The chandelier above glittered like a galaxy trapped in crystal. Soft piano music drifted through the velvet air. Everything smelled of wealth — wax-polished floors, wine-bathed menus, conversation folded in linen.
Alina sat across from Damon, eyes wide, lips parted slightly as she scanned the table. Silver cutlery. Three glasses. Plates too beautiful to touch.
But she did.
And when the food arrived, something in her shifted.
She didn't hesitate.
She picked up her fork and took a bite — then another, faster this time, like something long-forgotten had just been remembered.
Damon watched her, elbows resting lightly on the table, fingers steepled before his mouth. Amusement tugged at the corners of his lips.
"You're not going to breathe?" he murmured.
Alina looked up, cheeks flushed, a strand of hair falling over her cheek.
"I—" She paused, embarrassed. "It's really good."
He chuckled low under his breath. "I gathered."
She returned to her plate, slower now but no less eager. The roasted garlic chicken, the creamy potatoes, the strange but beautiful little dessert she couldn't name — she devoured it all with the quiet wonder of someone unaccustomed to having nice things.
She giggled, scooping another spoonful of mousse into her mouth, eyes lighting up like a child discovering magic. "This is the best thing I've ever eaten," she said between bites.
Damon leaned back in his chair, watching her with an unreadable expression. The candlelight played against the sharp lines of his face, softening them just enough to make him look almost gentle.
"You act like you've never been to a five-star hotel," he said.
She swallowed and wiped her lips with her napkin, smiling sheepishly. "I haven't. Not one like this."
He tilted his head. "Never?"
She shook her head. "Only once. My father took me to a fancy place for my ninth birthday. I remember the white tablecloths and the little glass bottles of sparkling water. I didn't like the food, but I loved the way he smiled that day."
Her voice quieted. "But my mom and dad used to cook outside — barbecue, chickens, spices on the wind… Damon, those were the best days. I miss them."
Her smile dimmed, just a touch. Damon's gaze lingered.
"What about you?" she asked softly. "Did your parents ever take you somewhere like this?"
For the first time since they sat down, Damon looked away.
His jaw shifted slightly, as though the question had lodged somewhere deeper than bone. When he spoke, his voice was casual — too casual.
"No."
Alina blinked. "Never?"
"I mean, you were rich, yet no?" she added, gently.
He picked up his glass of wine and took a slow sip. "My father wasn't the kind of man who celebrated things. Or people."
"Oh…" she murmured, uncertain whether to say more.
Damon turned back to her, and for a moment, there was something distant in his eyes — not sadness, but something colder. Older. Like he'd buried more than just memories.
Alina wanted to ask more. But she didn't.
Instead, he smiled again — effortlessly charming. "I suppose that makes tonight my first time too."
Alina laughed a little too quickly, the tension fading under the warmth of his attention. "Then I'm glad I get to share it with you."
He didn't speak.
He just watched her — the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke of her father, the way her voice softened with memory.
The waiter reappeared with the check in a leather folder, bowing slightly as he placed it beside Damon.
Alina reached for her glass of water, her eyes still dancing with the remnants of laughter. "I think I ate too much," she said. "But it was worth it."
Damon signed without looking, his focus never leaving her. "Good."
"Good?" she echoed, tilting her head.
"You should enjoy things," he said, quieter now. "You deserve to."
The simplicity of it tugged at something deep in her chest.
No one had said that to her in years.
They were caught in each other's eyes then, suspended in a moment that shimmered between silence and something more. Alina was the first to break it — not to ruin the magic, but to keep it from falling into awkwardness.
"I should take Anaya and my grandmother here," she said, smiling softly. "Once I get my paycheck from Atlanta."
Damon stared at her.
"Don't look at me like that," she said. "I trust my grandma. She'll come back to scold me for eating outside without her."
Outside, the city shimmered under the night sky. As they walked to the car, Alina turned her face to the breeze, letting the chill bite gently at her cheeks. She wasn't used to nights like this — wrapped in velvet and gold, carried in something that felt too beautiful to be real.
Damon opened the car door for her. His hand brushed her lower back — just a touch — but it lingered in her senses long after the door shut behind her.
