CHAPTER 8
DAMON
I slowly reach into the pocket of my slacks and pull out my silver lighter. I flick the top open. Clink. I snap it shut. Clink. I do it again, timing the rhythmic, metallic sound to match the frantic, visible jumping of the pulse in her throat.
"You look better with a gun than a scalpel, Margarita," I say. My voice is flat, dead casual. "Is the safety even off, Doc?"
She swallows hard, adjusting her grip. The gun wavers. "Shut up, Damon. Don't move."
"Go ahead. End this right here." I flick the lighter again. Clink. "You’re shaking. Predators don’t shake."
She’s trying to play the aggressor, putting on this tough front, but I see right through the bullshit.
I know exactly what she is. She’s got the anatomical knowledge to put a round through my heart, but she doesn't have the ice in her veins to actually pull the trigger. She’s still clinging to that pathetic oath she took.
I drop the lighter back into my pocket, push off the doorframe, and start a slow, measured walk toward her.
Each footfall of my boots is heavy, the solid thud vibrating through the metal-grated floor.
I keep my hands down, completely visible and relaxed by my sides—a direct, calculated insult to the weapon she’s pointing at me.
I am challenging her whole moral foundation.
By refusing to treat her like a threat, I strip away every ounce of power she thought that Glock gave her.
I am taking back my space, inch by agonizing inch.
I spot a stray brass casing on the floor. I kick it. The small metal tube skitters across the grate with a sharp rattle and hits the toe of her heavy combat boot.
"One step, Margarita," I tell her, taking another stride. The sharp scent of my cologne mixes with the thick gun grease in the air. "Two steps. Are you going to do it?"
Her chest heaves. "I swear to God, I'll shoot."
"I can hear your heart from here," I say, closing the distance. My black eyes narrow, locking onto hers. "Don't blink. You might miss your chance."
I keep walking, gambling a bullet in the gut, but the absolute high of her terror is worth the risk.
I don't stop until I am flush against her.
The muzzle of the Glock buries itself into the fabric of my bespoke suit jacket, digging directly over my heart.
I stare down at her pale face. My expression is a mask of cold stone.
The heat radiating off her body is wild, erratic, desperate.
The gun feels like a plastic toy wedged between us.
This is it. This is the zenith of her supposed agency.
I reach out and wrap my massive hand right over the barrel of the gun. I don't yank it away. I grip the steel and guide it deeper into my chest, pressing it so hard into my ribs that she has to feel the steady, unbothered thud of my heart vibrating right through the metal.
"Right here, Margarita. Don't miss," I murmur. The silence in the room is deafening, broken only by her jagged, hyperventilating breaths and the salt-smell of her sweat. "Does your oath allow for this?"
Her eyes are wide, glassy with panic. "Let me go."
"Look at me when you pull it," I demand, leaning in. "I'm right here. Take what you want."
I watch it happen in real time. I see the exact second the light of murder completely dies in her eyes.
It snuffs out, instantly replaced by something so much darker, something submissive and biological that she hates.
Her finger goes slack on the trigger. The tremor in her hand turns into a full-body shudder.
She collapses inward, her survival instinct for herself entirely eclipsed by her twisted thrall to me.
The psychological war is over. She failed.
She surrendered her life to me the second she didn't shoot.
I let go of the barrel and lift my hand. I brush a stray, dark lock of hair away from her damp forehead with my thumb. A gesture of terrifying tenderness that makes her flinch. "Too slow."
She lets out a broken breath.
"You’re a doctor, Margarita. You were never meant to take a life," I say softly, feeling a massive surge of dark triumph expanding in my chest. I own her. "Now you’re mine."
She starts to pull the gun back. "No—"
"Give it to me."
With a sudden, explosive twist, I wrench the Glock out of her grip.
I don't just take it. I snap my hand over hers in a brutal wrist-lock that forces her instantly to her knees with a choked gasp, then immediately haul her back up by her bicep.
My grip is terrifying, bruising, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.
She stumbles against me, completely reeling from the whiplash transition.
I hold the gun up by the slide, rack it back to check the chamber with a practiced flick, and press the release.
The heavy magazine drops out of the grip and hits the concrete with a hollow thwack.
