Chapter 13
DAMIEN
Night settles heavy on the cardiac floor at Mount Sinai. Fluorescents hum. Machines tick. Bleach and lemon mingle in the air. I stand shadowed behind a vending machine, watching Clara Hewitt.
I pulled Cassandra’s file. Hudson University. Foster care. A sister who took custody at eighteen. She’d already told me everything. But she hadn’t told me about Clara’s condition.
The elevator opens. Alex walks down the hall with his usual cop swagger. We slip into a small, private family room. I lock the door.
He hands me a manila envelope. “Got it,” he says.
Inside are copies of Clara’s chart, pre-op notes, insurance denials, and an estimate in bold lettering: PAYMENT DUE BEFORE PROCEDURE. Alex sets his own notes on the table.
“I asked the doc in hypotheticals,” he explains with a wink. “Valve issues. She got moved up because of a cancellation. Surgery is scheduled a few days before Christmas. Sounds like she’s high risk.”
I tap the page. “Payment due ten days after I hired Cassandra.”
He nods. “Meaning your ten-day payment would get into her bank account just in time.”
I don’t respond. I don’t have to. It’s obvious why she took the job. She lied to get in the room, just like she said. Though she kept her real reasons hidden.
“Does she know you know?” Alex asks.
“No.”
We talk numbers: surgery, anesthesia, ICU rates. The total is obscene. I watch his eyes drift to the window, to Clara’s room, then back again.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at her like that.”
He holds my stare. “Like what?”
“Like you’re considering asking her out once she’s recovered from her surgery. You’ve got a brother nearly on the warpath—no time for things like that.”
“Ivan isn’t here.”
“I know where Ivan is. Blood is blood. If push comes, do you push back?”
“Yes.”
Clean answer. I file it away.
Until the surgery is paid for, Cassandra’s going to be a worried mess. I can’t have that.
“Give me the billing information.”
He hands it to me, and I step into the hall to call Mina. She answers on the second ring.
“Why are we waking accounting?” she asks after being filled in.
“Direct payment to Mount Sinai’s cardiothoracic unit. Clara Hewitt is the patient. Route it through the Foundation and pay the outstanding balance in full.”
“We’re not a charity.”
“We can be, if I will it.”
“For whom?” She sighs. She already knows. “Does this come out of the girl’s contract?”
“No. Her contract stands.”
Silence. The sound of paper shuffling on her end. “So this is extra. More extra. Why her? Why this one?”
“Call it Christmas cheer,” I reply.
She snorts. “You don’t do cheer, not Christmas or otherwise.”
“What can I say? I’m an unpredictable man.”
“Soft spots invite knives.” Her signature phrase.
“I’m not soft, I’m precise.”
“Let me look it up.” A few moments go by. “Okay, found her. Clara Hewitt. Consider it done.”
“Good.”
“For what it’s worth,” she adds, “this is a good thing. You could be saving that woman’s life.”
Charity’s never been my thing, but right now, doing this for Cassandra, for Clara, is important to me.
“I’ll send you proof of payment,” Mina says.
“And keep an eye on her file. Any surprise bills pop up, handle those too.”
“Of course. And if you’re still in the Christmas spirit of giving, a Birkin under my tree would really make my holiday.”
I chuckle. “Thanks, Mina.”
Back in the room, Alex waits with his hands in his pockets. “Approved?”
“Moving now,” I say. “No trail.”
He nods. He likes clean money.
“Security,” I change the subject. “Soft watch on this floor until the surgery. No soldiers. No talking. If someone who shouldn’t be here takes interest in Clara’s room, you follow, take photos discreetly, and report to me. No scenes in the hospital.”
“Got it,” he says. “Cassandra?”
“Back at the house. My assistant keeps her schedule tight.”
“Understood.”
We step out of the room. I look again at Clara. Cassandra sold a month of herself for this. She lied well but told me the truth when it counted. I can work with that. It’s understandable that she didn’t want to tell me that her sister might only have a few weeks to live.
Mina’s question of why this one lingers in my mind.
I see Cassandra’s face when I laid down the rules—privacy, precision, truth. The way she looked at the ribbon like a brand on her wrist. The way she said sir. Steel and softness together. Dangerous. Interesting.
I text Mina.
Thanks again.
She replies with a checkmark, a Christmas tree, and a handbag. I shake my head and chuckle.
I leave the hospital under a bruise-colored sky, the city lights glowing brightly.
It's past two a.m. when the car pulls into the garage. I shed my coat in the foyer, the weight of the day clinging tightly.
The gym calls. I need to burn off this restless edge that's been sharpening in me all day. I change into shorts and hit the treadmill, setting it to a punishing incline. The motor hums to life, my feet pounding in a grueling rhythm.
Sweat comes quick along with the images—unbidden and vivid.
Cassandra beneath me, wrists bound in that red ribbon, her body arching as I slide into her slick heat. Her gasps, the way her pussy clenches around my cock like a vice, pulling me deeper. Fuck. My strides falter for a second, blood rushing south.
I push harder, lungs burning, but she's still there, her thighs parting wider at my command, her moans breaking when I thrust deep, claiming.
I want her now. I want to storm into her room, wake her with my mouth on her clit, make her beg again.
Please, sir. The words echo in my head, a siren call. But I must restrain myself. She's earned rest. The job demands it—precision, control—not just hers, but mine as well. I cut the run short at twenty minutes, body wired, cock straining against fabric.
Shower. Maybe a cold one.
The master bath’s mirrors fog with steam as hot water jets hit my skin.
I lean against the tile, water cascading over scars and ink—the serpent coiling on my bicep, the jagged line across my ribs from a knife that should've killed me years ago.
Hard as hell, my cock throbs, demanding release.
I close my eyes, wrap my hand around the base, and begin to stroke, slow at first.
I picture her on her knees, lips parting for me, tongue tracing the vein along my length.
In my mind, she takes me deep, eyes locked on mine, that mix of submission and spark making her perfect.
Her mouth hot and wet, sucking with just enough greed to test my control.
I groan, fist tightening, pace quickening.
Precum slicks the head, and I imagine her swallowing it down, humming around me.
The fantasy shifts, becoming more aggressive.
I flip her onto all fours, hand fisting her hair, plunging into her pussy from behind.
I thrust hard, her ass reddening from my palm—punishment for that lie, for making me care.
She cries out, back arching, dripping for me as I drive deeper, stretching her tight walls.
"Mine," I growl in the vision, hips snapping, the slap of skin echoing. But then it turns intimate. My grip softens, pulling her back against my chest, one hand sliding to her clit, circling slow while I thrust deep and hard.
I flip her over and climb on top, her legs locking around my hips, our breaths syncing, her body melting into me. It’s not just fucking, it’s claiming, connecting.
She whispers my name, not sir, and fuck, it undoes me.
My hand moves faster, water pounding my back like a drum. Pressure builds, coiling low in my gut, my balls tightening. I imagine her clenching around me, coming undone as I fill her with hot spurts deep inside, marking her.
The release hits like a freight train, ropes of cum shooting against the tile, my groan echoing off the walls. Stars burst behind my eyelids as my body shudders through the aftershocks, her face burned into my mind.
I wash off under the cooling spray, suds rinsing away the evidence, but the thoughts linger. What the hell is this? Cassandra's no longer just a contract or a useful piece in the game.
She's under my skin.
I don't do attachments.
But here I am, funding her sister's surgery, fantasizing about more than dominance. I towel off, staring at my reflection, scars and bewilderment staring back.
At the party, I'll test her edges.
Tonight I let her sleep.