The Bargain With The Mistress's Brother

CHAPTER 006: Walk With Me

~~Claire~~

It's funny when you spend hours telling yourself to keep it together, and then an amber-eyed devil smirks at you, opens his mouth, and destroys every self-control you’ve mustered.

I'm just about ready to go home. To put this entire affair behind me, leave the country, and start a life somewhere else. But that, unfortunately, would require money. The money that's in Harold's account. I should have listened to Shanice when she insisted that Harold channel money into a separate account instead of giving me a card to his. But no, I’d trusted him. He was my husband; why would I not?

Now, everything's frozen until his estate is settled.

My best chance, according to Peter, is to bargain with the devil himself, who's currently staring at me like I just told him I’m a cannibal and want to eat his flesh.

At least, for once, he doesn't have anything to say. That tart mouth of his is finally shut. His executive assistant, Stephen, is the first to break the silence.

“I… I’ll be in the office,” Stephen says from the other side of the elevator.

He must have pressed a button, because the doors pull open, and I can hear him practically running out. I don't dare take my eyes off Damon. Not when his eyes are fixed so intently on mine. His gaze dips, just for a moment, to my lips again. And as much as I hate to admit it, his attention to them tickles in a weird way.

“You mean to seduce me?” he asks, as though tasting the words.

“Yes.”

Then I move even closer, bridging the gap until we’re chest to chest. Standing on my tiptoes, I lean in just enough to let my breath brush against his ear.

“Isn’t that what women like me do, Mr. Penrose? Use our looks to get what we want?”

He doesn't move, doesn't say a word. In this position, I can feel his breath hitch. I feel the steady drum of his heart beneath the tailored fabric of his suit. Satisfied, I pull back to see him staring at me with something that isn't exactly anger or indifference. Something that makes my own pulse race.

"Is that what you think will work on me?" he asks. "Flirting your way into a paycheck?"

"Worth a shot, don’t you think? Considering you’re so intent on painting me as some desperate gold digger."

A dark smile spreads across his lips. It’s the kind of smile that makes you question whether you’ve just walked into a trap. “And you’re not?”

“I don’t care, Mr. Penrose. I am whatever you think I am.”

There. I’ve said it. I’m tired of his bullshït. If he wants a fight, let's have it.

His gaze sharpens, and for a split second, I wonder if he's about to back down.

But then he smiles again, and this time, it’s even darker. More dangerous. And I realize too late that maybe Damon isn’t the kind of man you can fight with fire. He seems to enjoy it.

He slowly raises a hand and sets it under my chin, tilting my head further up.

The touch is firm but not rough, and it catches me so off guard that I just stand there, frozen. His fingers are cool against my skin, his thumb brushing the underside of my jaw.

“Go on then,” he says. “Seduce me.”

I’m hyper-aware of everything now—the way his scent, an intoxicating blend of cedarwood and spice, fills the small space; the way his thumb lingers just a second too long before he pulls his hand away; the way his gaze is locked on mine, intense and unwavering.

He’s mocking me, I know it, the same way I just mocked him with the seduction thing. But unlike me, he finds this entire situation amusing, like I’m some ridiculous little plaything he can toy with until he’s bored.

“What’s the problem, Mrs. Montague?” he asks. “We’re all alone. You’ve got my attention. Do what you came to do.” He leans in, his minty breath fanning my lips. “Seduce me.”

I stare at him, forgetting how to breathe for a moment. It’s like his words are a match striking against tinder, and my body responds before my brain can catch up. My pulse stutters, my skin feels too tight, and every nerve screams at the proximity of him. God, I hate him. I’ve never hated someone this much, and I just met him yesterday for the first time. The audacity. The sheer, arrogant, soul-crushing audacity of this man.

I step back, desperate to put distance between us. “You must get off on tormenting people,” I say.

There's that smile again, that smug look I want to smack out of his face. The corner of his mouth twitches as if he’s holding back a laugh. “Tell me, Mrs. Montague, do you practice these theatrics, or do they just come naturally?”

“Theatrics?” I repeat. I feel the dam breaking. All the frustration, all the anger, all the heartbreak I’ve been suppressing comes rushing to the surface. “Screw you, Mr. Penrose. It was a bad idea coming here in the first place. You want to keep Harold’s money? Then keep it. I’d rather die than stand here and be belittled by a man whose sister was fuçking my husband behind my back!”

His smirk falters, but I don’t stop.

“You think this is some kind of game? That my life is something you can joke about? I’ve had enough of men’s bullshït to last me a lifetime. Harold, with his secrets and his lies. And now you, sitting on your high horse, judging me like you know a damn thing about what I’ve been through!”

I press the door-open button with more force than necessary, the elevator lurching as the doors slide open.

“Goodbye, Mr. Penrose,” I say. “I’ll be sending you invoices concerning my son’s welfare.”

I head out. The cold air of the corridor hits my flushed face as I take a few unsteady steps toward the regular elevator. My hands tremble. My vision blurs as I blink back a tear threatening to escape. Damn it. Not here.

But before I can make it any farther, a strong hand grabs my wrist, pulling me to a halt. I turn, startled, and find Damon standing behind me. His grip is firm but not painful.

“Let go of me,” I say, trying to pull free.

“Walk,” he says.

“What?”

“Walk with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I snap, tugging harder, but his hold doesn’t budge.

He leans closer, his voice a low snarl. “Stop struggling before someone walks by and thinks I’m kidnapping you.”

“It is kidnapping if you hold someone against their will,” I hiss, glaring at him.

“Goddammit. Can you just do as you’re told for once, Claire?”

The sound of my name from his mouth stuns me into silence. It isn’t just the way he says it—firm, yet oddly intimate—it’s the fact that he used it at all.

There’s a brief, fleeting moment where his fingers loosen, his touch softening. Then he lets go.

Afterwards, he turns and starts walking, gesturing with his hands, as if to say, Come on.

It’s not a command exactly, but it isn’t a request either.

My first instinct is to run in the opposite direction, back to the elevator, out of this building, and as far away from him as possible. Yet my legs have other ideas.

I watch him for a second, his broad shoulders rigid, his posture that of a man who expects to be followed. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t confirm if I’m coming or not. He just walks, each step echoing in the eerily quiet corridor.

And for some unexplainable reason, I follow him.