Dangerous games
665 Words
The elevator suddenly felt airless.
Isabella’s heartbeat thundered so loudly she was certain Damian could hear it.
He still held her wrist.
Not hard enough to hurt.
Just enough to remind her he could.
The red emergency light painted sharp shadows across his face, turning him into something darker than human. Beautiful things were always the most dangerous—that was a lesson life had taught her early.
And Damian Moretti was devastatingly beautiful.
“You should let go of me,” she said softly.
His eyes stayed locked on hers.
“Should I?”
The question wrapped around her throat like silk.
She hated how calm he looked. How controlled.
Meanwhile, she could barely breathe.
“Yes.”
For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t listen.
Then slowly—deliberately—his fingers slid away from her skin.
Relief should have followed.
Instead, disappointment hit first.
Isabella immediately despised herself for it.
Damian noticed.
Of course he did.
A faint smile touched his mouth as he leaned back against the elevator wall again, studying her like she was something he intended to ruin slowly.
“You’re confused,” he murmured.
“I’m not.”
“You’re trying to decide whether to fear me or kiss me.”
Heat flooded her face instantly.
“That’s arrogant.”
“It’s true.”
The worst part?
It was.
And that terrified her more than him.
The storm raged outside, thunder vibrating faintly through the building. The elevator remained frozen between floors.
Trapped.
Alone.
With him.
Isabella wrapped her arms around herself. “Do you always enjoy making women uncomfortable?”
Damian took a slow sip of whiskey before answering.
“No.” His dark eyes dragged over her again. “Only the ones pretending they aren’t affected by me.”
“You think very highly of yourself.”
“I think very highly of you.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Her stomach tightened.
Men flirted with her all the time. Rich men. Charming men. Dangerous men.
But Damian didn’t flirt.
He observed. Calculated.
Every word from him sounded like the beginning of a bad decision.
“You don’t even know me,” she whispered.
“I know enough.”
Something about the way he said it made unease curl inside her chest.
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
Silence.
Too much silence.
Then—
“You moved here eight months ago,” Damian said calmly. “You work for Ashford Publishing. You volunteer twice a month at St. Mary’s shelter. And every Friday night, you sit alone in a café on Mercer Street pretending to read while secretly people-watching.”
Fear iced through her veins.
“How do you know that?”
His expression never changed.
“I notice things.”
No.
This was more than noticing.
This was obsession.
Isabella took a careful step backward until her spine touched the elevator wall.
“You had me followed?”
Damian tilted his head slightly.
“If I had,” he said softly, “you never would’ve known.”
Her pulse stumbled.
Every instinct screamed at her to be afraid.
But beneath the fear was something worse.
Excitement.
And Damian saw that too.
His gaze darkened.
“That look right there,” he murmured. “That’s the problem.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you know you should run…” He stepped toward her again. “But you won’t.”
The tiny space between them disappeared.
Isabella’s breathing turned shallow as his hand lifted slowly toward her face.
He paused just before touching her.
Giving her the chance to stop him.
She should have.
Instead, she stayed perfectly still.
Damian brushed one finger beneath her chin, tilting her face upward.
The touch was gentle.
Which somehow felt more dangerous than roughness ever could.
“You’re playing a very dangerous game with me, Isabella.”
Her lips parted slightly.
“Maybe,” she whispered, “you started it.”
- Writer
