Chapter3.Realisation
1180 Words
Damien’s boots echoed against the polished floor as he crossed the room, each step slow and deliberate. Gwen shrank back on the bed, her hands clutching the torn folds of her wedding gown, knuckles white as if the ruined silk could protect her. The fabric was wrinkled and dirty now, a far cry from what it had been hours earlier. Her chest rose and fell too fast, breath catching in shallow pulls.
His shadow fell over her, cutting off the light.
“Will you strip,” he asked, his voice low, rough with command, “or do I do it for you?”
Her head snapped up. Loose red strands slid from her pinned hair, brushing her cheeks as she shook her head again and again. “No… no, please.” The words barely held together, like they might shatter if spoken any louder.
Something tightened in his jaw. He didn’t pause, or warn her. He reached down and closed his hand around her ankle.
Gwen gasped as he yanked her toward him. The mattress dipped sharply under her weight as she slid, her back nearly hitting the edge. She scrambled uselessly, fingers clawing at the sheets. Her breath came fast, panic making her chest heave beneath the torn bodice.
Damien leaned over her. His hand hovered near her neckline, fingers brushing the air above her skin.
“Please—don’t touch me!”
The sound ripped out of her, raw and desperate.
He froze.
Slowly, he straightened. One brow lifted, his expression unreadable, eyes dark with something sharp. “Touch you?” he repeated, a faint edge of humor cutting through his voice. He leaned closer, his mouth near her ear, breath warm against her skin. “I’m not a monster, sweetheart. I don’t touch.” His lips curved. “I take. And you’ll enjoy it. You’ll beg for more.”
Her lips trembled. She shook her head again, harder this time, eyes glassy, lashes clumped with tears. Her whole body shook terribly.
Damien studied her then. Really looked. The pale way her fingers dug into the sheets. The stiff line of her shoulders. The way she seemed to fold inward, as if trying to disappear.
This wasn’t fear that challenged him. It didn’t spark excitement or thrill. It sat heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and wrong.
Women didn’t look at him like this. They never had. They leaned in, reached out, smiled like they were being chosen. They wanted the danger, the name, the power. They wanted to be his.
Gwen looked at him like he was the end.
Why?
His mouth twisted as a memory surfaced, sharp with irritation. Liam’s cowardly face. The way he’d shoved her forward, used her body as cover in front of everyone. A weak man’s move. Damien had crushed men for less.
Was she still tied to that? Still waiting for him?
His hand slid lower, fingers tracing the curve of the gown. Heat radiated from her skin, her body reacting even as she trembled. Her breath hitched, sharp and uneven.
Then he felt it.
Her little sharp intake of breath, the way her eyes are wide and her whole body trembled. She look innocent.
It made his hand still.
It made his chest tighten.
That wasn’t possible. Nothing connected to Marcus’s bloodline was untouched. That family rotted everything it touched.
“Please,” Gwen whispered. Tears spilled over, streaking her cheeks. “Please don’t touch me.”
Damien pulled back slightly, his gaze locking onto hers. “Why?” His tone sharpened, impatience cutting through the moment. “Why?”
She swallowed. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her eyes darted away, then back, trapped.
“Why?” he demanded again, fingers tightening in the fabric. “Give me a reason.”
Her throat worked. “I… I…” The words tangled and died, fear choking them off.
His patience snapped thin.
“Virgin?” he asked flatly.
She went completely still.
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to stop breathing. Then her throat bobbed once. Twice. She nodded, barely, like the motion hurt.
Something shifted.
Damien released her as if burned. He straightened so fast the mattress lifted under her. His face drained of color and his body rigid.
That couldn’t be right.
Women lied. Especially frightened ones. Especially when cornered.
But everything about her told the same story. The way she trembled. The way she pleaded without bargaining. The way she hadn’t once tried to use herself as leverage.
“You’ve never been touched,” he said slowly. His voice was lower now, stripped of mockery. “Not once?”
She shook her head, tears still sliding silently down her face.
His jaw clenched. Something dark crossed his expression, it unsettled him. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door.
Gwen watched him go, eyes wide, unsure if she should breathe. The door opened. Closed.
He didn’t look back.
Damien summoned one of the maids.
“She bathes,” he said, voice flat. “Feed her and make her comfortable.”
The maid nodded quickly, eyes lowered. She stepped into the room and gently guided Gwen toward the bath. Gwen moved stiffly, like her legs didn’t quite belong to her, shock and confusion still rattling through her.
Damien didn’t stay. He had no room for softness. No time to think about trembling brides or truths that shouldn’t exist. Virgin or not, she belonged to him now.
That reality sat heavy, unavoidable.
He summoned his men.
The Black Vultures answered.
Engines roared in the night, one after another, the sound vibrating through concrete. Bikes lined the entrance to the underground clubhouse, black frames gleaming under harsh lights. The symbol of the Vultures marked every tank, wings spread wide, talons stained red.
Inside, smoke curled through the air. Leather creaked as men took their seats, boots thudding against the floor. Weapons glinted at their sides. Every conversation died the moment Damien stepped in.
He walked to the head of the table. Silence followed him like a shadow.
“My brother is dead.”
The words landed hard.
No one spoke. They gave their full attention.
“They murdered blood,” Damien continued, his voice steady, controlled. “Marcus pulled the trigger.”
Hands curled into fists. Rage simmered, everyone burning with anger.
“I’ll take his life myself,” Damien went on. “But hear this. We do not lose another. Not one.”
He slammed his fist down. The table cracked, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
“We ride together,” he said. “We bleed together. This family stands.”
A low rumble of agreement moved through the room, growing louder.
“Until Marcus’s blood hits the ground,” Damien finished, eyes burning, “no one rests.”
The roar that followed shook the walls.
Damien stood at the center of it, king of the chaos, his mind betraying him with the image of red hair, shaking hands, and eyes filled with fear.
A virgin.
His captive bride.
And soon—his to claim.
- Writer
