Chapter 14 Daisy
Damian lay next to me in bed. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast warm shadows on the walls, while outside, the quiet chirping of crickets cut through the stillness of the night.
I was worn out from the long day at the ranch, yet restless with all the impressions and conversations.
After we had both showered, I nestled closer to him.
“Thank you for today,” he said softly. “It was good to see the place that means so much to you.”
My fingers traced the tattoos on his arms. Moonlight slipped through the half-open curtains, making the dark ink on his skin seem almost luminous. I loved how his muscles shifted under my touch, and my curiosity grew as I studied the shapes and symbols etched into him.
“What do they mean?” I whispered, eyes fixed on the ink. My fingertips followed a curved line running down his forearm. “Every tattoo must have a story, right?”
Damian lifted his head slightly, watching me as I studied him. “Plenty of stories,” he murmured, sinking back into the pillows, his hand resting lightly against my back. “Ask.”
I traced the branching lines over his forearm. “Roots?”
“It’s my first thought of time. Roots that reach deep into the earth, like the past that shapes us. The roots stand for everything that ties me to history—archaeology, ancient cultures. My attempt to grow with the past. Never forget it.”
I pushed up a little, my gaze moving to his chest, also covered in ink. At the center was an open book filled with ancient script. “And the book?” I asked.
Damian followed my gaze, placing his hand over the tattoo as if to feel it. “Knowledge,” he said. “It’s why I studied archaeology. There’s nothing more powerful than knowledge—ancient texts and forgotten stories buried in ruins.”
My fingers traced a delicate spiral winding across his skin. “That almost looks like…”
“The Labyrinth of Knossos,” he finished for me. “The journey, the search, the finding. Sometimes you only move forward by losing yourself. It reminds me that even painful steps bring me closer to the truth.”
I brushed my fingertip across a tattoo stretching along his ribs. “It’s fascinating,” I murmured. “Your tattoos are like a map of your life.”
Suddenly, his phone vibrated on the nightstand. The sound cut through the stillness like a blade through flesh. Damian reached for it, and I felt his body stiffen beneath me.
I lifted my head. “Everything okay?”
“Just a few messages,” he said—too quickly. Too flat.
I studied him. His eyes remained on the screen too long. For a split second, an image of a woman flashed across it. My chest tightened. I pushed up on my elbows.
“Who was that?”
He didn’t answer right away. He set the phone down. Slowly. “No one.”
“No one?”
His gaze snapped to me—sharp, predatory, like an animal ready to fight. “Daisy,” he said calmly, almost too calmly. “Let it go.”
Trust dies quieter than love—but it always dies first.
I didn’t want to sound like some jealous girl, but unease crawled up my throat.
“I’m just asking,” I murmured, my mouth dry. “Because you almost killed Oliver for getting too close to me.”
His jaw tightened. “She’s just a friend. From before.”
“Someone you still see?” I hated the sound of my own voice—the fragile sliver of hope tucked into words that already knew the answer.
He sat up slowly, holding himself back. The coldness in his eyes cut through me. “I don’t want a scene, Daisy.”
I swallowed the anger burning in my chest. Was a simple answer really too much?
“You’re such a damn hypocrite,” I whispered, sliding out of bed.
“You want to know if I still see her, or if I fuck her?” His voice dropped lower, sharper than I’d ever heard it. “You want an answer only so you can hate me more after. No matter what I say now, it won’t change a thing. Not for you. Not for me.”
I froze. That was how little I meant to him. Not even an answer. He claimed every right to control me, to discipline me. But me? I had no right to know. No right to ask. No right to feel—or to be angry. I was only the one who wanted him.
And that was exactly why I stood here now, hollow with the thought: You don’t matter to him.
But my heart still wanted to believe that behind his hardness there was something that saw me. Wanted me. Loved me. Damn it, I had ended things, and he had gotten into a helicopter and flown to Woodstock immediately. That had to mean something.
A thought struck me: I’d never told him which club I was in. Had he had me followed? I would ask when the moment was right. But not now—not while I was boiling inside. My whole body buzzed with anger, lips burning with words I wanted to hurl at him. Only one slipped out.
“I’m sleeping in the office.”
I barely reached the door before he was behind me.
His hand clamped around my wrist—firm, too firm.
I tried to pull free, but Damian yanked me back in one swift motion.
