18. Damien
18
DAMIEN
I sit at the head of the long table in the war room—what Roman likes to call my private office tucked away in the basement of Zaitsev Industries.
Concrete walls. No windows. Signal blockers.
No one hears what happens down here.
Roman, Oleg, and two others from my team are seated around me, files spread out, laptop screens glowing. They’re waiting on me, but my head’s not fully in it.
It hasn’t been since I woke up this morning and reached for my phone expecting…what? A good morning text? From her?
Pathetic.
Still, it doesn’t stop the hollow pit that’s been gnawing at me since the other night.
I pull out my phone again, thumbing over the messages. Nothing.
I sent her a text yesterday—short, yeah—but it wasn’t like I was about to pour my goddamn heart out.
No reply.
I shove the phone face down on the table.
Roman clears his throat. “We found a partial print,” he says, tapping the photo on the screen. “Doesn’t match anyone in our internal database. But the way this guy moved…he knew the layout.”
Oleg glances up from his laptop. “So what’s the play? You want us sweeping the building?”
“Find out who it was. I want a name,” I say, voice low, clipped. “I don’t care how. Call every favor.”
Roman clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Don’t we already know?”
I lift my gaze to him. He doesn’t flinch.
I already suspected as much the second Roman texted me the update this morning. Lev’s name has been hovering like a storm cloud for weeks. I just didn’t think he’d be bold enough to come to my fucking home.
“He was in the apartment,” I say, my jaw tightening. “While she was there.”
“I still don’t get why now. He’s been a ghost for years,” Oleg says.
“Because Lev doesn’t let shit go,” I mutter. My throat feels dry. “Eighteen years he’s been waiting. Biding his time.”
Roman lets out a humorless laugh. “And here we thought he was dead.”
“He should’ve been,” I grit out, raking a hand through my hair. “My father put a price on his head before he died. Someone got paid, but clearly the job wasn’t finished.”
Oleg raises a brow. “So what’s his angle now? He still pissed you didn’t pull the trigger back then?”
I don’t answer. The image flashes in my head anyway—me, seventeen, standing in that frozen Moscow graveyard, Lev staring me down as I held the gun.
My father watching like it was a test.
It was. And I failed.
I let him run.
“He blames me for what happened to his father,” I say finally. “For the bullet that should’ve been mine but wasn’t. He’s here to settle the score.”
Roman nods. “If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. This was him marking his territory.”
“He didn’t count on her being there,” I add darkly. “Or maybe he did.”
Oleg glances up, frowning. “You think he saw her?”
“Don’t know,” I mutter. “But I’m not risking it.”
Roman clears his throat. “You want us to take care of it?”
“No. I want him alive. I want to look him in the eye before I end this.”
There’s a beat of silence, all of them staring at me like they know I mean every fucking word.
I grab my phone, ignoring the way my chest tightens as I hover over her name.
Sasha.
Me: You okay? I need to see you.
I hit send. Wait.
Nothing.
Seconds tick by.
Oleg shifts again, watching me. “You’re wasting your time, boss.”
I lift my head, giving him a cold stare. “What?”
“She blocked you.”
I narrow my eyes. “How the hell would you know?”
He jerks his chin at the phone. “Text turned green, boss. That’s iPhone code for blocked.”
I frown, glancing down. Sure enough, the bubble that should be blue is green as grass.
“How the fuck do you know that?” I mutter, more to myself.
“Because I’ve been blocked plenty,” Oleg deadpans.
I sit there, staring at the screen, the green bubble like a slap in the face.
“She blocked me,” I say under my breath, the words tasting like ash.
Oleg shrugs. “Happens.”
He watches me too closely—like he’s waiting for me to explode.
Hell, maybe I’m about to. My jaw’s clenched so hard it aches, and that fucking green text bubble is burned into my brain.
“She blocked me,” I mutter again, more to myself than anyone else.
Oleg shrugs, leaning back lazily. “Let it go, boss. She’s just a girl. You’ve got bigger shit to handle right now. Lev’s the priority.”
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to shut him up.
“She’s not just a girl,” I bite out. “And no one walks away from me like that.”
Roman exhales through his nose but says nothing. He knows better.
Oleg tries one last time. “Seriously, Damien. She blocked you. Textbook move. She’s mad. She’s not gonna?—”
I push back from the table hard enough that the chair scrapes the floor. “Stay here. Both of you.”
Oleg raises a brow. “Where the hell are you going?”
I don’t answer. Just grab my phone and walk out, the door slamming behind me.
I’m already dialing the elevator before anyone can stop me.
Heart pounding. Fury tightening my fists.
I hit the button for the lower floors—the employee offices. Her department.
It’s stupid. Reckless. But I don’t give a shit.
She blocks me? Fine. Let’s see how she handles this.
The elevator ride feels endless, and the second the doors open, heads turn.
No one expects to see me down here.
