Alina's POV
My hands… They were shaking.
Not like a flutter. Not like a chill. But a quake — a silent scream that began at my fingertips and crawled its way into my throat.
Blood.
Thick. Warm. Red like sin. Red like ruin.
It painted my skin in streaks. In slashes. His.
The paper cutter lay where I'd dropped it — silver mouth open, gleaming like it had tasted something sacred and unforgivable.
I hurt him. I hurt him.
I should've felt safe. I should've felt powerful. But all I felt was—
Wrong.
But then…
His voice came back. Echoing through the hollow of my ribs, low, final — a curse stitched into my bones.
"Stay away from Kevin."
My knees buckled. But my soul… my soul shattered like glass beneath a boot.
Kevin.
His name struck my chest like a wound that wouldn't bleed. The boy who always looked at me like I was made of something worth saving. Who stood beside me when the world fell apart and pretended not to notice the pieces. Who never asked for anything— except maybe the smallest corner of my heart.
And now— now he could die. Because I mattered. To the wrong man. Because I wasn't brave enough to run, or cruel enough to pretend I didn't care.
This is my fault.
I staggered to the mirror, each step heavy with a shame that clung like wet cloth.
And what met me in the glass wasn't a girl. Not anymore.
It was a ghost, wrapped in borrowed skin. Eyes wide, black with terror. Hair a tangle of panic and prayers. Lips— bruised. From kisses that weren't kisses. From ownership masquerading as desire.
"This isn't me…" The words trembled like a dying petal, falling. "This… isn't me…"
I reached for the sink. Gripped it like a lifeline. White porcelain. Cold. Safe. Real.
But my hands— my bloodstained hands— they betrayed me.
They still trembled. Still remembered. Still carried the scent of him.
I wanted them clean. I wanted to scrub until skin peeled and memory dissolved. Until the ghost of his touch was gone. Until the echo of his breath at my ear stopped burning.
But the worst part wasn't the fear.
No.
The worst part was the heat it left behind. The ache. That traitorous, sick ache that whispered—
You felt him. You knew him. And your body didn't say no.
I shook my head. Hard. Again. And again. As if I could knock the memory loose. Let it fall out of me like ash from a house already burned.
Don't think about him. Don't think about his hands. Don't think about the darkness behind his mask, or the way your skin still hums from it.
Don't— don't you dare think about Kevin.
Because if you do…
You'll see him dead.
I turned too fast. And there — on the floor — the cutter.
Still. Silent. Honest.
The only honest thing left in the room. The only proof that for a flicker of time, I wasn't his.
But even that hope felt like a lie. Because he'll come back. He always comes back.
And Kevin — if he's near me again, if he touches me again — he'll die.
The sound that tore from my chest wasn't laughter. It was broken glass. It was grief made of noise.
My legs gave out.
I slid to the floor, pulled myself into a corner, into my knees, into the last place he hadn't touched.
And then — nothing.
Silence.
Not peace.
Silence like the air right before the scream, right before the storm rips through everything you love.
And in that void, exhaustion wrapped around me like a silk noose. Soft. Deadly.
I slipped under.
But he followed.
Even in sleep, I felt it — his shadow stretching at the edge of my dreams, watching. Waiting.
Damons pov
Blood dripped from my forearm, slow and deliberate, like time itself had begun to bleed. A single crimson line trailed down to my wrist, then curled across my knuckle. I watched it with quiet amusement.
She'd cut me.
My little vixen.
She had teeth after all.
I dipped a finger into the gash, dragged it through the mess she left behind, then lifted it to my lips. Copper. Warm. Real.
Something twisted low in my gut—something dark and hungry. She had looked at me with terror… and still, she struck.
The paper cutter had sung through flesh like it belonged there.
A knock—soft, hesitant—broke the silence. I didn't answer.
Adrion stepped inside anyway. Of course he did.
His gaze landed on the wound instantly, eyes narrowing like a warning. "You're bleeding."
I smiled, slow and wicked. "She did it."
