Corrupted Innocence

The Devil’s Slumber

The penthouse was a silent fortress of glass and steel, perched high above the city like a gargoyle’s nest. Inside, the air-conditioned chill did nothing to soothe the man sprawled across the king-sized bed. Damien Blackthorne was a man who rarely slept, and when he did, his dreams were usually filled with blood and boardrooms.

Tonight, they were filled with jasmine and silk.

In the depths of his subconscious, he wasn't in his bedroom. He was in the North Studio of the Academy. The moonlight filtered through the skylight, casting a silver glow over the mahogany desk. And there she was.

Evelyn.

She looked even smaller in the dream, her 155 cm frame nearly swallowed by the oversized white button-down shirt she was wearing. Her chestnut hair was a wild halo around her heart-shaped face. She was looking at a canvas, her small hands stained with charcoal, but when he stepped out of the shadows, she froze.

"You shouldn't be here, Mr. Blackthorne," she whispered, her voice a soft, melodic tremor.

"I go wherever I want, Little Rose," his dream-self growled.

He didn't waste time. In the dream, he moved with the speed of a predator. He reached out, his large, scarred hand cupping her jaw, forcing her to look up at him. She was so tiny that he had to bend down to meet her gaze. He could see the pulse jumping in her delicate throat a tiny, trapped bird.

He didn't ask. He took. He crushed his lips against hers, a kiss that tasted of dark wine and desperation. Evelyn let out a soft, broken moan, her small hands fisted in his shirt as she tried to find her balance. He lifted her easily, setting her on the edge of the mahogany desk, her legs parting instinctively to accommodate his bulk.

"Damien, mmm aaaaaah," she whimpered against his mouth, her breath hitching as he unzipped his trousers.

He was thick, heavy, and pulsing with a need that felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside out. He positioned himself at her entrance, the contrast between his dark, turgid length and her cream-colored skin making his head spin.

"Take it all, Evelyn," he commanded, his voice a low, guttural vibration. "I want to feel you stretch for me. I want you to know exactly who owns you."

He thrust home in one deep, punishing stroke.

"AAAAAAAAAH!"

Her scream was a symphony of pleasure and shock. She was so tight, her internal walls clenching around him like a vice, milking him as he began to move. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin.

"Mmm... f**k, you’re so small," he breathed, his hips slamming against her with a primal, rhythmic force. Slap. Slap. Slap. The sound of their bodies connecting was the only music in the room. "Look at me! D-D-Damien! Say it!"

"Damien! Oh, god... aaaaaah! Take me... f**k me... D-D-Damien!"

She was shattering under him, her body convulsing in the throes of a climax that felt like a white-hot explosion. Damien felt his own control snap. He roared, a sound of pure, carnal victory, as his seed pumped into her in hot, thick waves. He wanted to fill her. He wanted to stain her. He wanted to make sure no other man—especially not a boy like Liam—could ever claim a single inch of her.

BRRRRR. BRRRRR. BRRRRR.

The vibration was sharp and metallic. It didn't belong in the dream.

Damien’s eyes snapped open.

The studio was gone. The moonlight was gone. He was lying in his massive bed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast. He was drenched in sweat, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

"f**k," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

He looked down at his lap. He was painfully, throbbingly hard, the ghost of her warmth still lingering on his skin. He could still taste her. He could still hear that stuttered “D-D-Damien” ringing in his ears. It had been so vivid that the reality of his empty, luxurious room felt like a physical insult.

Beside him, his encrypted phone was buzzing on the nightstand. It was 3:45 AM. He grabbed it, his knuckles white. "This better be important," he snarled.

"Boss? It's Viktor," his enforcer’s voice came through, sounding alert. "We have a situation at the South Docks. The Sterling shipment was intercepted by the feds. We think someone leaked the manifests."

Damien sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. The mention of the Sterlings—Liam’s family—made his blood run cold with a different kind of intensity. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"And the girl, sir? The surveillance team is asking for instructions for the morning."

Damien paused, his eyes turning to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the city. Somewhere out there, in a cramped dormitory, Evelyn was sleeping. She had no idea that she had just been claimed in the mind of a monster.

"I want a full dossier on the boy she was with yesterday," Damien ordered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Liam. I want his family, his bank accounts, his secrets. I want to know exactly how much it will cost to remove him from the board."

"Consider it done, Boss."

"And Viktor?"

"Yes?"

"The scholarship. Don't let her know it's from me. I want her to think it's anonymous. But I want her assigned to the North Studio—the private one. And tell the Dean I’m coming in for a 'benefactor's review' today. I'm not waiting."

He hung up and stood, his naked body a map of scars and muscle in the moonlight. He looked at the city, his eyes fixing on the distant spires of St. Jude’s Academy.

He was a man who took what he wanted. And after tonight, he realized that what he wanted wasn't just another company or another territory. He wanted the girl who smelled like jasmine. He wanted the girl who stuttered his name.

He was going to build a gilded cage for his Little Rose, and he was going to make sure she walked into it willingly.