MY SAVING DOOM

AND IT WAS NOT JUST A DREAM

I woke up drenched in sweat.

Not the kind from a warm blanket or a bad nightmare that fades the moment you sit up. No, this was the clingy kind that glued my shirt to my skin and made me feel like my own bed was trying to suffocate me. My sheets were twisted around my legs like I had been wrestling with an invisible enemy all night. My chest rose and fell too fast, and the pounding in my head matched the racing beat of my heart.

I didn’t need to ask why. I already knew.

The dream.

It was fuzzy around the edges, but certain fragments stayed behind, sharp as broken glass: the glow of my wrist, a dark alley, a man with eyes like carved crystal, lips too close to mine. The kind of dream that didn’t feel like a dream at all, more like a memory replaying itself in cruel high definition.

And the humiliating part? My body had liked it. My pulse still hadn’t calmed down. My lips tingled like they’d been almost touched. My thighs pressed together on instinct, and I hated myself for it.

I groaned and shoved my face into the pillow. “Absolutely not. Nope. Brain, you’re fired. We are not crushing on Mr. Doom-and-Gloom.”

The mark on my wrist pulsed hot under my skin, like it found me amusing.

I yanked the blanket over my head, praying the night would give me peace. Maybe I could force myself back to sleep, dream of anything else—cats, chocolate, taxes, literally anything.

But then I felt it.

The air in my room shifted. Heavier. Denser. Like someone else was in it. My skin prickled, every nerve awake.

I froze. My heart sprinted.

There was breathing in the dark. And it wasn’t mine.

Slowly, too slowly, I peeled the blanket down from my face and opened my eyes.

And there he was.

Damian.

He stood in the far corner of my room, shadows wrapping around him like they belonged to him. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed, but his presence filled every inch of space. The room was too small for him, or maybe he was too much for the room.

My stomach dropped, and my first instinct wasn’t even fear. It was outrage. “What the actual hell? Do you gods not knock?”

His lips curved, but not in a smile. More like a razor slicing across his face. “Knocking is for mortals. And I’m not here for your comfort.”

“Oh, trust me, I noticed.” I yanked the blanket tighter across my chest like it was armor. “Creeping into women’s bedrooms in the middle of the night—super classy. Do you always stalk your victims, or am I just lucky?”

He tilted his head, and his voice came sharp, cold. “Victim. Finally, a word you use correctly.”

My sarcasm stuck in my throat. He stepped forward, unhurried, like a predator who knew there was no escape. The mark burned hotter with every step.

Then his scent reached me. Sharp, clean, storm-soaked air mixed with smoke and something warmer underneath. It hit me like a drug, sinking into my chest, pulling at something I didn’t want pulled. He smelled unfairly good, and I hated myself for noticing.

By the time he stopped at the foot of my bed, I couldn’t move. His gaze pinned me like an insect under glass.

“You’re burning faster,” he said flatly. “The mark is spreading.”

“Fantastic,” I snapped, forcing my voice not to shake. “So you broke into my room to give me a progress report? Thanks, Doctor Doom. Do I get a bill for the house call?”

He arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You think joking will make this easier?”

“It makes me less likely to scream,” I shot back.

“You’re not screaming.” His voice was calm, which somehow made it worse. Then his mouth curved again, crueler this time. “You’re thinking things you shouldn’t be.”

My breath caught. “Excuse me?”

He moved closer, shadows clinging to him like smoke. “Your thoughts are loud, Nanya. You’re wondering why I smell the way I do. You’re cataloging every detail of me while pretending you despise me. And you loathe yourself for it.”

Heat flamed across my face. My lips parted, but no denial came out. My pulse betrayed me, racing harder. “I am not—”

“Yes, you are.” His voice cut clean and final.

His knee brushed the mattress as he closed in. My heart stuttered. His hand reached out and caught my wrist, tugging it free of the blanket. His grip was strong, unyielding, but not cruel. Almost careful, as though my skin might shatter.

The mark blazed to life, glowing silver under his touch. Heat surged up my arm, spread across my chest. I gasped, but it wasn’t a scream—it was a soft, helpless sound that sounded far too much like a moan.

His lips curved, and this time it was smug. “Pathetic,” he murmured, voice laced with contempt. “You hate me, yet you burn for me.”

Anger and shame tangled inside me. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to shove him away. I wanted him closer.

He leaned in, his mouth hovering a breath from mine. “You want me to kiss you.”

My chest heaved. “You’re insane.”

“You’re lying.” His breath ghosted against my lips, hot, deliberate. “But a kiss won’t save you.”

The mark pulsed violently, light spilling across the room like lightning. Pain stabbed through me, sharp and blinding. I cried out, my body folding forward.

Before I hit the floor, his arms wrapped around me. Strong, steady, unyielding. My face pressed against his chest, hard muscle beneath soft fabric. His heat surrounded me, his scent flooding my senses until thinking was impossible.

“You don’t understand, Nanya,” he murmured against my hair. His fingers skimmed over the mark, and the fire inside me surged. “The more you want me…” His voice dropped lower, cruel and intimate. “…the faster you burn.”

I clutched his shirt, half from pain, half from something I couldn’t name. My body trembled against his, betraying me in every way possible.

And then the darkness dragged me under, his words echoing like a curse I couldn’t escape.