A World Written in Blood
712 Words
Outside, the city was alive and vibrant. Cars flowed by like ribbons of light, and towers shone at night. Elena could see the entire panorama from beyond the glass wall of the penthouse, but within, she could feel only fear and confusion.
She had her arms folded around herself, Damien's shirt loose on her body. The morning looping back on itself in her head. His words. His anger. The glass on the floor of his office.
And the words.
Make them remember who this city belongs to.
He'd told them like he hadn't been hurt by them. Hard. Harder than hard. Irreversible.
This wasn't just Damien, the man who'd owned her, the man who'd kissed her so deeply she'd lost herself. This was Damien, the Don. The man who had the city in his grip with fear and violence.
And she'd still kissed him back.
Her heart pounded at the realization. What was wrong with her?
"Letcher doesn't have a club in New Orleans."
"Apparently, he has several."
His voice spun her around so quickly.
He stood in the doorway, his gaze on her. He was hard tonight-cold. Tonight, he wore black, a suit that appeared to make him appear as though he were chiseled from shadow and rock. His eyes did not blink.
"You didn't eat," he said, inclining his head toward the food that remained untouched. "Why not?
She attempted to speak, but the words wouldn't. The words were too hard. Because I'm scared of you. Because I don't understand you. Because I don't know whether to flee or remain.
But instead she quietly whispered, "Where did you go?"
"Business," he answered curtly.
Her throat closed. "That's what you'd term it?"
He raised an eyebrow. "What would you term it?"
"Mmurder," she breathed before she could catch herself.
The air between them turned chilly.
Damien's expression turned icicle. He said nothing at first. Then, step by painstaking step, he inched toward her. The steps were stealthy, but heavy, like a stalker's tread.
Elena retreated until her shoulders hit chilled glass.
He placed one hand on the window beside her head, close enough for her to take in the scent of his cologne—dark and smoky and overwhelming.
You don't know what murder is," he panted. "You've never had to decide whether to kill another human being or lose all that you love."
"I don't want to decide," she poured out, her voice shaking.
His eyes locked on hers, black and unyielding. "You already have."
Her heart skipped a beat. "What are you talking about?"
"You're here." His voice relaxed, a sigh of sadness. "You're already in my world."
She shook her head. "I don't belong in your world. I don't belong in blood and violence."
His hand moved, fingers tracing the curve of her cheek. His was hard, almost rough, but not unkind. "You don't," he said. "That's why I'm not going to lose you."
Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. "Then why lie to me? Why banish me when I hear the truth?"
"Because the truth is poison," he breathed, outlining the curve of her jaw with his thumb. "And you're too naive to take a taste of it."
Her knees trembled. Why was he teasing her into wanting him now, when she should be frightened?
"I don't want your poison," she breathed.
"Liar," he breathed.
And then his mouth was on hers, hard and hot. She kissed him stupidly in return, her body reacting even as her head screamed at her to run.
They both gasped when he let her go, the city lights blurring behind them.
"You think you've seen the worst of me," Damien panted. "You haven't. It's only just the beginning."
Her hands were shaking on his chest. "Then why me? Why did you pick me?"
His answer was brief. "Because you're the one thing I want that I can't buy."
Her heart was thudding angrily. She didn't know if it was love or craziness, or both.
But when Damien scooped her up in his arms and drew her close against him, Elena realized something she did not want to realize—she was not leaving. Not now. Maybe ever.
And that sent the fear chill higher than in the others.
- Writer
