The collar felt heavier that morning as I woke with it still snug around my throat, leather warmed by my skin through the long night. Damien was already gone from the bed, his side of the sheets barely disturbed, as though he had slipped away without making a sound. Sunlight sliced through the curtains in thin gold blades that cut across the floor and climbed the walls. I sat up slowly and let my fingers trace the silver ring at the front of the collar while I listened to the quiet house pressing in around me. I slipped out of bed and reached for one of his shirts folded neatly on the chair, black cotton soft from wear, sleeves too long when I rolled them up. It carried his scent, sandalwood and faint smoke clinging to the fabric like a memory I could not shake, and I hated how much I noticed it now.
Downstairs the kitchen stood empty except for the fresh pot of coffee waiting on the counter with steam curling lazily from the spout. Beside it sat a single plate with sliced fruit arranged in careful rows, a croissant still warm from the oven, and a small pot of honey. No note accompanied the food this time, only the quiet expectation that I would eat what he had left. I poured coffee into a mug and carried the plate to the tall windows overlooking the garden where roses climbed the stone wall outside, their red blooms heavy with dew from the night before. I ate standing up, tasting nothing but the bitterness of dependence that coated my tongue with every bite.
The door to the study opened down the hall and footsteps approached, measured and unhurried as always. Damien appeared in the doorway with his sleeves rolled and collar open, hair still damp from a shower he must have taken earlier. He looked at the plate in my hands, then at my face, and something satisfied flickered in his eyes. "You ate." His voice carried no surprise, only quiet acknowledgment. I set the mug down harder than necessary so liquid sloshed against the rim. "I was hungry." He stepped closer until he stopped just outside arm's reach. "Good."
Silence stretched between us once more, thick and waiting. I broke it first. "You said Victor knows about me." Damien's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "He does." I pressed on. "Then why am I still here instead of hidden somewhere safer?" He crossed the remaining distance in two steps and his hand came up to brush the collar lightly. "Because hiding you would mean admitting he can touch what's mine." I met his eyes without flinching. "And you can't admit that." "No." His thumb hooked the ring and tugged gently so I stepped forward without thinking. He backed me against the counter until the edge pressed into my lower back.
"You think I'm afraid of him?" His voice dropped lower and rougher. "I think you're afraid of what happens if he gets to me first." The words hung sharp between us and Damien's hand slid from the collar to rest on my throat without applying pressure. "I would burn Paris to the ground before he laid a finger on you." I searched his face for any hint of bluff and found none, only that same raw edge I had glimpsed last night when he held me through the storm. My chest tightened with the weight of it. "You don't even know me." "I know enough." His fingers flexed slightly against my pulse. "I know how you breathe when you're about to come. I know the sound you make when you hate yourself for wanting it. I know you're still fighting even when your body surrenders."
Heat flooded my face and I shoved at his chest. He caught my wrists and pinned them gently against the counter behind me. "You hate me," I said. "Yes." The admission came soft, almost tender. "And I hate that I need you." His grip loosened. "But I do." I rubbed the skin where his fingers had been. "Why?" "Because you're the only thing that makes the blood feel warm in my veins." He looked away for the first time, gaze fixed on the roses outside. "Everything else is cold calculation. Numbers. Power. Threats. You make it hurt."
The confession landed heavy in the quiet kitchen and I stared at him, seeing the tension in his shoulders and the faint tremor in his hand when he reached for his coffee. "You're breaking," I whispered. He met my eyes again. "Maybe." A small, bitter smile touched his mouth. "But I'll take you down with me." I stepped forward and closed the distance he had created. My hands found his shirt and my fingers curled into the fabric over his chest. "Then do it." His breath caught. "Do what?" "Break me. Make me hate you more. Make me need you the way you need me."
Something snapped in his expression, not anger but hunger, raw and unguarded. He caught my face in both hands and kissed me hard and desperate, teeth clashing, tongue claiming, as though he was trying to crawl inside my skin. I kissed him back just as fiercely and pushed my body against his until no space remained between us. He lifted me onto the counter in one smooth motion and my legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. His hands shoved the shirt up, baring skin to cool air, fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise. I arched into him and gasped against his mouth when he ground against me, clothes still between us but the friction burning anyway.
He tore his mouth from mine and pressed his forehead to mine, breathing ragged. "You'll regret this." "I already do." I pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt. "But I'm not stopping." He groaned low in his throat and his hands slid under my thighs to lift me off the counter. He carried me through the house like I weighed nothing, up the stairs and down the hall and into the bedroom. He kicked the door shut behind us and threw me onto the bed. I bounced once and pushed up on my elbows to watch him strip fast this time, no careful folding, shirt ripped over his head, trousers shoved down. He was hard and thick and ready, the sight making my mouth water and my core clench.
He crawled over me and pushed my legs apart with his knee. His hand found my throat again and squeezed just enough to make my vision sparkle at the edges. "Look at me." I did. Eyes locked. He thrust in hard, one deep stroke that stole my breath. I cried out and my nails dug into his shoulders. He moved with brutal rhythm, every drive forward claiming more of me, hand never leaving my throat, controlling the air I took in shallow gasps. Pleasure built fast and vicious, coiling tight in my belly until I was trembling beneath him. He leaned down and bit my lower lip hard enough to sting. "Say it." "Say what?" My voice broke on the words. "That you need this. That you need me." I shook my head even as my hips rose to meet his. "I hate you." "Say it anyway."
The words tore out of me. "I need you." He rewarded me with a deeper thrust that made stars burst behind my eyes. His grip on my throat tightened fractionally and my vision tunneled until the world narrowed to his face above me, his dark eyes burning. The orgasm hit like a storm, ripping through me in violent waves that left me sobbing his name. He followed moments later, burying himself deep and groaning low against my neck as he spilled inside me. He collapsed over me, weight heavy and grounding, hand finally loosening on my throat but not leaving entirely.
We stayed like that for long minutes, breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. His forehead rested against mine and his thumb stroked the pulse at my throat in slow, absent circles. When he finally rolled to the side he pulled me with him, tucking me against his chest so my head rested under his chin. His arm banded around my waist and held me there. No words passed between us. Only the sound of rain starting again outside and the steady thud of his heart against my ear.
For the first time the hate felt less like a weapon and more like a tether.
I closed my eyes and let it pull me under.