I stumbled, then hit the bed hard. One hand pressed against my back, the other pinning my wrists above my head.
His weight caged me, his breath hot against my ear.
“You’re staying here,” he hissed. “With me. Do you understand?”
He wasn’t holding me down. He was holding himself together.
“Go to hell,” I whispered hoarsely. “I hate you. I’m done playing your sick game.” And I meant it. In that moment, I hated him with a fierceness so sharp it brought tears to my eyes. I hated the coldness. The violence in his words. The power he had over me.
And I hated myself even more for the trembling in my body, for the way I still wanted him. My breath came shallow, ragged. And as I lay beneath him—caught between escape and desire—I knew: I would stay again. Even though I should have run long ago.
“Get off me,” I forced out.
His grip only tightened, his presence above me suffocating. I felt his body tremble with rage.
“One more word about leaving me,” he growled against my ear, “and I’ll lose the last piece of myself that doesn’t want to tear you apart. And now you’re going to hold still.” His voice wasn’t loud. It was dangerously quiet. A warning that vibrated through my bones.
I felt trapped, like an animal thrashing in a snare.
“You can’t just control me,” I snapped back, though my voice sounded weaker than I wanted.
His grip on my wrists tightened, as if he could squeeze the defiance right out of me.
I felt the heat of his skin, the tension vibrating through him, and deep inside me rose a terrible realization: he meant every damn word.
Fear crawled up inside me, cold and paralyzing—mixing with a sinful heat I couldn’t explain.
My body betrayed me, responding to his dominance, to the darkness radiating from him.
And that terrified me almost more than his words.
He caught my wrists and clamped them above my head, his weight unforgiving as it pressed me into the mattress. “I’m going to show you what it means to belong to me.”
I heard the faint hiss as he reached for the pants draped over the chair beside the bed and slid the belt free from the loops.
A sound that made my blood run cold. Before I could even comprehend, the cold, rough leather wrapped around my wrists.
With a sharp, merciless movement, he whipped the belt tight.
A startled gasp tore from my lips. Panic sparked in me, sharp and real.
But with it came heat. A heat I hated. I knew I should be afraid, should resist, should scream.
Yet my body betrayed me—trembling, aching, burning for him even as fear curled in my chest. That contradiction tore me open more than his grip ever could.
“Please…” I whispered, though I didn’t even know what I was pleading for. A storm raged inside me. I knew I should be afraid. And yet—I wanted it. I wanted to see how far he would go.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Shhh,” he murmured, his voice almost tender. Almost. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have denied it—my body trembled with desire. I hated myself for it. And I loved him for it. I wanted him to break me. Not to wound me—but to prove I was his. And that was exactly what I craved.
He smacked my ass with the flat of his hand—not lovingly, not playfully.
It stung. And at the same time, something inside me burned hotter, in ways I didn’t understand.
I buried my face in the blanket to keep from crying out.
From the pain. From the shame of wanting him despite everything.
He leaned over me, grinding against me. He was hard.
Hard because I was trembling. Hard because I was at his mercy.
“Do you feel that, Daisy?” he murmured in my ear. “Nothing turns me on more than seeing you like this beneath me.”
It was sick. All of it. But I wanted more. I wanted him. I wanted him so badly I no longer recognized myself.
A broken sound slipped from my throat—not a scream, not a word. Just a raw, strangled noise.
“The more you tremble, the more I want you.” His hand slid lower, over my ass, slow, deliberate, cruel. “You should be crying, Daisy,” he whispered. “Instead, I can feel you getting wet.” His words dragged me deeper into the abyss.
I writhed beneath him as much as I could—cheek pressed to the mattress, hands bound above my head. I felt him shifting behind me. His hands skimmed over my thighs, slow, controlled, before forcing them apart. I let him. What else could I do? I was his.
He leaned lower. His breath brushed my skin—hot, demanding. Then his lips touched me—right where I ached most. From behind, his mouth claimed me. I could have screamed. Not from pain. From the maddening pleasure crashing over me. How could one man be both the storm and the refuge?
I wanted to say no. Wanted to break free. Tell him to stop. That he was going too far. But my body screamed something else. My body clung to the feeling like it was more than lust. Like it was proof. Proof I still existed. Proof he still wanted me. And that was my damn mistake.