Damian’s Bride

The first time Emilia Hayes saw Damian Blackwood, he was standing in the middle of her father’s old barn like he owned it. Which, technically, he did now. Dark suit. Perfectly tailored. A watch that probably cost more than her entire hometown combined. And eyes—steel-gray, cold as winter—pinning her in place the moment she stepped through the doorway. Her throat tightened. Damian Blackwood radiated sin and danger. “I’ll keep this simple,” Damian said, his voice smooth and commanding, the kind of tone that left no room for argument. “My father’s dying wish was that I marry Robert Hayes’ daughter. That’s you.” The words slammed into her chest. She blinked, certain she’d misheard. “Excuse me?” “You heard me.” His jaw flexed, but his tone didn’t waver. “This is not a proposal. It’s a statement of fact. You’ll marry me.” Emilia’s laugh came out sharp, nervous, almost breathless. “You can’t be serious.” “I don’t joke.” His gaze traveled over her, deliberate and assessing, lingering at the hem of her sundress before slowly climbing back to her face. “And I always get what I want.” Heat shot up her neck, her pulse pounding so hard she swore he could hear it. She hated the way her body betrayed her—how her breath quickened, how her thighs pressed together under the weight of that stare. Damian Blackwood was too much—too powerful, too intense, too dangerously magnetic. Folding her arms, she tried to stand her ground. “I don’t know what kind of women you’re used to, Mr. Blackwood, but I’m not some… acquisition you can collect to make your father happy.” Something flickered in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or hunger. “You think I want this?” he asked softly, stepping closer until she felt the heat of him, his expensive cologne curling around her like smoke. “I don’t marry for love, Emilia. I don’t even believe in it. But I made my father a promise, and I intend to keep it. You’ll find life as my wife very… comfortable.” Comfortable. As if marrying a stranger with a reputation for ruthlessness was the same as buying a new car or choosing curtains. Her heart hammered. She should say no. She should tell him to take his arrogance, his wealth, and his icy commands back to New York City where they belonged. But when his hand brushed her arm—just the lightest touch—her body betrayed her again. A shiver ran through her, her breath catching in her throat. Heat coiled low in her belly, wicked and undeniable. Damian saw it. Of course he did. His lips curved into the faintest, most dangerous smile she had ever seen. “You feel it too, don’t you?” he murmured, voice roughened now, velvet laced with steel. “That pull. That spark. You can pretend to hate me, Emilia, but your body doesn’t lie.” Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. She hated him for being right. For making her want something she knew she shouldn’t. “I don’t even know you,” she whispered. “You’ll have a lifetime to learn.” His words were a promise—and a threat. Silence pressed between them, heavy and charged. Emilia could hear the faint creak of the barn’s rafters, the restless beating of her own heart, the dangerous hum of possibility. She told herself it was madness. That no sane woman would agree to something so reckless, so binding. But when his hand tilted her chin up, forcing her eyes to lock with his, her resolve wavered. Damian Blackwood was temptation in human form—a devil in a tailored suit, offering her a world she didn’t ask for but couldn’t seem to turn away from. And for the briefest, most terrifying second—she wanted to say yes.