Owned By The Devil's Heir

Accidents Don't Exist

Chapter Ten – Accidents Don’t Exist

Monday started wrong.

The moment I stepped onto St. Augustine’s grounds, I felt it—the shift. Whispers grew louder. Smirks followed me down the hall. Something was coming.

By third period, I knew.

It happened in chemistry class. I reached for my chair, and before I could sit, the leg gave out. The chair snapped sideways with a loud crack, and I hit the ground hard, books scattering.

Gasps rippled through the room. A few students rushed to hide their laughter behind their hands.

My cheeks burned as I scrambled up. But what froze me wasn’t the pain—it was the glint of sawdust on the floor. The chair had been cut.

Someone had planned this.

The brunette smirked from across the room, lips mouthing one word: Oops.

Humiliation burned in my chest. I wanted to scream. To fight back. But before I could, the classroom door slammed open.

Damian.

He didn’t belong here. This wasn’t even his class. Yet there he was, storming inside like a god of wrath, his eyes locking on me first, then darting to the broken chair.

The room went silent.

“Who?” His voice was low, deadly.

No one answered. The silence was deafening.

“Who did this?” he repeated, sharper this time, his gaze sweeping the room like a blade.

The brunette’s smirk faltered, but she said nothing.

Damian’s jaw tightened. In one smooth motion, he flipped the broken chair against the wall, wood splintering like bones. The sound made me flinch.

He turned back to the class, his expression pure fire. “If I ever see her touched again—if I so much as hear her name in your mouths—you’ll pray for death before I’m finished.”

No one dared breathe.

Then, without another word, he crossed the room and pulled me to my feet. His hand gripped mine, firm and unyielding, as he led me out of the class.

The halls swallowed us whole, his steps fast, his presence suffocating. I stumbled to keep up.

“Damian,” I whispered, panic clawing at my chest. “You can’t just—”

He stopped abruptly, pulling me against him, his eyes blazing. “They hurt you.”

“They embarrassed me,” I corrected, my voice trembling. “But if you keep storming in like this, it’ll only get worse!”

His grip on my wrist tightened, though not enough to hurt. “No one touches what’s mine. Not once. Not ever.”

“Stop saying that!” My voice cracked, desperation spilling out. “I’m not yours!”

The words hung between us like broken glass.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then, slowly, dangerously, his lips curved.

“You keep saying that, dove,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath brushed my skin. “But your eyes tell me otherwise.”

My heart stuttered. My breath faltered. And worst of all—I couldn’t deny it.