Chapter Thirteen
Damien
M y little flower. My Amelia. My little innocent girl I’m going to corrupt.
It’s a crime that she thinks she doesn’t taste good. It makes my blood boil that they conditioned her to think she’s dirty, unwanted. The very idea is repulsive. She tastes like honey, like flowers, and my mouth waters right now just thinking about it. I should be between her thighs again. Face down, preferably.
I sit on her bed, waiting. The restaurant closed late tonight. I don’t like it. She works too much when I could lay the world at her feet and watch her exist in luxury. The thought of her straining herself, being exhausted when she should be resting—when she should be letting me take care of her—puts a tight, iron grip on my chest.
Soon.
I hear her soft footsteps in the hall before she finally steps inside. She stops short when she sees me. She no longer startles. Good girl. She’s getting used to me. Making friends with the monster under her bed.
She rolls her eyes, tossing her apron onto the chair. “Don’t you get sick of me?”
Never. Not even a little. Not even for a second. “No.”
She clicks her tongue, walking past me to grab a water bottle. She doesn’t ask me to leave anymore. She doesn’t pretend to be surprised when I show up, doesn’t threaten to call the cops, and doesn’t act like she doesn’t like it.
That’s what progress looks like.
Her eyes flicker past me. A box sits on her bed, a bright red dress draped across the top. Beside it, a pair of sleek heels. Excitement flashes across her face for just a second before she forces it down.
My girl loves gifts. And I love gifting her.
She points her water bottle at me. “What’s that?”
“If you think I forgot about you refusing to wear the dress I got you, you’re mistaken.”
“You hold grudges.”
I lean back on my hands. “Maybe you didn’t like the first one. So I got you another.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
She flops onto the bed beside the box. I reach for the dress first, dragging my fingers along the material.
“Wear it for me.”
She scoffs. “For you?”
“For me.” I smile. “And for yourself.”
“What’s the occasion?”
I watch her, knowing exactly how this next part will go.
“I’m taking you on a date.”
“A what?”
“A date, Amelia.”
She laughs like this is just a joke. “What, like a normal date?”
“What’s funny?”
She sits up fully, crossing her legs. “You. You, Damien.”
I grin. “Why?”
She gestures vaguely at me. “Because you’re you . You’re—” She makes a vague, circular motion with her hands. “You show up in my room in the middle of the night, you follow me everywhere, you leave me gifts like some kind of deranged secret admirer. And don’t think I forgot about the tongue. Now, all of a sudden, you want to take me on a date? Like whatever’s between us is normal?”
“Amelia,” I warn.
“Damien.” She mimics my tone.
“Put on the dress.”
She shakes her head, but she’s already holding the dress up against her body, studying herself in the mirror.
My little flower doesn’t even realize she’s blooming for me. She wants this. She just doesn’t know how to let herself have it. Guilt flickers across her face before she pushes it down, pretending she isn’t considering it. Pretending she doesn’t want to wear my gift, slip into something I chose for her, let me wrap my obsession around her body like silk.
She’s trying so hard to fight it.
“Whether you want it or not, you will be going. So let it be your own choice.”
Her lips part, eyes snapping to mine. I see it there—hesitation, defiance, longing. She needs the illusion of control, of resistance, so she can pretend this isn’t her willingly walking into my world. Willingly facing the real world with her arm wrapped around her monster.
But it is. I know her better than she knows herself.
She rolls her eyes. “Ugh, fine. Leave so I can get dressed.”
I don’t move.
She narrows her eyes. “ Come on! ”
“No.”
“Yes,” she hisses back.
I arch a brow. “I’ve seen… all of you,” I murmur, letting my gaze drag down her body, lingering where I know she’s burning. “This is nothing compared to that.”
Fire rushes up her throat, blooming across her cheeks. Her hands fist at her sides.
“You’re adorable when you’re shy, little flower.”
“Get out.”
“I will undress you myself, Amelia,” I threaten.
