Bound to a VEYRON

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

And in that moment, something inside me snapped. It wasn't pity. It wasn't affection. It was a cold, possessive fury. He was mine to torment, mine to break. I would not let this pathetic, scheming girl steal that from me.

"Get off of him."

My voice cut through the dark room, sharp and cold as ice.

Charlotte froze, her head whipping around to face me. Her face, flushed with a sick kind of triumph, twisted into a snarl. "Get out. This has nothing to do with you."

"I said," I repeated, taking a deliberate step into the room, my hands clenched at my sides, "get off of him. Now."

I saw the moment she realized she was caught. Panic flared in her eyes. "He wanted this," she hissed, a desperate lie.

Damien made a low noise in his throat, his head slumping against the wall. He was losing consciousness.

"He can barely stand," I shot back. "You drugged him."

It wasn't a question. Charlotte's face went pale. The fight drained out of her, replaced by pure, unadulterated fear. She scrambled away from Damien, whose legs finally gave out. He slid down the wall into a sitting position on the floor, his head lolling forward.

"You're going to regret this," she spat, grabbing her purse.

"No," I said, my voice dangerously soft as she rushed for the door. "You are."

She fled. The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the suffocating silence with the broken king. For a long moment, I just stared at him, this untouchable force of nature now slumped and helpless on the floor. My plan was to get close to him, to find his weaknesses. I never imagined I'd find one this absolute.

He was too heavy for me to move alone. My mind raced. Leaving him here was not an option. I pulled out the burner phone he gave me, my fingers flying across the screen. I scrolled to the only other numbers I had forced myself to memorize. I pressed the call button for Marco.

He answered on the second ring, his voice loud over the party music. "Yeah?"

"It's Katherine," I said, my voice low and urgent. "I'm in Damien's suite. Something's wrong. Get up here. And don't let anyone see you."

I hung up before he could ask questions.

I knelt in front of Damien, my heart hammering against my ribs. I reached out a hesitant hand and brushed the dark hair from his forehead. His skin was cold and clammy.

"Damien?" I whispered.

His eyelids fluttered. His head moved slightly, his unfocused gaze trying to find me. His lips parted, and he breathed a single, slurred word.

My name.

"Katherine..."

And then he was gone, his body going completely limp. The sound of footsteps pounded in the hall, and the door burst open. Marco and Eden stood there, their party expressions vanishing into masks of horror as they took in the scene: me, kneeling on the floor, and their best friend, unconscious at my feet.

The power had shifted.

The first light of dawn was filtering through the massive glass windows of the Veyron mansion, painting the sterile white walls in shades of grey. I was sitting in a leather armchair in the living room, still wearing the midnight blue silk dress from the party. It felt like a costume from another lifetime.

Marco and Eden had left hours ago, after they’d half-carried, half-dragged a semi-conscious Damien to his bedroom. They’d asked me a few clipped questions, but their faces were grim, their shock overriding their usual suspicion of me. They knew what Charlotte had done was a line you don’t cross.

I hadn’t slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the vacant, confused look in Damien’s eyes as he stared at me from the floor.

Footsteps on the grand staircase made me jolt. It was him.

He looked like hell. His hair was a mess, his face was pale, but he was dressed in a clean black t-shirt and grey sweats. He moved with a stiff, controlled anger, a predator licking its wounds. He walked straight to the kitchen area without looking at me and poured a glass of water, drinking it down in one go.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions. Finally, he turned and leaned back against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes, now clear and dangerously sharp, pinned me in place.

"Tell me," he said. It wasn't a request. "Everything."

My voice was steady, betraying none of the exhaustion I felt. I recounted the events factually, clinically. Charlotte approaching him with the drink. The change in his behaviour. Finding him in the suite. I left nothing out, including the moment his eyes met mine.

His face was an unreadable mask of stone, but I saw a muscle jump in his jaw. The fury radiating from him was a palpable force, but it was cold, controlled. It was the terrifyingly quiet anger of a man plotting total annihilation.

"Who else knows?" he asked, his voice low.

"Marco and Eden. I called them," I replied. "No one else saw."

He was silent for a long time, processing it. He pushed himself off the counter and walked slowly toward me. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze raking over me, from my dishevelled hair down to the expensive dress he’d put me in. He wasn't looking at me with his usual arrogance; he was assessing me, re-evaluating me.

He wouldn't say thank you. A man like Damien wouldn't know how. Gratitude was a weakness, a debt, and he never put himself in anyone's debt. But he had to acknowledge it.

"You didn't scream," he stated, his voice flat. "You didn't run. You handled it."

It was the closest I would ever get to a compliment from him. He was acknowledging my role, my competence in a crisis that would have sent most people fleeing.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"Charlotte will be dealt with," he said, the finality in his tone sending a chill down my spine. "She will not be a problem for you again."

The way he said it—for you—as if I were the one who had been violated, was jarring. I tilted my head, my brows furrowing in genuine confusion. "For me? I wasn't the one she drugged."

He took another step closer, his eyes locked on mine.

She came after me to get rid of you," he stated, his voice flat.

The arrogance of the statement was breathtaking. "I don't belong to you, Damien."

"No?" A dark, dangerous flicker of amusement crossed his face. He closed the remaining distance between us in two silent strides. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. He didn't touch me, not yet. He just looked at me, his gaze dropping to my lips. "You keep saying that. I'm starting to think you're trying to convince yourself."

My breath hitched. He lifted a hand, and for a second, I thought he would grab me, force a reaction. Instead, his touch was shockingly gentle as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing against the shell of it. My skin tingled at the contact.

"You're not afraid," he murmured, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. It wasn't a question; it was a discovery. "Not of me."

And then he leaned in and kissed me.

It wasn't like the kiss in the bathroom, which had been a battle for control. This was different. It started slow, almost hesitant, a question. His lips were soft, moving against mine with a searching tenderness that completely disarmed me. My hands, which had been clenched into fists at my sides, slowly uncurled and came to rest on his chest. I could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart under my palm.

He took my response as an invitation, deepening the kiss. His other hand slid around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard body. It was intoxicating, a dizzying surrender to the chemistry that had been simmering between us since day one. For a split second, I forgot about my father, about my mission, about everything except the man who was kissing me like I was the only thing in his world.

Then, the moment shattered.

The kiss became rougher, more demanding. The hand at my waist moved up, and in a crude, possessive gesture, he grabbed my breast. It wasn't a caress; it was a claiming. A reminder of who he was and what he believed he owned.

Instinct took over. The sound of my palm connecting with his cheek cracked through the silent room like a gunshot.

He pulled back, his head c****d to the side. There was a red mark blooming on his cheek. He wasn't just angry; he was insulted.

A cruel, humorless smirk twisted his lips. "Don't pretend to be a saint now, Katherine," he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "Isn't this the goal of the game? The poor scholarship girl in the borrowed dress, playing hard to get to drive up the price. Tell me, what's your number? How much is this little performance going to cost my father when you finally decide to cash out?"

The words hit me harder than the slap had hit him. They were designed to gut me, to strip away any dignity I had and reduce me to the cheapest cliché. Tears of pure, hot rage pricked at the back of my eyes. I opened my mouth to hurl back an answer, to wound him as deeply as he had just wounded me—

Brrrring. Brrrring.

The sound was jarringly out of place. It wasn't the burner phone. It was my own phone, buzzing in the small clutch bag I’d left on the armchair.

Damien’s eyes flickered towards the sound, his cruel expression faltering for a second in confusion. I stumbled back, away from him, and snatched up the bag. I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking.

The screen lit up with a picture of a smiling, middle-aged woman. The caller ID read one word: Mom.