THE HIGH GROUND

THE BITTER AFTERMATH

Daemond slammed the door of his master suite so hard the sound reverberated through the entire west wing like a gunshot. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. Instead, he ripped off his ruined, wrinkled charcoal shirt, throwing it furiously across the room. He strode into his master bathroom, his chest heaving as he stared into the expansive mirror.

The reflection staring back at him was entirely unrecognizable. Blood was still tracking down the side of his face, half-dried and tacky, framing a gaze that burned with an uncharacteristic, volatile fury. He snatched a white towel, dampening it with freezing water, and pressed it roughly against the split skin near his temple. He didn't flinch at the sting. The physical pain was nothing compared to the roaring fire in his gut.

He felt entirely insulted. Pranked. Played like a fool.

More than anything, he was absolutely furious with himself. Daemond King Jr. did not lose control. He was a man defined by his ironclad discipline, a figure who dictated the terms of every interaction, whether in a multi-billion-dollar boardroom or a velvet-lined bedroom. He could have any woman he wanted. Aristocrats, supermodels, heirs to global empires—they all practically begged for a fraction of the attention he had just showered upon a penniless, ordinary girl.

Yet, despite the bleeding wound, despite the stinging humiliation, his treacherous mind was still entirely consumed by her. Even now, his body was painfully taut, still craving the soft, voluptuous curves he had been so violently torn away from.

"Why?" he growled into the empty, darkened bathroom, his fist slamming against the marble counter.

Did she honestly think he was some loose, predatory character trying to force her? Did she not realize how utterly transparent she had been? He had felt the frantic, desperate racing of her heart, heard the breathless way she whimpered his name, and felt the surprising strength in her slender arms as she pulled him down onto that mattress. She had wanted him just as badly. She had met his intensity with her own. And then, like a cruel, calculated game, she had flipped a switch and thrown him away.

She had played him. She had weaponized his own desire against him, leaving him hungry, unsatisfied, and bleeding. A wounded body and a wounded ego were a lethal combination, especially for a man who had never known defeat.

He pulled the towel away, staring at the crimson stain. A cold, ruthless finality settled over his features, replacing the hot rage with something far more dangerous.

"Sleep well, Miss Swan," Daemond whispered into the quiet dark, his voice dripping with venom. "Because you won't be getting any rest from now on."

By eight o’clock the next morning, the ferocious storm had completely cleared, leaving behind a brilliant, mocking sunshine that flooded through the grand windows of the guest suite.

Bella fluttered her eyes open, her head instantly throbbing with a dull, heavy ache. The moment her consciousness fully returned, the horrifying memories of the previous night came rushing back in a devastating tidal wave. Her gaze darted to the opposite side of the bed. The mattress was empty, but there, dried into the white fabric, was the dark, damning rust-colored stain of Daemond’s blood.

A profound sadness and anxiety gripped her chest. She scrambled out of the bed, her legs still feeling slightly weak, and ran straight into the adjoining bathroom. Turning the shower to a punishingly hot temperature, she stepped under the spray, desperately trying to wash away the lingering sensation of his large, calloused hands on her skin, though the memory seemed branded into her very nerve endings.

When she stepped out, wrapping a towel tightly around herself, she noticed that the clothes she had worn during yesterday’s pool accident had been meticulously laundered, pressed, and neatly folded on the side table.

She began dressing frantically, her hands shaking as she pulled on her top. But as she caught her reflection in the vanity mirror, her breath hitched, and a cold sweat broke out across her skin.

"Oh, f*ck..." she panicked, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper.

There, stark against the pale, delicate skin of her neck and stretching down toward the swell of her breast, were dark, unmistakable hickeys. They were deep love marks—vivid proof of the intense, unbridled hunger Daemond had unleashed upon her before the world had shattered. They had both given something to each other last night. He had left his mark on her flesh, and she had drawn his blood.

Panic entirely overtook her. She quickly adjusted her collar, pulling her hair forward to completely conceal the bruises, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She couldn't stay here a second longer. She couldn't risk running into him in the corridors, or worse, having to look into those dark, piercing eyes after what she had done.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she rushed out of the room. Halfway down the grand staircase, she was intercepted by Martha, who was carrying a beautifully arranged breakfast tray.

"Good morning, Miss Swan. I brought you some—"

"I'm so sorry, Martha," Bella interrupted breathlessly, her voice tight as she forced a fragile, unconvincing smile. "I can't stay. I... I have to reach home immediately. An emergency."

The truth was, she was entirely terrified of the confrontation. She was fleeing.

To her immense relief, the estate’s butler already had a sleek black town car and a private driver waiting for her at the front entrance. It was as if the staff had been instructed to ensure her departure was seamless. She hopped into the back seat as fast as her trembling legs could carry her, the heavy door shutting out the oppressive grandeur of the King estate.

As the car rolled down the long, winding driveway, Bella pulled out her phone. Her fingers shook as she pulled up her messaging app and typed a quick, frantic text to Rose, her supervisor.

*Rose, I’m so sorry, but I’ve come down with a terrible flu. I won't be able to come in for the next two days. I just need some rest.*

She hit send, leaning her head against the cool glass of the window as a heavy sigh escaped her lips. It was a pathetic, desperate drama, all constructed just to avoid seeing him. She desperately tried to rationalize the situation in her mind. Time would fade the sharpness of the memory. The matter would resolve itself. Surely, a man as wealthy and powerful as Daemond King Jr. would simply forget about a trivial incident with a simple girl. Maybe, just maybe, he might even forgive her.

But as the car left the iron gates of the estate, Bella couldn't shake the chilling memory of his final words, or the absolute terror of his grip on her chin.

Her lips were still slightly swollen from his wild, deep kisses, a phantom pressure that refused to leave her. She had escaped his house, but as she stared out at the passing landscape, she knew in her heart that the storm wasn't over. She had simply delayed the reckoning.