I walk through the rows of cubicles like a goddamn wrecking ball, ignoring the gasps and whispers. People scramble out of my way, eyes wide, pretending to look busy.
And then I see her.
Sasha.
Sitting there, pretending like she hasn’t flipped my entire fucking world upside down.
Oblivious. Her head down, typing.
I stand there for a beat too long, staring.
She feels it. Slowly looks up.
Her eyes go wide.
Good. She should be scared.
“Miss Caldwell,” I say, voice calm but laced with every bit of the rage burning inside me. “Come with me.”
She blinks, glancing around at the sea of heads peeking over cubicles like it’s feeding time at the zoo.
Sasha leans back in her chair, crosses her arms, and hisses, “What are you doing? You’re making a scene.”
“I am the scene,” I bite back, dead serious. “Now get up.”
Her jaw tightens, her face turning pink. “This is my job, Damien. You can’t just…barge in here.”
“I just did.”
Someone coughs nervously. I don’t even glance their way.
I’m locked on Sasha like a heat-seeking missile.
She glares. “You’re insane.”
“Getting there,” I mutter. “Thanks to you.”
She looks like she’s two seconds from throwing her stapler at me. “Seriously. What is this? You gonna fire me in front of everyone? Make it quick. I’d like to grab lunch after.”
I almost smirk. Almost. “I’m not firing you.”
“Great. Then why the hell?—”
“Because you blocked me.” The words come out fast, louder than I intend. Half the office gasps like they’re watching the juiciest telenovela.
Sasha’s face drains of color. “Are you seriously bringing that up here?”
“Yep.”
Her mouth opens. Shuts. She blinks. “You’re impossible.”
I lean down, low enough so only she hears me. “You’re the one who started this, printsessa. Now get. Up.”
She stares at me for a beat, breathing hard, and then finally—finally—she stands. Grabs her bag. Shoots one last deadly glare my way.
“Congratulations,” she mutters under her breath. “You’re officially the most dramatic man I’ve ever met.”
I grin. “I get that a lot.”
And with the entire floor watching like it’s the fucking finale of a reality show, I guide her toward the elevators.
She storms ahead of me like she’s the one dragging me out, not the other way around. Bag slung over her shoulder, chin tilted high, hips swaying like she knows every single person is watching—and she’s right. Half the floor’s holding their breath, the other half scrambling to look busy.
I follow, not even pretending to hide the smirk pulling at my mouth.
“Stop smiling like you won,” she hisses without turning around. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“I’m not smiling,” I lie easily.
She spins so fast I almost barrel into her. “Damien!” she snaps, cheeks flushed. “God, could you be more dramatic? You’re going to make everyone think?—”
“What? That you’re fucking the boss?” I finish for her, voice low and dangerous.
Her eyes go wide. “ Exactly! ” she whisper-yells, looking around like I’ve just confessed murder.
I grin. “Maybe you shouldn’t have blocked me, then.”
Her mouth drops open as we enter the elevator. “Oh my God. You are insane. ”
“And yet here you are,” I shoot back, leaning in close enough that only she hears me.
She gasps, almost trips, catches herself. “You arrogant?—”
“Careful,” I murmur, leaning down so close my breath brushes her ear. “You call me arrogant again, I might just prove it. Right here. Against this elevator wall.”
Sasha’s cheeks burn crimson. “God, you’re impossible.”
I laugh—loud, unbothered—as the doors close behind us. “What’s the plan then, printsessa? You gonna pretend none of this ever happened? That I didn’t have my mouth between your legs two nights ago?”
Her mouth drops open, scandalized. “Stop talking.”
“Can’t,” I say, grinning wider. “I missed that smart mouth. Missed you .”
Sasha crosses her arms, refusing to look at me. “This better not be some toxic CEO power trip. Because if it is, I’ll walk right out and file a hostile work environment complaint.”
“Sweetheart—” I grin. “If I wanted a power trip, you’d already be naked on my desk.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide. “You are unhinged .”
The elevator dings again. I catch her arm before she can bolt.
“You blocked me,” I say quietly, the teasing gone for a second. “You really think I’d let that slide?”
I don’t let go of Sasha’s arm, not even when we exit the elevator and enter a deserted corridor on one of the older, mostly disused floors. It’s quiet here—perfectly empty. No one bothers with this section since we moved most operations upstairs. I half drag her around a corner, my chest tight with pent-up frustration, heart pounding with a raw mixture of anger and desire.
“Damien,” she warns, voice trembling between exasperation and something else.
I pause at a metal door marked Storage , jiggling the handle to test it.
Unlocked. Perfect.
Without asking, I shove it open, leading her inside. Fluorescent lights flicker, revealing shelves stacked with old supplies, dusty boxes. It’s cramped, the air stale, but private enough.
She yanks her arm free the second we’re inside, spinning to face me. “You’re insane!”
