Corrupted Innocence

The Island of Exile

The roar of the private jet’s engines was the only thing loud enough to drown out the screaming of my own thoughts. As we ascended through the thick Oakhaven clouds, the city and the ruins of my yesterday shrank into a miniature of grey stone and flickering lights.

Damien sat across from me in the plush, cream-leather interior of the cabin. He hadn't spoken since we left the estate. He was focused on a thick legal file, a glass of amber liquid sitting untouched on the mahogany side table. He looked every bit the billionaire titan, his jaw set in an impenetrable mask.

I watched him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Every time I looked at his mouth, I felt that phantom heat. Was it a dream? The memory was so vivid the way he had carried me, the rough stubble of his jaw, the taste of scotch and regret. But his coldness today was a wall I couldn't climb.

"Where are we going, Damien?" I finally asked, my voice cracking under the weight of the silence. "You said a business trip, but we’re headed toward the coast."

"A change of scenery, Evelyn," he said, finally looking up. His eyes were like chips of flint. "The city is full of distractions. Isabella, the Sterlings. Julian. You need to focus on the paintings for the merger launch, and I need to ensure my 'Consultant' isn't being swayed by the wrong influences."

"You sent him away," I accused, my hands clenching in my lap. "You sent Julian to Paris just to get him away from me. You saw us in the studio and you panicked."

Damien set the file down with a slow, deliberate movement. He leaned forward, his massive frame filling the cabin. "I don't panic, Evelyn. I manage assets. Julian was a distraction you couldn't afford. You’re here to work, not to play muse to a man who doesn't understand the price of your survival."

The plane landed on a private strip on a jagged piece of rock and ancient forest rising out of the Atlantic. This was the Blackthorne family’s private sanctuary a fortress of glass and obsidian perched on a cliffside where the waves crashed with a violence that matched the storm in my soul.

"There are no cameras here," Damien murmured as we stepped into the foyer of the villa. The air smelled of salt and cedar. No assistants. No press. No Julian to hold your hand. Just us."

The isolation was immediate. It was suffocating. I felt like a bird that had been moved from a small cage to a larger, more beautiful one, but the bars were still there.

By evening, the sky had turned a bruised, angry purple. Thunder rattled the glass walls of the library where I was attempting to sketch. I kept trying to draw the ocean, but every line I drew turned into the silhouette of a man. I was haunted by the kiss I couldn't prove had happened.

I didn't hear him come in. In this house, Damien moved like a phantom. I only felt the sudden shift in the air, the surge of heat behind me that made the fine hairs on my neck stand up.

"You're still trying to find peace in the lines," Damien’s voice rasped. He was standing directly behind my chair. He had discarded his suit jacket and tie; his white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, revealing the hard, scarred planes of his chest.

"I'm trying to work," I said, my voice trembling.

He reached over my shoulder, his chest pressing firmly against my back. He snatched the sketchbook away and tossed it onto the floor as if it were trash. "Look at me, Evelyn."

I turned the chair, my breath hitching as I was trapped between the desk and his looming frame. He didn't touch me with his hands yet. He leaned in, his nose brushing against mine, his scent scotch, sea salt, and raw power filling my lungs until I couldn't think.

"You think yesterday was a dream," he whispered, his voice a low, vibrating growl that echoed in my bones. "You want to believe it was a fantasy because the truth is too much for you. You'd rather think your mind is failing you than admit you let the monster carry you to bed."

"Was it real?" I choked out, my eyes searching his for a glimmer of the man from the shadows. "Damien, tell me the truth."

He didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed my waist and hoisted me up, sitting me on the tall library ladder that leaned against the shelves of ancient books. He stepped between my knees, pinning me against the wooden rungs. His hands slid up my thighs, his palms hot and rough against my skin, pushing my skirt up until it bunched at my hips.

I let out a soft moan, my head falling back against the wood. The "ache" he had left me with in the study, the one he had cultivated so cruelly, was now a roaring fire.

"You want to know what's real?" he muttered, his gaze fixed on my lips.

He didn't kiss my mouth. He dropped his head, his tongue swirling around the diamond choker at my neck, the cold stones a sharp contrast to the heat of his skin. He moved lower, to the valley of my breasts, licking and sucking the sensitive skin there. He bit me not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark that would be there in the morning. A brand.

I cried out, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer even as a part of me screamed to push him away. The thunder outside exploded, shaking the villa, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside me.

He moved lower, his hands sliding under my lace panties. He didn't go inside. Instead, he began to rub the silk against my swollen, wet centre. The friction was agonizingly perfect. I was sobbing now, my body arching toward him, begging for the release he was dangling just out of reach.

Damien, please," I whimpered.

"You're so desperate for me," he whispered against my skin. "But you won't admit it. You'd rather pretend Julian’s 'kindness' is what you crave. But he can't make you feel like this, can he? He doesn't make you scream."

He pulled the lace to the side, and then I felt it—the hot, wet contact of his tongue. I let out a high-pitched wail as he began to lick and flick, his tongue a precision instrument of torture. He sucked the small, sensitive bud of my c******s into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it until I was clawing at his shoulders, my toes curling in my shoes.

He was relentless. He knew exactly how to break me. He moved faster, harder, until I felt the first wave of a climax beginning to roll through me like a tidal wave. It was a shattering of every defence I had left. My muscles clenched, my breath left me, and I exploded into a thousand shards of white light, my voice echoing in the vast, empty library.

I was shaking, my breath coming in jagged gasps, my eyes finally fluttering open as the world came back into focus.

Damien was standing there, watching me. He hadn't touched himself. He hadn't even unzipped his trousers. He looked perfectly composed, except for the darkness in his eyes and the wetness on his lips. He looked like a king who had just watched a rebel surrender.

"Good," he said, his voice cold and satisfied. He reached out and straightened my skirt, his touch now clinical and detached. "Now that you've had your 'fantasy,' go to bed. We start the real work tomorrow. And Evelyn?"

I looked up at him, my body still vibrating from the release.

"Next time you think of Julian, remember exactly how you sounded just now. Remember who owns your pleasure."

He turned and walked out of the library, the doors clicking shut behind him. I sat on the ladder, slumped against the wood, my heart breaking under the weight of his victory. He had given me exactly what I wanted, but he had used it to prove a point.

I wasn't a partner. I wasn't a guest. I was a woman who had just admitted she wanted the monster. And as the rain lashed against the glass, I realized the island wasn't a getaway. It was an altar. And I was the sacrifice.