Lust Behind The Mansion Walls

THE EDGE OF CONTROL

Aria

“Let’s get out of here,” I hissed, my hand closing around Damien’s arm. To my surprise, he didn’t resist. No growling, no mocking smirk—just silent obedience as I pulled him out of the ballroom.

The moment the door shut behind us, I spun on him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you do that in there?” My voice cracked with fury, the echo bouncing off the empty hallway.

“I was trying to protect you!” he snapped back, his eyes blazing with something I couldn’t pin down. Guilt? Anger? Maybe both.

“Protect me from what?” I threw my hands up, my chest rising and falling too fast. “I was having fun, Damien. Do you even know what that is? And then you storm in, punch a man in front of everyone, and humiliate me!”

His mouth curled into a bitter smirk, that dangerous gleam flashing in his eyes. “Fun?” he scoffed. “That wasn’t fun, Aria. And don’t you dare call me violent.” His voice dropped lower, edged like steel. “And for the record—Jackson is no gentleman.”

Before I could fire back, he turned sharply and walked away, leaving me breathless, furious, and confused all at once.

The ride home was wrapped in silence, thick enough to choke on. I stared out the window, city lights blurring into streaks as the car sped through the night.

But silence didn’t mean peace. My phone buzzed nonstop in my clutch, each notification another nail in Damien’s coffin. Headlines were already spreading like wildfire:

“The spoiled Beaumont heir lashes out at an innocent guest.”

“Violence runs in the Beaumont bloodline?”

Every flash of the cameras earlier replayed in my head, bright and merciless. The world had seen him lose control, and now they were eating him alive for it.

I stole a glance at Damien. He sat rigid beside me, jaw clenched, fists tightening and loosening in his lap. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. His silence was louder than my anger.

Back at home, the silence followed us like a shadow. Not a word was exchanged—between me and Damien, between Damien and his father, between me and my mother. It was as if the entire house had agreed to bury the night under quiet.

But sleep refused to find me. I lay awake, replaying every moment on a loop—the sharpness in his voice, the fire in his eyes, the way he threw himself between me and Jackson as if the world depended on it. His defensiveness should have infuriated me, and yet… it pulled at me in ways I didn’t want to admit.

Still, beneath that pull was a question I couldn’t silence: why did he have to get so violent? What was he really protecting me from?

Damien Beaumont was both the danger and the desire. The very thing I wanted—and the very thing I swore I should run from.

And as I stared into the darkness, one thought haunted me: would Damien be the one to save me… or the one to destroy me?

“Daddy, please! Stop hurting Mommy!” My small voice cracked as tears burned my eyes. My hands trembled as I tried, with all the strength my little body could muster, to pull him away from her.

“Stay out of this,” he barked, shoving me aside like I was nothing.

“Daddy, no—don’t hurt her!” I cried louder, stumbling back but still trying to reach for him.

“I said stay out of this!” His roar shook the walls, and then he turned on me, his shadow rushing forward—

I jolted awake with a gasp. My chest heaved, my skin drenched in sweat as though I’d been running for my life. My heart hammered in my ears. The room was still, too still, but inside me the storm raged on.

The clock glowed 5:30 a.m.

Dreams about fathers were supposed to be comforting, magical even. Mine were nothing but nightmares I could never escape.

I dragged myself downstairs, each step heavy, and poured a glass of water, hoping the cold would wash away the fire in my chest. Hoping it would silence the ghosts that never really left.

I heard faint noises in the kitchen and turned. It was Damien. He didn’t look at me, didn’t say a word—just went straight to the fridge, his movements sharp, controlled.

“About last night…” I began cautiously.

“I don’t need your pity,” he cut in, his voice low but edged with steel.

“I know.” My tone softened, laced with concern. “I just wanted to know how you’re feeling.”

His jaw tightened. “You got what you wanted.” He slammed the fridge door shut, finally facing me. “You pushed me, and now everyone sees me as the same spoiled, violent asshole I’ve been my whole life.” The bitterness in his voice was almost enough to mask the pain, but I could hear it. For the first time, I felt a tug of empathy instead of anger.

“I’m sorry, Damien. But it wasn’t my fault.”

That broke something in him. He stepped closer, cornering me in the glow of the kitchen light. In one swift motion, he pinned me against the wall—one hand braced above my head, the other sliding down to grip my thigh.

“If you hadn’t walked in wearing that red dress, cleavage on display, teasing that bastard…” his voice cracked with equal parts rage and desire. “…none of this would’ve happened.”

“But—”

His hand pressed firmly over my mouth. His eyes burned into mine, dark and desperate. “Not one more word,” he growled. “You’re making me lose control.”

I should have felt fear, instead all I feel is heat.

The air between us thickened, heavy with heat. His breath brushed my cheek, hot and uneven, and my own chest rose and fell too quickly. My thighs clenched under his touch, traitorous to my mind’s protests.

We were burning—teetering on the edge of something we couldn’t take back. Desire clawed at us, reckless and consuming, threatening to destroy reason altogether. I could see Damien struggling just as much as I was.

And then—

“Hello?”

The voice snapped the moment in two. I sucked in a sharp breath as Damien froze, lips dangerously close to mine. With a subtle shake of my head, I signalled him to let me go.

Reluctantly, his hand fell away. I straightened, smoothing my hair and forcing composure back into my expression before stepping into the living room.

And then, to my greatest surprise, it wasn’t some stranger—it was Nick. My best friend.