She sucks in a breath, recoiling from me like she hates the idea. I wait, giving her the illusion of choice.
“Turn around,” she mutters with a pout, finally making her decision.
Compromise doesn’t sound too bad, so I oblige. I give her my back, even though every cell in my body resists.
She hesitates before the rustling of fabric fills the room. I imagine her delicate fingers tracing over her smooth, unblemished skin as she undresses. I imagine the way her clothes pool at her feet, leaving her in nothing but lace. My breathing turns shallow.
I hear her struggle with the zipper of the dress, huffing in frustration.
"Let me," I say, turning back to face her.
She stills.
My hands find her waist, my fingers caressing her back before I dip my head to it. She jolts, breath hitching. I press my mouth to her spine. Kissing. Licking. Dragging my teeth across every inch of her skin. My marks bloom against her. Her knees buckle, but my arm wraps around her stomach, holding her up, not letting her fall. She will never fall while with me.
"You don’t get to hide from me, Amelia," I mumble around a mouthful of her skin. "Not your body. Not your pleasure. Not the way you tremble when I touch you."
"Oh Damien," she wails.
"Mine," I growl. I press one last open-mouthed kiss to the base of her neck before finally pulling the zipper up.
She sways on her feet, the pleasure I wrung from her still thick in her veins. It clouds her mind. I kneel to slip her sneakers off, massaging her small feet. She nearly moans, but bites her tongue to stop it. I peel her socks off next, my lips brushing against both of her ankles before I slide the heels onto her feet.
She shivers, and I smile.
I rise, watching her take her first cautious step. She wobbles. My hands are on her instantly, steadying her.
“Perhaps heels weren’t the wisest choice,” I say.
“You bought them.”
“Yes.” My fingers flex on her waist. “Because I enjoy pushing you out of your comfort zone.”
She gasps. “You’re—”
I scoop her up before she can finish whatever insult she was about to hurl my way.
Her arms fly around my neck. I relish the way she clings to me.
“Put me down,” she demands, though it lacks any real heat.
“No.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous,” I counter, “is that you insist on resisting when we both know you want to be in my arms.”
“I hate you.”
“Mmm.” I smirk. “Then why are you smiling?”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
She can deny it all she wants, but I see the truth in every little unconscious action. She is mine.
I set her down beside my Porsche, her balance still unsteady, and open the door. I buckle her seatbelt for her, my face so close to hers I could kiss her. I lean in…
She turns her head.
“Still shy,” I remind myself, not letting it get to me.
I round the car, sliding into the driver’s seat. As we pull onto the road, I let my palm settle on her thigh. She tenses. Her shoulders reach for her ears, like she can make herself smaller, like she can disappear.
“You wound me, little flower,” I sigh. “My touch is meant to make you flourish, not wither away.”
“Soon,” I continue, “you’ll stop shying away. You’ll open your legs for me, flutter your lashes, and tell me exactly what you want.”
***
I guide her inside the restaurant, leading her toward the VIP section I reserved.
“Why are we sitting here?”
“Privacy,” I say simply, pulling out her chair. “I don’t like sharing.”
She rolls her eyes but sits, eyeing me as I take my place across from her.
I rest my chin on my palm, studying her.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she mutters.
“Like what?”
“Like…” She gestures vaguely. “That.”
“I enjoy looking at you.”
“You enjoy making me uncomfortable.”
“Yes,” I admit easily. “But mostly, I enjoy you.”
Her mouth falls open, caught off guard by my honesty.
“I don’t just crave your body, little flower,” I confess. “I crave your voice. Your thoughts. Your ideas. Your presence.”
“Is it too late for you to set your eyes on someone else?”
“Too late.” My right eye twitches. “I’m thoroughly ruined for anyone else. The thought of anyone else is enough to piss me off, so don’t bring it up again, little flower.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows.
She’s starting to realize, isn’t she?
That I’m not just obsessed with her.
I’m consumed.
