Chapter Eight:The heat
700 Words
Celeste woke to silence.
The sheets smelled of fresh linen and something darker underneath—him.
Her gown was damp and wrinkled where it clung to her skin, the back still unzipped. Her hair stuck to her cheek in wild curls, and her pulse... it hadn't slowed.
She sat up slowly, blinking at the soft gray light pouring through the curtains. The memories returned in a rush:
The party.
The man’s hands.
Damian’s voice.
The shot.
And then—heat. Her gown halfway off. Her lips whispering his name like a plea.
And he hadn’t touched her.
He’d thrown her into a bathtub.
Her face flushed just remembering it.
The humiliation. The cold. The ache in her body that refused to fade.
How could a man so cruel… show so much restraint?
She got up and padded to the bathroom. Her heels were tossed in one corner, the navy gown now creased and discarded on the marble floor. Her fingers brushed the fabric absently.
She had begged him last night.
And he had walked away.
The realization was worse than any punishment.
Downstairs, the mansion was as quiet and perfectly staged as ever. The air smelled of coffee and danger. She found him in the study—leaning back in a leather chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms tense as he scrolled through something on his phone.
He didn’t look up when she entered.
“You’re awake,” he said simply.
Celeste crossed her arms. “Is that your way of saying good morning?”
He set the phone down slowly and finally looked at her. His eyes held none of the playfulness from before. He was ice again. Composed. Watching.
“Feeling better?” he asked, tilting his head.
“You drugged me,” she snapped.
He raised a brow. “Someone else drugged you. I saved you. Again.”
Her cheeks flamed, but she didn't back down. “You could’ve taken advantage of me.”
“I could’ve,” he said, standing and walking around the desk, voice lowering with every step, “but I didn’t.”
He came to a stop just inches from her, heat radiating between them. His eyes roamed over her—slow, devastating—and yet his hands stayed at his sides.
Celeste’s breath caught.
“Why not?” she whispered.
His smirk was faint, but something raw flickered beneath it. “Because I don’t take what’s not offered freely.”
She blinked. “I would have…”
“You would have begged for me,” he said, voice like silk over steel. “But not because you wanted me. Because your body was drugged to forget fear.”
She hated how right he was.
Hated that he’d protected her from himself.
He stepped even closer, his hand brushing her jaw gently—then slipping away just as fast.
“I don’t need chemicals to make you ache for me, Celeste,” he murmured. “Your body already does.”
Her knees weakened, but she stood tall.
“So what, now you get to act like the hero?”
“No,” he said coolly, walking past her again. “I’m still the villain. But even villains have rules.”
She opened her mouth to fire back, but the door clicked.
Luca, one of his most trusted men, entered quietly and handed him a black folder.
Damian flipped it open and froze.
“What is it?” Celeste asked, trying to peek.
He closed it slowly.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
But the muscles in his jaw said otherwise.
She took a step closer. “Damian…”
His voice was low, deadly. “Someone’s watching this house.”
Her blood ran cold. “Your uncle?”
He didn’t answer. But the way his hands clenched gave her enough of an answer.
“I can go,” she whispered. “You don’t have to protect me.”
He turned, eyes narrowing. “You think I’m protecting you?”
Her breath caught again.
“I’m protecting what’s mine.”
And with that, he walked past her — leaving the warmth of his words to haunt her more than any threat ever could.
- Writer