Inside the car, silence stretched. Not awkward — heavy. Intimate.
"You never talk about your past," she said finally.
Damon's hands gripped the wheel loosely, eyes forward. "Some things don't deserve to be remembered."
Alina looked at him. His jaw was tight again. The shadows of city lights painted fleeting shapes across his profile. He looked like contradiction personified — dangerous, yet refined. Distant, yet always watching.
And for a moment, she wondered if he had ever truly known peace.
But she said nothing.
She didn't know how close she was to the fire.
At a red light, he turned toward her.
He didn't move away. His voice dropped — low, velvet-smooth, devastating.
"You were different last night."
Her smile faltered. "Last night?"
His eyes didn't leave hers. "When you let me in."
The words hit like a whisper against bare skin. Her breath caught. Heat bloomed as memory surged — the press of his body, the ache of his mouth, the way he moved like sin wrapped in reverence, wrecking her with worship.
And the sound he made when she moaned his name like a prayer.
"I—" she swallowed. "I didn't mean to—"
"Don't." His voice was gentle but unyielding — a command clothed in silk. "Don't ruin it with guilt."
She looked away, heart knocking painfully against her ribs.
But his next words dragged her back.
"I've spent years drowning in noise," Damon said. "Noise in my blood. In my head. But last night—"
He leaned in just enough for her to feel the heat of him, the scent of danger and desire clinging to his skin.
"Last night, everything went quiet."
Her gaze snapped back to him.
His face was unreadable. Jaw clenched. Eyes shadowed with something raw.
"I didn't have to fight. I didn't have to run. I just… felt you. Around me. Under me."
A breath. "And I was still."
The silence between them pulsed, thick with the echo of what they'd done — and what still clung to their skin.
"I don't get that," he murmured. "Peace. But you… you tasted like it."
"You didn't just let me touch you. You gave me something I didn't think I could feel again."
She shivered.
"Damon…"
"I don't want that night to be a memory," he whispered. "I want more."
Alina's lips parted, but nothing came.
He leaned closer, mouth near her ear now, breath warm and burning.
"I want more of your voice breaking on my name. More of your fingers clawing at my back like you're trying to anchor yourself. More of your thighs trembling around me like they don't know whether to run or keep me inside."
Her pulse fluttered in her neck.
"I meant every second of it. Every breath. Every sound. Every time you gripped me like you were falling and only I could catch you."
She inhaled sharply.
"I want your joy," he whispered. "Your silence. Your storm. All of it."
Her knees felt weak, and they weren't even standing.
"And I want it without masks. Without lies. No pretending."
A pause. Then lower — darker —
"At least… not between us."
She looked at him — eyes wide, heart frantic, breath trembling.
He leaned back just enough to let her breathe, but his presence still coiled around her like a promise.
"I don't want it to be a one-time thing," he said.
Her voice came out quieter. "You mean…?"
"I mean I want more. Of you. Not just your body. Your laughter. Your silence. The way you eat like you're trying to remember what joy tastes like."
She blinked, throat thick.
She could still feel him. Taste him. The way he kissed her like he was starving. The way he touched her like worship and possession were one and the same.
And deep down, past fear and shame…
She wanted it again.
She wanted him again.
But reason screamed inside her.
Run.
And Damon smiled — like he could hear the war in her chest.
And he was willing to wait.
Or hunt.
Whichever she chose.
"Take your time, Alina," he murmured.
She turned to the window, heart fluttering in confusion and heat. Damon drove on — smooth, calm, unshaken.
By the time they reached her house, the night had folded itself around her like a velvet lullaby. Damon stepped out and opened the door for her again.
As she stepped out, he bent closer, his breath grazing her ear.
"You should eat like that more often."
She looked up, startled.
He smiled — dark, fond, and something else she couldn't name.
"Like you forgot the world was watching".
Before he could go—
"I—" she started, but her voice was too soft. It splintered before it became anything real.
He didn't press.
Didn't rush.
Damon only watched her like he was memorizing her hesitation—drinking in her silence as if it were scripture. As if her confusion only fed his certainty.
