted into them on impact.
He sat beside me, close enough that the heat off him made me acutely aware of every inch of space I didn't have.
"Selene," he said quietly, his voice a thread pulling taut. "Do you want to know the reason I kept you with me?"
Finally, God yes, this big black bully actually got the message the entire time, but sadly that's where it ended—right before my heart did another Olympic-level gymnastics routine.
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Damian's gaze didn't waver, and honestly, it was unnerving. Like I was some puzzle piece he hadn't figured out where to shove yet.
He leaned back slightly, elbows on his knees, and finally spoke. "You think Helena Brooks matters to me?"
I raised a brow. "Well, considering your family practically just rolled out the red carpet for her, yeah. I'd say she matters."
His laugh—dark, humorless—made my stomach clench. "Helena's a pawn. A glossy little doll my mother and her empire can parade around. Do you want to know what she is to me?"
I should've said no. Obviously. But curiosity is basically my middle name. "Enlighten me, Rossi."
He leaned closer, voice dropping into that sinful register that made my spine do inappropriate things. "She's leverage. A contract in high heels. A name my family wants tied to mine so they can push their agendas in the fashion world and the underworld. She's not a lover. She's a… transaction. A body in my bed if I want it, a signature on paper if I don't. That's all she'll ever be."
I swallowed, heat crawling up my neck. The way he said "body" like it was both a weapon and a promise? Yeah. Not fair.
I cleared my throat, trying to sound unfazed. "So… why are you telling me this? Newsflash: I'm not your therapist."
That's when it happened—he moved so fast I didn't even catch it until my back hit the cushion. Damian loomed over me, one hand pinning the armrest, the other braced by my head. His scent—danger and cedar and expensive sin—wrapped around me.
"Do you want to know why I keep you here, Selene?" His voice was molten steel.
My heart jackhammered. "You keep asking like it's some fairy tale secret. Why don't you just spit it out already?"
He didn't. Of course he didn't. Instead, his lips brushed against my neck—barely there, just enough to set every nerve on fire.
"Do you want to know?" he murmured against my skin, each word vibrating down my spine.
Sarcasm to the rescue. "Honestly? I'd rather not know if it comes with a side of mafia melodrama and neck biting, thanks."
His mouth curved against me in something that might've been a smile—or a warning. Then, just like that, he pulled away, leaving me half wrecked and half furious.
"Stay for the night," he said simply, as if it were an order, not an invitation.
I blinked at him. "Excuse me? What?"
He didn't answer. Just turned his back like he hadn't set my pulse on fire two seconds ago.
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"Do you have any problem with it?" Damian asked, his voice calm—too calm. Like he hadn't just cornered me against the couch and declared I was his houseguest-slash-prisoner for the night.
I let out a sharp laugh. "Problem? Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that we slept together, Damian. Or did that slip your genius-level mafia brain?"
His jaw tightened, but he didn't back down. "You're the one who wanted it, Selene."
That snapped the thread. "Wanted it? Are you serious right now?" I shot up from the cushion, glaring at him like he'd lost his damn mind. "You think I planned to end up moaning your name loud enough for the goddamn angels to take notes? You cornered me, you kissed me, and—"
"You kissed me back," he cut in, voice dropping like a blade.
My stomach flipped. Damn him for being right. I crossed my arms. "Yeah, and you sure as hell didn't stop, did you? Don't stand there acting like I begged you to fuck me. You wanted it just as bad, Rossi. Don't twist the script."
He moved closer, inch by inch, like a predator savoring the chase. "And you didn't resist. You wanted it, Selene. Admit it."
God, he was impossible. "Oh, please. You think because I let you between my legs once, you get a lifetime pass? Newsflash: I don't run on mafia rules. I don't belong to you."
His eyes darkened, and for a moment, the tension was so thick I thought the walls themselves would crack. "Belong?" His lips curled. "Say what you want, but your body told me the truth. Every sound, every shiver—"
"Stop," I snapped, cheeks burning. "Stop acting like you're some sex god who cracked the Da Vinci Code. I came, okay? Big deal. Doesn't mean I'll stay because you snapped your fingers."
He tilted his head, smug and sharp. "Yet here you are, arguing about it instead of walking out the door."
Silence. Shit. He had me there.
I dragged a hand through my hair and exhaled. "...Fine," I muttered, glaring at him. "I'll stay. But not because you said so, Damian. Don't flatter yourself. I'll stay because I agreed. My choice, my rules, my fucking bed—got it?"
His smirk was infuriating. "Got it."