He stilled. "Alina?"
I didn't bother to hide the grin that curled across my lips. "She fought tonight. Cut deep."
A pause. Then a sharp inhale. Adrion's face was unreadable—his voice colder than usual. "And you liked that?"
I leaned back in the leather chair, stretching my legs. Let the blood trail freely now. Let it mark the floor. Let it speak for me.
"She makes it… interesting."
Adrion's jaw clenched. "Damon. This isn't a game."
"Isn't it?" I murmured, watching the red drip onto the wood floor, each drop like a second ticking toward something inevitable.
"You think you're in control," he said, stepping closer. "But she's inside your head now. She's in your blood."
My gaze flicked up, amused. "And?"
Adrion's voice dropped, barely more than a growl. "And one day, you won't stop. Not because you don't want to—but because you can't."
I tilted my head, studying him. "You think I haven't considered that?"
"She'll destroy you," he said flatly. "Or you'll destroy her."
A silence fell between us. Thick. Heavy. Final.
Then, slowly, a smile slid across my mouth—cold, deliberate. "I already own her."
Adrion laughed, but it was dry. Bitter. Like he was watching a man rot from the inside.
"You think ownership is the same as having her?" he asked, voice laced with disgust. "You think fear is the same as love?"
A flicker of something passed through me—tight and quick, like a wire snapping.
Love.
No.
No, that wasn't what this was.
What I wanted wasn't soft. Wasn't kind. I didn't crave her affection. I didn't need her loyalty.
I wanted her obedience.
Her breath. Her thoughts. Her body. Every. Last. Inch.
Mine.
Forever.
"She could wield a thousand blades, Adrion— and I'd still bleed just to touch her."
Before Adrion could respond.
A knock broke the room's stillness like a stone shattering glass.
I didn't speak.
The door creaked open.
One of my men entered, eyes avoiding mine—good. He knew the air was heavy, laced with the taste of blood and something worse: patience stretched too thin.
"Boss," he said, low, cautious. "Lady Atlana's leaving. Business trip. She's taking Adrion."
I swirled the drink in my hand. Irrelevant.
"She'll be gone a month."
Still irrelevant.
"She needs a nanny. For Noah."
My hand paused.
He hesitated. Then added:
"She suggested… Alina."
The name sliced through me. Every thought halted. Even the storm outside seemed to hush.
Alina. In my house. Unknowing. Unarmed. Unready.
A month beneath my roof.
My lips curved, slow and deliberate, as heat pooled beneath my skin—not the warmth of desire, but the fire of obsession reigniting. A plan wrote itself in the silence.
Adrion sat beside me. I felt him tense before he even spoke.
"No," he said instantly. "Damon. No."
Too late.
"Done," I murmured, eyes still on the scar she left on my arm—her mark, her defiance. My beautiful, trembling vixen.
Adrion stood now, voice sharpened by something close to panic. "You don't need this. She doesn't deserve this."
My eyes lifted. Cold. "She'll be safe."
Adrion scoffed. "Safe? With you? The same man who leaves bruises in the dark and pretends it was all a dream?"
My jaw ticked. "She doesn't know it was me."
"That's worse."
I stepped forward, slowly. "You think I'll hurt her?"
"You already did."
My smile was soft. Almost mournful. "She survived."
Adrion's stare darkened. "This isn't survival. It's psychological warfare."
"She thinks she's escaping the man in the mask," I said, voice like silk stretched thin. "But she's walking straight into his home. And calling him Damon."
Adrion cursed. "She'll find out."
"I hope she does," I whispered.
He grabbed my shoulder then—grip hard, almost pleading. "This is not a game. She's fragile. She trusts you."
"She shouldn't."
"Exactly."
I pulled away, glass forgotten. "You don't understand. She needs to see both sides. The mask and the man. The fear and the comfort. Only then will she need me."
Adrion's voice broke. "She'll hate you."
I met his gaze, calm and unflinching. "She already does. But hate is just the start."
