Chapter Twelve - The Devil's Obsession
894 Words
Damian’s POV
She haunted him.
Even now, as he sat behind his glass desk with a dozen reports spread before him, Damian couldn’t shake the image of Amara writhing under his hands, the sound of her moans breaking through her defiance. He should’ve been focusing on the Romano family’s movements, on the rat leaking intel from inside his syndicate. But every number on the page blurred into the curve of her lips, the heat of her body, the fire in her eyes when she whispered the words he’d dragged from her: I want you.
Damian exhaled sharply, setting the papers aside. Discipline had always been his strength. He built an empire on it, turned blood into gold because he never allowed distraction. Until her.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
“Come,” he said.
Rocco entered, his heavy frame filling the doorway. “Boss. We found the leak.”
Damian leaned back, folding his hands. “And?”
Rocco’s jaw tightened. “It’s one of ours. Carlo.”
The name ignited Damian’s fury. Carlo had been with the Voss family for years — trusted, loyal, or so he thought. Betrayal always tasted like ash.
“Bring him in,” Damian ordered, his voice steel. “Alive.”
Rocco nodded once and left.
Damian rose, walking to the floor-to-ceiling window. The city stretched below, glittering with lies, but for the first time in years, his thoughts weren’t on conquest. They were on a woman down the hall, probably pacing, probably plotting her escape — unaware that every step she took only tangled her deeper into his world.
He smirked faintly, darkly. Amara was a distraction, yes. But she was also a revelation. For years he had ruled with iron and ice. But she had reminded him he was still flesh and blood — and that flesh burned for her.
The door opened again. Rocco dragged Carlo inside, bloodied but breathing.
Damian turned, his face a mask of calm cruelty. “Leave us.”
The door shut. Silence filled the office. Carlo trembled, eyes darting, lips already spilling pleas.
But Damian wasn’t listening. Not really. Because as he rolled up his sleeves, preparing to deal with betrayal the way only the devil could, one thought consumed him more than vengeance, more than business.
When this is done, I’ll go back to her.
And he didn’t know if he meant to comfort her… or break her all over again.
Sleep had been impossible.
Every time he closed his eyes, Damian saw her — Amara, flushed and trembling beneath him, whispering the words he’d demanded: I want you. He had broken her walls, tasted her surrender, claimed her body in a way no man ever had. And yet, instead of satisfying him, it had only sharpened his hunger.
Now she lingered in his mind like a drug — and he was already addicted.
The empire could wait. The Romano betrayal could wait. For the first time in his life, business wasn’t enough to hold his focus. His body ached for her again, and the ache was more powerful than anger, more consuming than vengeance.
Damian left his office and moved down the hall. He didn’t bother knocking. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
She was there, curled in the sheets, pretending to sleep. But he saw the tension in her shoulders, the way her breath caught when she realized it was him.
“Still sulking, little dove?” he drawled, loosening his tie, shrugging off his jacket.
Her eyes snapped open, fury sparking in them — but beneath it, he caught the flicker of heat she tried to bury. He smirked. She’s still fighting herself.
“I told you,” Amara whispered harshly. “Last night was a mistake.”
Damian’s shirt hit the floor. He stalked toward the bed, his gaze locked on her. “No, Amara. Last night was inevitable.”
Before she could move, he was on her — pinning her wrists to the mattress, his body caging hers. Her pulse thrashed against his grip, her lips parted as though to protest, but no sound came.
“You can hate me in the daylight,” he murmured, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear, “but at night… at night you’ll always want me.”
Her breath hitched when his hand slid down her thigh, pushing the sheet away. He teased, relentless, savoring the way her body arched toward him despite the curses on her lips.
“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice rough. “Tell me you want me.”
“I don’t—” she tried, but her moan betrayed her as he pushed her higher, deeper into his control.
Damian’s smile was pure sin. “You’re mine, little dove. Every gasp, every shiver, every filthy sound you make — mine.”
Her defiance melted into need, her fists clutching at him instead of pushing him away. When he finally took her again, harder this time, the sound of her cries filled the room, branding themselves into him as proof of his victory.
But it didn’t feel like just victory.
It felt like possession.
And for the first time in years, Damian Voss — the devil of New York — was terrified.
Because he didn’t just want her body.
He wanted all of her.
- Writer
