Chapter 11 - The Pull
994 Words
Sleep eluded Aria.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him—Damon Cross—in the corner of the café, his gaze cutting through her like a blade. She saw his hand brushing hers when he returned the empty cup, the heat of his words lingering against her skin.
Stop pretending this is normal.
Her alarm chimed at 6 a.m., dragging her out of half-dreams and into a reality that felt no less surreal. She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest, the sheets twisted around her. She wanted to believe it was a one-off. That Damon had made his point, whatever that point was, and moved on.
But she knew better.
Men like Damon Cross didn’t move on.
---
She trudged to work with a dull ache behind her eyes. The streets were still quiet, dew clinging to the edges of storefronts. For a brief moment, she let herself breathe in the chill morning air, pretending she was invisible.
By the time she reached the café, Lena was already there, unlocking the back door.
“Morning, sunshine,” Lena teased, giving her a knowing look. “Rough night?”
Aria forced a smile. “Didn’t sleep much.”
“Mm-hm.” Lena leaned against the doorway. “Has anything to do with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Dangerous from yesterday? Because, girl, I have questions.”
Aria’s stomach tightened. “Lena—don’t.”
Lena held up her hands. “Fine, fine. But just so you know, if you ever get tired of him staring at you like you’re his next meal, I’d be happy to volunteer.”
Aria laughed weakly, grateful for the attempt at humor but too unsettled to play along.
---
The day passed in a blur. Aria threw herself into her work, smiling for customers, grinding beans, steaming milk. Every hiss of the espresso machine felt like white noise drowning out her thoughts.
She told herself Damon wouldn’t come again. That yesterday had been his way of proving a point, nothing more.
But at noon, the bell above the door chimed.
Her hand froze mid-pour.
There he was.
Not in a tailored suit this time, but in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, his jacket slung casually over his arm. He looked almost approachable—if you ignored the way the entire café seemed to shrink around him.
Their eyes met. Aria’s stomach flipped.
---
“Mr. Cross,” she said tightly as he approached the counter.
“Damon,” he corrected, his tone low, intimate. “I think we’re past formalities.”
She ignored the warmth in her cheeks. “What are you doing here?”
“Having coffee.” He placed a bill on the counter without glancing at the menu. “And checking on you.”
“I don’t need checking on.”
“Don’t you?” His eyes searched hers, unyielding.
Aria swallowed, her pulse quickening. She slid the coffee across the counter, praying he’d take it and sit down without another word. But Damon didn’t move.
“You’re tired,” he observed, his gaze sharp. “You didn’t sleep last night.”
Her breath caught. “You don’t know that.”
“I know everything I need to,” he said softly. “I can see it in your eyes.”
---
The air between them thickened, charged. Customers shifted uncomfortably, glancing between the two of them as though sensing something too private, too intense, for public space.
Aria clenched her jaw. “You can’t keep showing up here. People are starting to notice.”
“Good.”
Her brows furrowed. “Good?”
“Yes.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Let them see. Let them whisper. I want the world to know you’re mine.”
Her breath faltered. “I’m not yours.”
Something flickered in his gaze—dark amusement, hunger, something dangerous. “Keep telling yourself that, Aria.”
He stepped back then, finally retreating to the corner table he’d claimed yesterday. He sat, phone untouched, coffee ignored, his attention fixed solely on her.
---
Hours dragged. Every time she glanced up, his eyes were there, waiting. Watching. Claiming.
By the time closing neared, her nerves were shredded. Lena, oblivious to the depth of Aria’s turmoil, teased her relentlessly. “You’ve got yourself a stalker, babe. A rich, ridiculously hot stalker. I mean, could you do worse?”
Aria managed a weak laugh, but dread coiled in her stomach. Damon’s presence wasn’t funny. It was suffocating. Consuming.
When the café finally emptied, Damon rose. He walked toward the counter with unhurried steps, his gaze never wavering.
Aria braced herself.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured when he reached her.
“I’m tired.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “No. You’re scared.”
She met his gaze, forcing steel into her voice. “You don’t get to decide what I feel.”
His mouth curved faintly. “And yet, I already do.”
Her breath caught. The arrogance, the certainty—it should have infuriated her. And it did. But beneath the fury, something else simmered. Something that terrified her more than his obsession.
Her own longing.
---
Damon’s hand brushed hers again, deliberate this time, lingering against her skin. Heat shot through her veins.
“You can fight me all you want, Aria,” he said quietly. “But the truth doesn’t change. You’re in this now. With me. There’s no going back.”
Her heart thundered in her chest. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” His thumb grazed her knuckles, sending shivers up her arm. “We’ll see.”
Then he was gone, leaving her trembling, the echo of his touch burning long after the door closed behind him.
---
That night, Aria lay awake again, staring at the ceiling. Damon’s words looped in her head, relentless.
There’s no going back.
And the terrifying part was, she believed him.
- Writer