Alina looked away, hugging her arms to herself as the wind teased the hem of her dress.
"You don't have to answer," Damon said finally, his voice low, unwavering. "Not yet."
She turned to him, surprised by the gentleness in his tone.
"I just needed you to know," he continued. "Because I can't go back to what I was before you."
Alina's lips parted, stunned.
She doesn't speak. Of course she doesn't. She just stares—wide-eyed, uncertain, like she's trying to understand something that doesn't fit in her world.
He lets her stay confused. Lets her stay soft and frightened.
Because the moment she starts to understand me… she'll try to run.
And I'm not ready to let her go. Not after that night. I will never be ready.
I tell her she doesn't have to answer—not yet. And I mean it.
Not because I'm patient. Not because I'm kind.
Because I already know what her answer will be. Eventually. I'll make sure of it.
She doesn't see it—not yet—but she's already tangled in me. In my scent. In my memory. In the pieces of myself I've never given to anyone else.
Not one woman. Not in all these years.
None of them ever looked like this after a night with me—trembling, bruised, and yet somehow whole. None of them ever made me want to undo myself just to watch them breathe easier.
None of them ever stayed in my bed past midnight. None of them touched me.
Not truly.
I never let them. I never needed them to.
But Alina…
I let her touch me.
I let her fingers press into my skin and my mind and my quiet, broken places. I let her exist in that space I've kept sealed for years—and it didn't destroy me. It didn't burn.
It felt like mercy.
And that terrifies me.
Because I know what I am.
I am not made for softness. I am not made for love.
I was built in silence, shaped by blood, carved from rage and vengeance. My hands are not meant to hold beauty. They are meant to take.
And still—still I looked at her last night and didn't feel like taking.
I felt like belonging.
I watched her sleep in my arms, and something in me cracked—slow, quiet, dangerous.
I didn't touch anyone else. Didn't want to. Didn't need to.
That hunger—the one I used to feed with nameless bodies—it changed. It narrowed. It chose.
It chose her.
And when I was inside her… raw, bare, unprotected—I knew.
Even if I haven't said it. Even if the word itself still tastes foreign in my mouth…
I love her.
God. I love her.
Not like the movies. Not like the songs.
I love her like the tide loves the moon. Like madness loves silence. Like death loves the one soul it cannot claim.
And I will make sure she loves me too.
Even if I have to twist her world to fit mine. Even if I have to pull every thread of fear and longing until she's tied to me completely.
This isn't obsession anymore.
It's something deeper. Something fatal.
I'll pick her up tomorrow.
She'll babysit Noah. She'll step into the house again. She'll feel safe—because I'll let her feel safe. I'll make sure of it.
"Seven-thirty," I add smoothly. "I'm picking you up. You'll be watching Noah tomorrow."
There. A perfect excuse.
She'll come to the house again. Into my world. Into the lion's den.
Where I can watch her. Touch her. Pull the strings a little tighter.
And slowly, beautifully, without her ever realizing… I'll make sure her answer becomes the only one that matters:
Yes.
Because I can't live without her now.
Then Damon started the engine and drove away, leaving only silence behind him.
Alina turned to leave, her thoughts tangled and heavy, but stopped short.
Kevin was standing a few feet away.
He wasn't moving.
Just watching.
And from the look on his face… he had seen them.
He hadn't heard the exchange—hadn't heard Damon's smooth voice or Alina's stunned silence—but he didn't need to. His instincts were already at war.
Alina's stomach dropped. Guilt crawled up her spine as she walked toward him slowly.
"Kevin," she said softly. "Can we talk?"
He nodded once, stiffly.
They walked to the nearby park in silence. Dusk had fallen, casting long shadows across the grass. The swing chains creaked faintly as they sat down, the weight of unspoken words pressing between them.
"I got a new job," Alina said, carefully. "Starting tomorrow."
Kevin looked at her. Waiting.
"I'll be babysitting Noah… at the mansion. I won't be coming to the café anymore."
Silence stretched between them like a thread pulled too tight.
"You're going to his house?" Kevin's voice was low, strained.
Alina nodded. "Yes."
He frowned. "Why?"
