Katrina’s Pov
The car was too quiet, too sleek, too much like a coffin dressed in leather and chrome.
Damon sat across from me, one hand loose on his knee, the other holding a crystal tumbler of whiskey he hadn’t touched. The faint amber liquid shivered with every turn the driver took, but Damon’s body never moved. His stillness was worse than fury—it meant calculation.
“You will follow my rules tonight,” he said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was a blade smoothed down to velvet, dangerous in its calm. “You will smile when I tell you to smile. Speak only when spoken to. Sit as I’ve taught you. And above all—”
“Do not embarrass you,” I finished, my tone clipped.
His eyes cut toward me, glacial and sharp. The corner of his mouth ticked upward, but it wasn’t amusement. It was a