“I’m pissed,” I correct, stepping closer, the door swinging shut behind us. “And you’re just as angry as I am. Don’t deny it.”
She opens her mouth, maybe to deny it—but I see the fire in her eyes, that spark of defiance mixed with something hotter.
Her lips press together, her breathing uneven. “You sent me away,” she says.
I frown. “What?”
“You heard me,” she says, folding her arms in front of her chest.
“You really thought that was the end? That I’d just let you vanish?”
Her nostrils flare. “What was I supposed to think? You sent me home like I was disposable?—”
My hand curls at her waist, dragging her forward before she can finish. “Disposable?” I echo, anger lacing my words. “Are you out of your mind?”
She lifts her chin defiantly. “Maybe I am.”
I don’t answer with words.
I kiss her— hard , fierce enough that I feel her surprised gasp against my mouth. Every ounce of frustration, confusion, and need pours out of me.
She resists for half a second—fingernails biting my arm—before she caves, melting into me with a low moan that shoots fire straight through my veins.
We back up against the metal shelves, knocking some old boxes aside. Dust motes swirl, but neither of us cares. I grip her hip, my other hand sliding into her hair, angling her head for a deeper kiss.
Her arms twine around my neck, and she kisses me back just as fiercely, teeth scraping my lower lip. A surge of triumph—and relief—floods my chest. She wants this as badly as I do, even if she’s furious at me.
I yank at the hem of her blouse, half untucking it from her skirt. She shoves at my jacket, pushing it down my arms, our mouths never breaking contact. It’s frantic, messy, both of us breathing hard in the cramped space.
She breaks away for a second, eyes flashing. “I hate you so much right now,” she whispers, voice ragged.
“Sure you do.” My hand drags up her thigh, pushing her skirt higher. She whimpers, nails dragging across my shoulder blades.
Some part of me knows this is reckless—anyone could walk in. I couldn’t care less. I’m tired of distance, of secrets. I want her, here and now, consequences be damned.
I lift her, bracing her against the shelves. They creak ominously, but hold. She wraps her legs around my hips, her skirt rucking up around her waist, revealing lacy underwear. My heart hammers against my ribs at the sight.
We kiss again—angry, desperate, all fucking consuming.
One hand cups her face, the other slips between her thighs, finding her already hot and eager. Her head falls back, a ragged sound catching in her throat.
“Damien,” she murmurs, half-pleading.
“Shh,” I breathe, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her neck.
Her hands fumble at my belt, and I shift just enough to help her, mind clouding with need as she frees me. There’s a split second where reality intrudes—where I wonder if we should find somewhere more secure—but the hunger in her eyes kills that thought instantly.
I hook her underwear aside, and she inhales sharply, hips rocking forward to meet me. My breath catches, blood roaring in my ears, and with a muted groan, I thrust inside her.
She bites back a cry, arms cinching around me as her body tenses, adjusting to the intrusion. Dust from the shelves drifts around us, but I barely notice. Her legs squeeze my butt, and I nearly lose my mind at how perfect she feels.
We set a rapid, punishing pace—no time for caution, no space for gentle exploration. It’s raw, unhinged, every thrust pushing her against the rattling metal shelves. She muffles her gasps against my shoulder, teeth grazing my skin.
“You’re mine…all mine,” I pant into her ears, voice shaking as my cock throbs inside her hot, wet cunt.
Her only response is a desperate moan that sends a jolt through my entire body.
I grasp the back of her neck, pressing our foreheads together. Her walls clench around me, and I feel her breathing hitch, body taut with impending release. The frantic noise she makes sets me off. I slam my mouth to hers, swallowing her cries as we both topple over the edge.
Shock waves pulse through me, lighting every nerve. She trembles, fingers digging into my back, and I hold her tight, eyes squeezing shut while the moment stretches.
It’s only when I finally manage to open them again that I see her face—her cheeks stained pink, lips parted, eyes glistening with unshed tears or maybe pure adrenaline.
My chest constricts.
Neither of us speaks right away.
We’re too breathless, too overwhelmed.
The shelves creak under our combined weight, and somewhere, a box slides to the floor with a soft thud. I exhale, adjusting my grip on her legs, and she slowly unwinds from me, feet touching the floor.
Her skirt falls back into place, hair wild around her flushed face. She won’t look at me, eyes darting around the small space as if searching for an escape route.
I gently tip her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze.
My heart still pounds, but the anger has ebbed.
I brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “Block me all you want. I’ll find you.”
Her eyes flicker with exasperation, but also a flicker of amusement, of tenderness.
We stand there for a beat, both struggling to find words. Dust motes swirl in the stale light, the air thick with our mingled breaths.
She shifts, her expression torn.
I open my mouth to say something—anything.
But all that comes out is a quiet, rough, “You’re mine.”
And the look she gives me in return feels like a yes and a maybe all at once.