Chapter6. Damien
887 Words
Damien finally returned home late that night, the low rumble of his bike fading into the silence that clung to his sprawling estate. The house was quiet except for the steady movement of his men patrolling outside, boots crunching faintly against gravel.
He dragged himself into the lounge, tossing his keys onto the table. His shirt hung open, buttons undone with deliberate slowness as he sank into the leather chair, muscles taut from the day’s battles. Lord, he reeked of stress, every nerve pulled taut.
He poured himself a glass of wine, crimson liquid glinting under the dim light. One gulp. Then another. The taste burned his throat, but it didn’t matter. He needed it.
Without thinking, he stripped the rest of his clothes and stepped into his private sauna, letting the heat wash over him. Steam curled along his broad shoulders, tracing every scar, every line of tension. Finally, his body loosened, the warmth soaking into him.
But peace didn’t last long. His mind wandered upstairs, to the delicate creature he’d left in the dinning room this morning. Gwen. His bride. His captive. He pictured her pacing, or crying, or lying stiff on the bed, her heart trembling as violently as her hands.
Perhaps she was still awake. Perhaps she was curled beneath the sheets, shaken but stubborn.
He smirked at the thought, rising from the sauna. Wrapping a towel around his waist, Damien padded upstairs, his steps heavy against the quiet.
The door creaked as he pushed it open.
The sight before him made him chuckle, low and dark.
Gwen was sprawled across his bed, still in that sinful red satin dress, one strap sliding down her shoulder. Her lips parted softly as she snored—innocent, unaware, fragile. The contrast to his world was enough to make something dangerous coil inside him.
He shook his head. “My little bride,” he muttered, amused.
Stripping off the towel, Damien tugged on a pair of black boxer briefs before climbing onto the bed. His body hovered over hers, his shadow stretching across her delicate frame. He looked down at her sleeping face, lashes fanned against pale cheeks.
Maybe fate had brought her here. The thought almost made him laugh. He didn’t believe in fate. Fate was for fools. He was a man who carved his own path, who took what he wanted with iron fists.
And yet… he wouldn’t have found her if he hadn’t been hunting for her brother.
His hand brushed aside a lock of her fiery hair. He bent lower, lips skimming the air just above hers. For one brief second, temptation nearly won. But instead of stealing her mouth, he pressed a kiss against her cheek.
He wasn’t a man known for control. God knew he wasn’t gentle. But perhaps… perhaps with her, he might try. Not yet. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would make her his in every sense of the word. Slowly. Thoroughly. Sweetly, if she deserved sweet.
Rolling onto his side, he dragged her closer, inhaling the faint perfume clinging to her skin. His arm wrapped around her waist, keeping her caged even in sleep.
Today had been long. Tomorrow would be longer.
Tomorrow, his wife would learn what it meant to be a woman.
An evil smile curved his lips as he closed his eyes.
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Morning came quickly, the light spilling on the sheets in gold. Gwen stirred first, blinking against the brightness.
For one disorienting moment, she didn’t understand where she was. Then the weight around her waist registered. Damien’s arm, hard, heavy, unyielding was wrapped around her, locking her against the furnace of his body.
Her heart stuttered. When had he come home? How long had he been there, holding her like this?
Carefully, she shifted, disentangling herself from him. His grip loosened reluctantly, like a predator releasing prey only because it chose to.
Her feet touched the cold floor, and she moved quickly, needing space. She washed up in the bathroom, splashed her face until her reflection looked calmer, braver, though the tremor in her chest betrayed her.
Downstairs, the kitchen was blessedly empty. She clutched at normalcy, sliding a mug beneath the coffee machine, wrapping both hands around the cup as though its warmth could steady her.
She lifted it to her lips, inhaling deeply. Just one sip—
“Morning, wife.”
The voice came from behind her, low, husky, threaded with masculine possession.
She choked, nearly spilling the coffee. Heat rushed up her neck as she spun around.
Damien leaned against the doorframe, broad shoulders filling the space, hair still damp from a shower. He was shirtless, a pair of black sweats hanging low on his hips.
The smirk on his face was slow, dangerous. “Careful,” he murmured, eyes dark with amusement. “I wouldn’t want you burning yourself before I’ve had the chance to.”
Her throat worked, words caught between defiance and fear. He moved closer, each step measured, until the counter pressed into her spine and his presence crowded every inch of air around her.
He didn’t touch her. Just leaned down, his breath brushing her ear. “You smell like my bed.”
Her grip on the mug tightened, knuckles white.
His lips curved. “Get used to it, Gwen. That’s where you belong now.”
- Writer
