Scarlet Sins : “Every touch is forbidden, yet every flame pulls them closer.”

Chapter 10 - The Devil's Claim

Amara’s POV

The morning light spilled across the penthouse, but it did nothing to soften the iron weight of the locked door. Amara had barely slept — every time she closed her eyes, she felt the ghost of Damian’s hands on her, heard the velvet threat of his voice: You’ll crave me more than the truth.

The lock clicked.

She shot up from the bed as the door swung open. Damian stood there, immaculate in a black suit, his eyes colder than the city below.

“Get dressed,” he ordered, tossing a silk slip of crimson onto the bed. “Breakfast is downstairs.”

Amara’s pulse spiked. “I’m not your doll to dress up.”

His smirk was slow, cruel. “You’ll wear it. Or you’ll come downstairs with nothing at all. Your choice, little dove.”

Her breath caught — anger and humiliation tangling with something hotter, darker. She hated the way her body reacted to his provocations, hated the way heat coiled low in her belly. But she slipped the dress on, her cheeks burning as his gaze raked over her with possessive satisfaction.

When they reached the dining room, the table was laid with decadent food. Amara’s stomach twisted — she hadn’t eaten since yesterday — but Damian’s presence across from her made swallowing impossible.

“You’re too quiet,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Tell me, Amara, do you hate me more today… or less?”

She glared at him, words sharp. “More. Always more.”

Damian chuckled, low and dangerous. “Then prove it.”

Before she could speak, he was on his feet, dragging her up and pinning her against the wall. His hand gripped her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his.

“Every time you say you hate me,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers without closing the distance, “I hear you begging me to make you feel what no one else can.”

Her protest died on her lips when his mouth finally claimed hers — hard, demanding, ruthless. Heat shot through her veins, her body arching into his even as her mind screamed to resist. His hand slid down, gripping her thigh, pulling it up to his hip.

“Stop,” she whispered, but her voice cracked, betraying her.

Damian growled against her lips. “Lie to me again, little dove. Tell me you don’t want this.”

Her fingers curled into his shirt, nails biting through fabric. She wanted to shove him away, but instead pulled him closer.

In that moment, Amara realized the most terrifying truth of all: she hated him. She feared him.

And she wanted him anyway.

Her wrists were still pinned above her head, the cold wall biting into her back as Damian pressed closer, caging her in. His body was heat and strength, his scent dark and intoxicating, flooding her senses until she couldn’t breathe.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her chest.

“I don’t…” The words came out cracked, weak. Her pulse betrayed her, pounding so hard she thought he could hear it.

Damian’s mouth curved into a cruel smile. “Lie again, little dove. I dare you.”

His lips crushed hers before she could protest, tongue sliding in with ruthless possession. The kiss was fire — hungry, consuming, pulling the ground out from under her. She moaned against him, hating herself for the sound, hating him more for drawing it from her.

He released her wrists, and for a moment she thought she was free. But no — his hands slid down, gripping her thighs, lifting her effortlessly. She gasped as her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, his body grinding against hers, hard and unyielding.

Damian carried her to the table, sweeping the expensive breakfast aside with one arm. Plates shattered, fruit rolled to the floor, but he didn’t care. He laid her across the polished wood, towering over her, his eyes dark and merciless.

“You’re mine,” he said, peeling the crimson slip from her trembling body. “Every part of you. You’ll deny it, you’ll fight it — but in the end, you’ll beg for me.”

Her body flushed as cool air kissed her bare skin. She tried to cover herself, but his hands pinned hers down again, spreading her open for him. His gaze devoured her, hungry and predatory.

“Damian…” Her voice was half a plea, half a warning.

He leaned down, lips brushing her ear. “Say it,” he ordered. “Say you want me.”

Her pride choked her. But when his hand slid lower, teasing, tormenting, her body arched off the table, a strangled cry breaking free.

“Say it,” he demanded again, his mouth trailing fire down her neck.

Finally, breathless, broken, she whispered the words she swore she’d never say:

“I… want you.”

Damian growled in satisfaction, claiming her mouth once more, his control absolute. And when he finally took her — hard, relentless, consuming — Amara realized the truth:

The devil hadn’t just broken through her defenses.

He had branded her with his sin.