Owned By The Devil's Heir

Dinner with the Devil

Chapter Eight – Dinner with the Devil

The dining room glittered under a crystal chandelier, the long table set with more silverware than I knew how to use. My mother beamed beside Marco, chatting about charity galas and weekend trips. It should have felt normal. Safe.

But Damian sat across from me.

The candlelight caught the sharp lines of his face, the shadows under his eyes, the faint curl of his lips that never quite became a smile. He didn’t eat much, only sipped at his wine, gaze flicking to me too often.

I tried to focus on my plate. Fork. Knife. Salad. Anything but him.

“So, Isabella,” Marco said warmly. “How are you settling in at St. Augustine’s?”

I forced a smile. “It’s… different. Big. But I’ll adjust.”

“That’s my girl.” My mother squeezed my hand proudly.

Across the table, Damian’s fork scraped against porcelain. The sound made my skin prickle.

“She won’t just adjust,” he said, voice low but certain. “She’ll rise. No one will touch her.”

My breath hitched. Marco chuckled, oblivious. “Of course. With Damian around, who would dare?”

But my mother frowned slightly, studying her stepson. “Damian, don’t be so intense. Isabella needs space to find her own way.”

His gaze locked with mine. Sharp. Possessive. “She won’t need space. She has me.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. I looked away quickly, stabbing at my food just to hide my shaking hands.

The conversation moved on, but the weight of his words lingered like smoke.

---

After dinner, I slipped into the hall, desperate to breathe. The air smelled faintly of roses from the garden, but even here, I couldn’t escape the sense of being watched.

“You looked beautiful tonight.”

I froze. Damian stepped from the shadows, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of wine he hadn’t finished.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” I whispered, backing up a step.

He followed, unhurried. “Why? Because they’re true?”

“Because someone might hear you.”

His smirk was slow, dangerous. “Let them. I want them to know.”

My back hit the wall. He stopped inches away, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. His scent—smoke, leather, something darker—wrapped around me.

“You’re playing with fire,” I breathed, though my voice shook.

He leaned closer, lips brushing the air near mine. “No, dove. I am the fire.”

The glass in his hand clinked softly as he set it on a nearby table, freeing his hand to brush against my wrist. His touch lingered, light but possessive, like a shackle made of silk.

“I don’t care if the whole world hates me,” he murmured, eyes burning into mine. “But they’ll never touch you. Because you’re mine.”

And then, just as suddenly, he stepped back, leaving me gasping in the shadows as he walked away.

I pressed trembling fingers to my lips, my heart torn between fear and something far more dangerous: the beginning of surrender.