Elena sat stiffly in the dimly lit study, her heart hammering against her ribs as Damian prowled the space like a predator assessing its prey. The silence between them crackled with tension, the air thick with unspoken words and dangerous intentions.
She had no idea what he wanted from her. No, that was a lie. She knew exactly what Damian Costa wanted—control. Over her, over this situation, over everything he touched. And she refused to let him have it.
He poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter on the bar cart, the soft clink of glass against glass unnerving in the silence. His every movement was slow, deliberate, a man who had all the time in the world.
And that terrified her.
"You're afraid," he finally said, swirling the dark liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. "But not in the way you should be."
Elena clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. "And how should I be afraid?"
Damian's lips quirked up, amusement flickering in his sharp eyes. "Terrified. Begging me to let you go." He set his glass down and stalked closer, every step measured, calculated. "But you're not."
She forced herself to hold his gaze. "Because I know men like you. You thrive on fear. I won't give you that."
He stopped just inches away, tilting his head like he was studying an interesting puzzle. "No, you won't. But that's what makes this so much more… interesting."
A chill skated down her spine. He was enjoying this, the power struggle, the challenge. And that made him even more dangerous.
"Why am I here, Damian?" she asked, keeping her voice even.
He reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The touch was gentle, intimate—completely at odds with the razor-sharp edge of his presence. "Because I want you to understand something."
Her breath caught. "And what's that?"
His fingers lingered at her jaw, his thumb grazing her pulse. "That there is no escape from me."
A knock on the study door broke the moment, and Elena nearly sagged with relief. Damian, however, remained unbothered, lifting a brow as the door creaked open.
One of his men stepped inside—a tall, muscular figure dressed in all black. "Sir," he said, his voice clipped. "We have a problem."
Damian didn't look away from her as he responded. "Handle it."
The man hesitated. "It's about the Ricci family."
Elena's blood ran cold.
Finally, Damian turned, his expression darkening. "Speak."
The man shifted uncomfortably. "They've been asking questions. Someone tipped them off that you were at the ball with their daughter."
Elena's stomach twisted. She knew her family had ties to dangerous people, but they weren't on Damian's level. Still, they wouldn't take kindly to the idea of her being dragged into his world.
She could use this. She could use her family as leverage to get away from him.
But before she could speak, Damian laughed—low and cold. "Let them ask." He picked up his glass again, completely unbothered. "They won't like the answers."
Elena shot to her feet. "You don't understand—"
His eyes snapped to hers, pinning her in place. "No, Elena. You don't understand. Your family has no power here. If they come for you, I'll make sure they regret it."
She sucked in a sharp breath. "You're insane."
He smirked. "You're just now realizing that?"
Panic coiled in her chest. She needed to leave. Now. But as she took a step toward the door, Damian grabbed her wrist, his grip firm but not painful.
"You belong to me now, Elena." His voice was soft, almost gentle. "And I don't let go of what's mine."
A shiver ran through her. Not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.
Because part of her—some twisted, foolish part—wondered what it would feel like to truly belong to a man like Damian Costa.
And that scared her more than anything else.