I don’t even let her glance at the menu, I don’t want her burdened by choices, by something as insignificant as deciding between plates. So I order everything.
The waiter stares at me like I have two heads, but I barely register him. My eyes are locked on her. She’s fidgeting with her napkin. I pry it from her hands, threading my fingers through hers.
She doesn’t pull away. That’s enough to make my pulse hammer against my ribs, to make something sick and satisfied coil deep in my gut.
I have her.
Not fully. Not yet.
But soon.
When the food arrives, it floods the table, plate after plate set down between us. She shakes her head at the obscene amount of food.
“You’re insane,” she mutters.
“I’m what you made me.”
She’s unable to hide the way her lips twitch.
I pick up a fork and stab into a piece of seared steak. “Open your mouth.”
“I can feed myself.”
“Oh, but you won’t.”
Her lips part in protest, but I use that moment to slide the bite between them. She chews with her brows furrowed, like she’s trying to convince herself she doesn’t like me pampering her.
This.
This is how I want her.
Mine to feed. Mine to care for. Mine in every possible way.
We fall into easy banter: her trying to resist, me pushing until she gives in. I make her taste everything, watching her reactions like they hold the secrets of the universe.
But her tone shifts in an instant.
“Remember last time,” she says, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers, “you told me you ran away.”
A flush creeps up her neck. “From what?”
No secrets between us.
I force the words up my throat, past the barriers I’ve spent years constructing, past the wounds I’ve stitched closed with iron will and cruelty.
“I was born to addicts,” I say. But I’m detached, like I’m reciting someone else’s history. “They left me on the doorstep of some orphanage. I never knew them. Never wanted to.”
She’s silent, hanging onto every word.
“When I was fourteen, a man adopted me.”
She exhales, relieved, like this part of the story might be better.
It isn’t.
“He trained me,” I continue. “Not to be a son. Not to be a boy. To be something else entirely. Something ruthless.”
I feel her move to pull her hands away.
No.
Panic grips me, fast and brutal.
I lash out before she can slip from my grasp, my hands clamping around hers.
“If you run after what I tell you, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself,” I hiss. My voice is sharp, almost venomous, but there’s a plea underneath. A desperation. “Don’t be scared of me, little flower. Please. Don’t be scared of me.”
She nods, her hand squeezing mine in return as if to comfort me.
“That man was cruel. He trained me to be a killer. If I missed a hit, if I hesitated—” I pause, jaw clenching. “I went to bed hungry. Or beaten. Sometimes both.”
Her eyes flood with tears.
I hate it.
I love it.
Her pain, her empathy, it’s a sickness in my veins. Something I crave. Something I never knew I needed until she came along and showed me what it was like to be completely enamored by a person.
Her fingers tremble before she lifts them to my face. Soft. Careful. Reverent. She traces the scar across my cheek, and I nearly stop breathing.
“Is that how you got this?” she whispers.
“It was when I refused a hit.”
“What happened?”
“I killed him,” I say. “And I escaped.”
She blanches. Fear.
No. Please, no.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I beg. “I would never hurt you. Never.”
Her eyes dart across my face, searching for truth.
“I worship you,” I whisper. “I would burn the world for you. Do you understand?”
She nods slowly, but it’s not enough.
I see the way her gaze flickers back to my scar.
“It disgusts you?” I murmur, and it kills me how raw my voice sounds.
“What?”
“I promise I’ll treat you so well, you won’t even notice the scar is there anymore. No man with perfect skin would ever treat you the way I treat you.”
That thing on my face is gnarly. It’s scared kids I’ve walked past on numerous occasions. I never cared. But the thought that it disgusts her makes me feel sick.
Is that why she won’t kiss me?
“I like it,” she whispers.
A slow, wicked grin spreads across my lips.
“You like it,” I echo.
She presses her lips together, refusing to repeat herself.
“Then you like me,” I tease.
For the first time, she doesn’t deny it.