"Ah," he said, the word low and smooth as velvet, "you meant this."
In one motion, he gripped the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward.
The fabric peeled away, revealing taut skin and a sharply defined set of abs—etched muscle tight against his frame, lean and honed from weeks of brutal conditioning, late-night sparring, system-pushed limits.
His body wasn't just toned.
It was carved.
The air shifted. Isabelle's eyes flicked—once.
And then—
"Gulp."
A small, involuntary sound.
She immediately tensed, lips pressing together like she could pull the sound back in.
Damien saw it.
Of course he did.
And he stepped forward just enough to bridge the space between them. Not pressing. Not aggressive.
Just there.
He reached out, slowly, and took her wrist in his hand—gentle, careful.
Then, with deliberate motion, he guided her palm to rest flat against his abs.
Warm skin. Tight muscle.
Controlled breathing.