"I need the money. The hours are better. And… I'll be taking Anaya with me. Atlanta said it was okay."
Kevin stared at her. "You're taking Anaya there?"
She hesitated. "It's a good offer, Kevin."
"No," he muttered, jaw tightening. "It's not. It's bait."
Alina blinked. "What?"
"You don't find it strange?" he said, rising to his feet. "Who lets a worker bring her sister to a job? Who offers a mansion and full-time work out of nowhere? And Atlanta—there's something about her. The way she talks, the way she looks at you like she's already made a deal behind your back."
Alina stood too, defensive. "You're making things up."
"No," he said, voice hardening. "I'm seeing things you refuse to. When I saw him with you tonight… Alina, it wasn't kindness. It was possession."
Her heart jumped, but she pushed it down. "You're overreacting."
"No," he said, stepping closer. "You're underreacting. You barely know this guy. And now you're moving into his world, like it's nothing."
"I'm not moving in."
"You may as well be."
Alina folded her arms, turning away. "You don't understand. I need this."
Kevin ran a hand through his hair. "You don't need him."
She turned, voice trembling. "He's not doing anything wrong."
"That's the problem. You think because he hasn't hurt you, it means he won't."
She flinched. "He's helped me more than anyone lately."
"That's what makes it worse."
A pause.
Then he added, softer—almost reluctant, but full of meaning, "You're not seeing what I see. He's hiding something, Alina. I don't know what it is, but something about him is… wrong."
Her voice cracked. "You're judging someone you don't even know."
"I don't have to know him. I trust what I feel—and everything about him feels wrong."
Alina's throat tightened. "You're not helping."
"I'm trying to protect you."
"No," she said, eyes hard. "You're trying to control me."
A sharp silence fell between them. Then—too sharp to be accidental—Kevin muttered, "Maybe you like being saved so much, you stopped caring who does it."
Alina went still.
Her heart stuttered, breath catching. The words sliced deeper than she expected.
Her voice, when it came, was a whisper. "That was low."
Kevin's face paled with regret. "Alina, I didn't mean—"
But she was already walking away.
"Don't," she said, not looking back. "Just… don't."
He watched her disappear into the dark, her footsteps swallowed by the night.
And for the first time since they found each other again, Kevin didn't follow.
He just stood there, alone with his silence, knowing he'd said too much—and still not sure he was wrong.
Damon watched from the shadows.
Not close enough to hear every word—he didn't need to. The air was already shifting, thick with tension, like storm winds changing direction.
He saw Kevin's fists clench.
Saw the way Alina's shoulders hunched… then lifted, defiant.
Saw her walk away.
Perfect.
They fought. Just like he'd planned.
And she chose him.
Not in declarations—no, that would come later.
But in silence.
In the way she defended him.
In the way she let Kevin's words fall like rain on stone.
She was already folding—
into him.
Around him.
Becoming his.
Slowly. Quietly. Beautifully.
Damon's lips curled into something between a smirk and a vow as he leaned back against the car, arms crossed, watching her retreat from the boy who once called her his own.
How quaint.
Kevin—loyal, desperate Kevin.
The golden boy. The one with kind hands and careful eyes.
The one who still thought he could protect her.
And maybe he could've.
If he hadn't been too late.
Damon saw it in him—the unease, the twitch in his jaw, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long.
He knows. Or he's beginning to.
That made him dangerous.
A thorn.
Persistent.
Prickling at the edge of Damon's perfect design.
But it didn't matter. Let him dig. Let him struggle. Let him drown in the questions Damon had long buried.
By the time he found the truth, Alina would already belong to him.
Wrapped in his presence.
Conditioned to his silence.
Addicted to the illusion of safety only he could give.
That fight was only the beginning.
Kevin had shouted.
Damon had whispered.
And she chose the whisper.
Good.
Let her walk home in anger. Let her burn in it. Let her cry, if she must.
Pain was just another thread in the tapestry Damon was weaving—
One that would lead her straight to him.
Because tomorrow, when he knocked with soft eyes and softer lies…
She would open the door.
And step into his world.
Into his arms.
Into the fire.
And this time, there would be no escape.