The touch of his hand on her shoulder was a brand. April sat frozen, every sense screaming. She could feel the steady pressure of each finger, the warmth that seeped through her shirt to her skin. It was the most intimate contact they have ever had, and it terrified her more than his anger ever could.
His breath was a soft whisper against her ear. "You can fight me with every breath in your body, April. But you are here. I will have you. You are mine."
The words should have been a prison sentence. So why did a treacherous heat curl low in her belly? She jerked away, the chair legs screeching in protest against the floor. She stood, putting the table between them, her chest heaving.
"Don't touch me," she snarled, pushing him away, the words laced with a panic she hated.
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips. It was the first real smile she had seen, and it transformed his face from coldly handsome to devastating. "Why? Because you might like it?"
"Because you don't have the right!"
"I have every right." He didn't move, simply watched her, a predator confident in his trap. "I own the air you breathe in this place. The food you eat. The clothes on your back. That gives me the right to do anything I please."
Her hand itched to slap the smug certainty from his face. "You're a monster."
"You keep saying that." He finally moved, circling the table with a lazy, predatory grace. "But monsters inspire fear. I see something else in your eyes right now, April. I see a fight. And I see… interest."
He was too close again. The air crackled. She could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Her heart was a wild, trapped thing. She took a step back, and her hip bumped against the sideboard. She was cornered.
"Stay away from me," she warned, her voice trembling.
"Or what?" he murmured, closing the final distance. He didn't touch her, but his body was a wall in front of her, his heat radiating into her. "What will you do, little artist? Paint me into a corner?"
His mockery was a spark to her tinder-dry pride. "Go back to your perfect fiancée. I'm sure she doesn't mind being treated like property."
"Rowena understands the terms of our arrangement." His gaze dropped to her mouth. "You're the one who refuses to learn yours."
"There are no terms! There's just your insane whim!"
"Then consider this part of it." His hand came up, not to grab, but to gently brush a stray curl from her cheek. The contact was shockingly soft. Her breath hitched, a tiny, betraying sound.
His eyes darkened. The amusement faded, replaced by a stark, hungry intensity that stole the air from her lungs. This was no longer a game of power. This was something else entirely. The space between them vanished, charged with a tension so thick she could taste it, metallic and sweet, on her tongue.
She should push him away. Knee him. Scream.
She did nothing.
His head dipped slowly, giving her every chance to refuse, to turn away. She remained motionless, caught in the storm of his gaze. When his lips met hers, it wasn't the brutal, punishing assault she had braced for. It was slow and gentle. enquiring.
His mouth was soft, surprisingly so, and warm. It moved over hers with a slow, exploring pressure that unraveled her from the inside out. The anger, the fear, the hours of tension, it all melted under that deliberate, searching kiss.
A small, broken sound escaped her throat. Her hands, which had been fisted at her sides, unclenched. One of them fluttered up, her fingers brushing against the rough wool of his suit jacket. It was a surrender. A tiny one, but a surrender nonetheless.
He felt it. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her firmly against him, eliminating the last inch of space. The kiss deepened, turning from a question into a statement. It was full of a raw, pent-up need that mirrored the chaos inside her. She was kissing him back. Her mind screamed in protest, but her body, starved for comfort and connection, overruled it. She tasted coffee and Damien, and it was an intoxicating, dangerous blend.
The world narrowed to the feel of his mouth on hers, the solid strength of his body, the scent of him filling her senses. For one dizzying moment, there was no gilded cage, no fiancée, no blackmail. There was only this shocking, undeniable chemistry that set her blood on fire.
It was the sound of her own soft moan that shattered the spell.
Horror washed over her, cold and brutal. What was she doing? Kissing her captor? Enjoying the kiss of her captor?
She wrenched her mouth from his, stumbling back, her hand flying to her lips as if she could wipe away the evidence of her betrayal. Of herself.
He let her go, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes were dark, his lips slightly swollen. He looked as shaken as she felt.
"What… what was that?" she gasped, her voice raw.
"A mistake," he said, his voice rough. But the look in his eyes was anything but regretful. It was triumphant. "Or a beginning. I haven't decided which."
He straightened his jacket, the gesture a return to his controlled self, but the pulse hammering at the base of his throat gave him away. He had gotten what he wanted. A reaction. A crack in her armor.
"And you?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft. "What do you think it was, April?"
She had no answer. She was too busy trying to reassemble the pieces of her shattered defiance.
He didn't wait for her reply. He simply turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the wreckage of the dinner and her own resolve. The door closed with a quiet, definitive click.
April sank to the floor, her legs unable to hold her. She touched her lips again. They still tingled. She could still feel the ghost of his mouth, the imprint of his body against hers. A single, hot tear traced a path through the charcoal dust still smudged on her cheek. She angrily wiped it away.
She had fought him with everything she had. She had used her words, her anger, even her art. And he had broken her not with force, but with a single, devastating kiss. He had proven that the most dangerous chains weren't made of steel or glass, but of desire.
Worse than the shame was the terrifying, thrilling realization that coiled deep inside her. A part of her, a part she could no longer deny, was already wondering what it would be like to kiss him again, to be intimate with him.
The lock on her bedroom door that night felt flimsy, not because it could keep him out, but because she was no longer sure she wanted it to.