Five Rules
1281 Words
He fastened the watch around his wrist with unhurried precision, the soft click of the clasp echoing faintly in the room.
Every movement was measured, almost ritualistic, as though he were dressing not for the day, but for an audience. The towel hung low around his waist, loose and careless, his chest still bare, skin faintly damp from the shower.
Light skimmed across him as he crossed the room, catching on the planes of his shoulders, the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
He didn’t look at her.
That, somehow, unsettled Elara more than if he had.
Instead, Damien reached the dresser and picked up a sleek black bottle. He studied it briefly, then sprayed once across his collarbone.
The scent unfurled instantly—sharp, clean, intrusive. It spread through the room like a deliberate invasion, filling the air, pressing into her senses.
Elara’s nose wrinkled before she could stop herself.
The reaction was small, instinctive.
But Damien noticed everything.
He glanced at her at last, one brow lifting just slightly, his mouth tilting with faint amusement.
“That face,” he said mildly. “You really do struggle to hide your opinions.”
She crossed her arms, irritation flashing openly now. “You asked me to listen,” Elara replied coolly. “Not admire. Can you just get on with it?”
A soft chuckle slipped from him. Unbothered, he lifted the bottle again and sprayed once more—this time slower, dragging the mist deliberately down the center of his chest. He turned as he did, pacing the room, speaking as though this were all casual conversation.
“So the thing is, Elara,” Damien said lightly, “since you wouldn’t be particularly fascinated by the idea of marrying someone like me—”
He stopped by the table, set the bottle down with care, then resumed walking.
“—even though,” he added smoothly, “I know it would be a one-in-a-million opportunity for you.”
Elara scoffed, the sound sharp. Her composure cracked completely now. Disgust twisted her features as her gaze dragged over him—the bare chest, the towel, the self-satisfied confidence that clung to him like another layer of skin.
Damien stopped mid-step.
Slowly, deliberately, he followed her gaze.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “You’re pretending again.”
Her head snapped up. “Pretending?” she snapped.
“That I’m not a real catch,” he replied calmly. “You wear your distaste like armor, Elara, but you know exactly what you’re looking at.”
Her jaw tightened, teeth grinding. “Can you shut up and get straight to the point?” she demanded. “What exactly is this new proposition of yours?”
He tilted his head, studying her as if she were something curious, something not yet solved.
“No need to rush,” Damien said lightly. “We’ll take things one step at a time.”
Her breath left her in a sharp exhale. Her hands curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms.
“Damien,” she said, forcing control into her voice, “I don’t understand what you’re doing. Are you trying to make fun of me?”
He moved again, crossing toward the bed where a neatly folded pair of black trousers lay. As he spoke, he stepped into them beneath the towel, adjusting the fabric with ease—never once breaking eye contact.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay, okay.”
He pulled the trousers into place, then stripped the towel away completely and tossed it aside without ceremony. His chest remained bare, droplets of water still clinging stubbornly to his skin. He ran a hand through his hair, sending a fine spray outward. A few cold drops landed on Elara’s sleeve.
She recoiled instantly. “Watch it.”
“You’re very reactive,” Damien observed, almost thoughtfully.
“Because you’re infuriating,” she shot back. “Just say it. What are the rules?”
That made him stop.
For the first time since he began moving, Damien stood still.
“Rule one,” he said calmly. “You answer whenever I call.”
Elara stiffened, her spine going rigid. She didn’t speak.
“Rule two,” he continued, voice steady, “you do what I ask without argument.”
Her lips parted. “That’s—”
“Rule three,” he cut in smoothly, not raising his voice, “you belong to me in name and in obedience.” A pause. A faint smile. “My mutt, as you’d put it.”
Her stomach dropped, dread coiling tight.
“Rule four,” Damien went on, unfazed, “you must answer whenever I summon you cause I might want you to act as my b***h and you stay when I tell you to stay.”
And as he was saying all this Elara's breathing had turned shallow, and uneven and she watched as his lips moved with contempt and anger filled within her.
“And rule five,” he said, lowering his voice just slightly, “you attend to my needs when I demand it and I mean completely and in all aspects he said finally with a playful grin that Elara could swear had more meaning to but she kept quiet.”
And silence swallowed the room.
She just stared at him, disbelief slowly hardening into fury.
“I don’t understand,” she said at last.
“You already have servants. Your house is full of people who obey you. Why do you need this?”
She shook her head, frustration spilling over. “Why me?”
“That’s not the kind of service I’m talking about,” Damien replied calmly. “I need someone who answers to me alone.”
Her voice rose. “Are you stupid? Do you hear yourself?” She laughed bitterly.
“What you’re saying doesn’t even make sense.”
She stepped back, hands lifting in agitation.
“You don’t even like me,” she went on.
“You’re doing this just to provoke me—to watch me lose control that's all what you want? To see me snap?”
She stopped and faced him fully, eyes blazing.
“Why are you after me, Damien? You have women. Plenty of them.”
He took a single step closer.
“They aren’t you,” he said simply.
Her body froze.
He closed the remaining distance slowly, deliberately, until she could feel the heat radiating from him.
He lifted a hand—hovering for a moment—then tilted her chin upward, gentle but unmistakably commanding, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“You know why?” Damien murmured. “Because you don’t bend. You fight. You resist.”
His thumb brushed lightly beneath her chin.
“That defiance,” he added quietly, “that’s exactly what I want.”
And before she could react, he leaned in.
His lips met hers.
The kiss lingered—long enough to steal her breath, long enough for shock to root her in place. His hold was firm, controlled, confident, as though he expected her to give in.
Then her mind snapped back.
Elara shoved him hard and swung.
Her fist connected solidly with his mouth.
Damien staggered back, hand flying to his lips. He hissed softly, fingers brushing the swelling bruise already forming there. A faint smear of red marked his knuckles.
Slowly, he straightened.
A smile spread across his face—and dark, unmistakably pleased.
“Nice,” he said calmly. “I like them freshly bruised.”
Elara stood shaking, fists clenched, rage blazing in her eyes.
And Damien watched her like he’d just won something.
- Writer