"You shouldn't play with things you don't understand," I say, glaring down at her as I tighten my grip on her arm. "Look what you did. You almost hurt yourself."
She struggles weakly. "Get off me, you bastard."
"Stay still." I shake her once, hard. "Don't even think about running."
I toss the empty Glock blindly over my shoulder.
It clatters loudly against a stack of wooden ammo crates in the corner.
I don't look back at it. My entire reality has narrowed down to her exhausted, haunted face and the way her oversized scrubs cling to her shaking frame.
Throwing the gun away proves the point: I don't need steel or bullets to keep her in a cage. My body is the only cage she’s ever getting.
I release her bicep just to adjust my cuffs. The gold links catch the harsh overhead light. I step into her space again, using my sheer mass to herd her backward.
"You wanted to see the armory, Doc?" I ask, my voice dropping an octave. The adrenaline from the standoff is pooling in my gut, turning into a sharp, localized heat. "I think you need to wash the blood off those hands."
"Damon, don't—"
"Keep walking," I command, stepping forward so she has to retreat to avoid colliding with me. "Back. Now."
I back her all the way to the small, adjoined armory bathroom.
I shove her hard through the doorframe. She stumbles on the threshold.
It’s a claustrophobic, utilitarian concrete box—harsh white tiles, a single industrial steel sink, and a violently flickering bulb overhead.
No windows. No exits. Nowhere to hide. I follow her inside and pull the heavy door shut. The click sounds like a gunshot.
She spins around, panicked, as the temperature plummets in the small room. The smell of industrial bleach hits my nose. I reach behind my back and turn the lock on the door with my pinky finger, never once taking my black eyes off her as the heavy deadbolt slides home.
"Small space for a big ego, isn't it?" I say, taking a slow step toward her.
"Open the door," she demands, her voice cracking.
"No guards. No guns. Just us." I gesture to the wall. "Turn around."
"Fuck you."
I lunge. I grab her by the shoulders and walk her backward fast until her shoulder blades slam into the tile with a dull, heavy thud.
My shadow swallows her completely. I slam my hands flat against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in with my broad chest and shoulders.
I lean in so damn close that my expensive silk tie brushes against her chest, sliding roughly over her cheap cotton scrubs.
"You thought you were so smart," I growl, feeling the vibration of the wall through my palms. "Did you think I'd just let you walk out?"
She turns her head away, her chest heaving rapidly.
"Heart is still hammering. Why is that?" I mock her, the heat of my breath hitting her lips. "Tell me you’re afraid."
"I'm not afraid of you," she spits.
"Liar." I don't ask for permission. I don't use my words anymore.
I drop my hand from the wall, grip the V-neck of her medical scrubs in my fist, and rip downward.
The violent sound of tearing cotton fills the small room.
I rip the fabric straight down to her navel, exposing her pale chest and the delicate black lace of her bra to the freezing air and the harsh light.
She gasps, her hands flying up to cover herself.
I rip the torn flap of fabric completely off her shoulder, ball it up, and toss the useless scrap into the steel sink next to us. It lands directly over the drain, covering it like a bloody bandage.
"You don't need these," I tell her. Her delicate skin against my scarred knuckles is driving me totally insane. "Let's see what you're hiding under the professional mask."
She tries to cross her arms over her chest. I swat her hands down. "Don't cover yourself. I want to see. Stop fighting it."
Before she can swing at me, I grab both of her wrists in one of my massive hands and pin them brutally against the tile above her head.
My fingers wrap around her delicate bones like iron handcuffs.
She writhes, cursing at me, but she isn't going anywhere. I use my free hand to grab her chin, tilting her face up violently so she’s forced to look into my eyes as I step in and press my lower body completely flush against hers.
I am rock hard. The rigid, heavy length of me presses directly into her stomach through my slacks. There’s no ignoring it.
I grind my hips forward once, slow and agonizingly heavy. My leather belt creaks loudly against the tile as I crush her against the wall.
"Feel that?" I whisper, my voice rough as gravel. "That's what you do to me."
She whimpers, her eyes shutting tight.
"You wanted to be in control? This is control," I tell her. "Be still for me."