Chapter3.Realisation
1087 Words
Damien’s boots echoed against the polished floor as he closed the distance between them. His shadow swallowed Gwen where she sat trembling on the bed, clutching the torn folds of her wedding gown like a shield.
“Will you strip,” his voice was low, husky and laced with steel, “or do I do it for you?”
Her head jerked, red strands of hair tumbling loose as she shook it violently. “No… no, please,” she whispered, voice trembling like brittle glass.
His jaw flexed. Without hesitation, he reached down and caught her ankle. Gwen gasped as he yanked her down the mattress, her body sliding helplessly until her back nearly hit the edge. Her breath came fast, eyes wide, chest rising and falling beneath the ruined bodice of white silk.
Damien’s hand hovered near her neckline. Her desperate cry split the air.
“Please—don’t touch me!”
He froze.
One brow arched, his expression unreadable. “Touch you?” he repeated, his tone edged with dark amusement. His lips curled as he leaned closer, his breath brushing against her ear. “I’m not a monster, sweetheart. I don’t touch... I take. And you, my dear bride, will enjoy it. You’ll beg for more.”
Her lips trembled, her head shaking furiously. He studied her face, her lashes wet, her lips pale, her entire frame shaking like a leaf in the wind. Fear. Not the kind that excited him, no, this was different. Raw. Fragile.
It unsettled him.
Women didn’t fear Damien. They wanted him. They chased him, clawed for his attention, bent themselves to be marked by the king of the Black Vultures. Yet this one, this trembling little redhead, looked at him as if he were death himself.
Why?
Was she still clinging to the coward who had used her body as a shield in front of everyone? The memory made Damien’s mouth twitch with disdain. Liam. Pathetic. Not a man, not even a worthy rival.
His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of her dress, the heat of her body trembling under his palm. Her breath came in sharp, ragged pulls, chest heaving.
And then—something.
A vibe. A purity he couldn’t quite name. She wasn’t resisting with anger, or even pride. It was something else. Something rare.
Impossible. Someone tied to Marcus could never be pure. That family was rot from the inside out.
“Please…” Gwen’s voice cracked as tears welled in her eyes. “Please don’t touch me.”
Her quiet pleading was like a blade in his ear.
He stilled, his gaze locking on hers. “Why?” His voice was sharp, impatient.
She blinked rapidly, lips parting, but no words came.
“Why?” he pressed again, his grip tightening on her dress. “Give me a reason, or I won’t stop.”
Her lips parted. “I… I…” The words tangled in her throat, terror strangling the syllables.
Damien’s eyes narrowed. His patience was thinner than smoke.
“Virgin?” he asked flatly.
She froze.
Her throat bobbed once, twice. Then—slowly, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.
The air in the room shifted.
For the first time in years, Damien’s breath caught. His face went pale, his body rigid. He released her, straightening so suddenly the mattress sighed with relief.
Perhaps he had misheard. Perhaps she was lying.
But her entire demeanor screamed the truth. The trembling, the pleading, the innocence in her eyes, it all aligned.
“You haven’t been touched before?” His voice was quieter now, but edged with disbelief. “Not ever?”
She shook her head, her lips trembling.
Damien’s jaw clenched. A dark look flickered across his face before he spun on his heel and stormed toward the door.
Her wide eyes followed him, confusion mixing with relief.
He didn’t look back.
By the time Damien summoned the maid, his expression was stone again.
“She bathes,” he ordered coldly, his tone brooking no refusal. “Feed her. She doesn’t starve unless I say so.”
The maid nodded quickly and slipped into Gwen’s room, bowing her head before guiding the trembling bride to the adjoining bath. Gwen followed timidly, still shaken, her mind a whirl of disbelief.
Damien didn’t linger. He had no time for softness. She was his now, untouched or not, and that truth would bind her tighter than any chain.
But for tonight, he needed focus.
He summoned his men.
The Black Vultures.
They gathered in their underground clubhouse, the roar of engines still echoing in the night as one by one, bikes lined up outside, sleek Harleys, customized with matte black frames, roaring pipes, and the insignia of their brotherhood, a vulture with spread wings, talons dripping red.
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and sweat, the scent of leather, gasoline, and danger woven into the walls. Men in leather vests bearing the patch sat at long tables, tattoos crawling down their arms, knives and pistols gleaming at their sides. Every eye turned when Damien entered.
The king had arrived.
He walked to the head of the table, his presence cutting through the noise like a blade. No one spoke. No one moved.
Damien’s eyes swept the room, cold and commanding. These men weren’t just bikers. They were soldiers, killers, brothers forged in the fires of loyalty. The Black Vultures ruled the city’s underworld—guns, protection rackets, and blood debts. And Damien was the storm that bound them.
When he spoke, his voice carried steel.
“My brother is dead.”
Silence fell, thick and suffocating.
“They murdered blood,” Damien continued, every word sharp. “Marcus pulled the trigger. And while that coward hides, I’ll gut him myself. But hear me now—” He slammed his fist against the table, the wood cracking under the force. “—we will not lose another. Not one more of you dies. Not now, not ever.”
A ripple of agreement rumbled through the men.
He scanned their faces, reading loyalty, fire, vengeance.
“We ride together. We bleed together. We protect this brotherhood. And until Marcus blood soaks the ground, no one rests.”
A roar of approval shook the clubhouse, fists pounding the table, boots stomping. The Black Vultures were ready for war.
Damien stood at the head of it all, eyes dark, mind still haunted by the image of Gwen’s trembling lips.
A virgin. His captive bride.
And soon—his to claim.
- Writer