"You're playing god with her mind, Damon."
"No," I said, turning toward the window, where the city lights flickered like dying stars. "I'm showing her the devil wears a gentle face."
The room fell into silence again. Adrion didn't move.
Then, quietly—
"You're going to destroy her."
I closed my eyes. And lied.
"No, brother. I'm going to have her in my way."
A silence
"And she'll thank me for it."
Alina's POV
The floor welcomed me like a grave, its cold fingers seeping into my bones, into my marrow, until I wasn't sure where I ended and the emptiness began. I lay there, for how long I didn't know, the silence so thick it screamed inside my ears.
When I tried to move, pain bloomed through me — not just pain of the body, but something deeper, raw and weeping. And then I felt it.
Him.
Not standing over me. Not in the room. But in me. A residue clinging to my skin, a shadow stitched into my flesh, a scent that curled around my breath like a noose. He was in the bruises blooming like forbidden flowers across my skin. He was in the spaces between my ribs, where my heart beat not with life, but with terror.
A strangled sound broke from my throat—half sob, half scream, all hollow—and the walls leaned closer, suffocating, whispering, his voice in their cracks.
I stumbled to my feet, legs shaking beneath me. The bathroom door blurred before my eyes, my fingers clawing at the handle as if salvation lay beyond it. The water roared to life under my hand, scalding and furious, and I stepped into it fully clothed, trembling, gasping, begging the burning to strip him from my body.
But it wasn't enough. God, it wasn't enough.
My hands moved to the hem of my soaked shirt. But the moment I touched it—
I felt him.
Invisible hands trailing up my spine. A phantom mouth against my throat. Breathless laughter against my ear. Every scar, every mark he had left bloomed anew under my fingertips, mocking me.
My vision fractured. I couldn't do it. I couldn't be naked. Not when my own skin felt foreign, poisoned.
My knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the tiles, curling in on myself as the water battered my body, relentless, merciless.
I folded smaller and smaller, trying to vanish. Silent sobs shook me apart, but the water swallowed the sounds before they could betray me.
I dug my nails into my arms, carving little half-moons into my flesh, trying—desperately—to feel real. Trying to remember I existed outside of him. Outside of his touch. Outside of the brand he had burned into my soul.
But when I closed my eyes—
He was there. Not a memory. Not a nightmare. A presence.
Waiting. Watching. Owning.
No amount of water could wash him away. No amount of pain could strip him from the places he had buried himself inside me.
I don't know how long I stayed there, a broken thing beneath the downpour, until even the water seemed to pity me and ran cold.
When I finally stumbled out, dripping and shivering, the world felt heavier, grayer. I dressed in trembling motions, dragging clothes over my ruined body like armor that no longer fit.
The house was a tomb. Silent. Still. A graveyard for who I had been before him.
And I—I couldn't stay. If I stayed, I would shatter into a thousand irreparable pieces.
The door creaked open under my hand, and the morning air slapped against my wet skin, sharp and punishing. I welcomed the pain. I needed it.
I told myself I was going to college. Told myself there was a future waiting for me if I could just keep moving. But the truth was simpler, more pathetic—
I was running.
Running from the ghost he had made of me. Running from the way his touch still lived beneath my skin.
The city stirred awake around me, indifferent, its heartbeat steady and alive while mine faltered.
I walked blindly, the world a blur of noise and color I couldn't feel. Each step was a herculean effort, every breath a small betrayal of the girl who had once been whole.
I didn't see the street. I didn't see the car.
Only the sudden flash of headlights slicing through my stupor, the scream of brakes, the blaring horn splitting the fragile bubble of numbness I had wrapped around myself.
Time fractured.
I turned my head, and for one suspended, endless heartbeat—
I looked death in the eye.
There was no fear. Only surrender. Sweet, aching surrender.
And then—
Impact.
Except—there was no sharp agony. No scattering of bones. No descent into darkness.
There was only warmth.
A brutal, consuming warmth, slamming into me, wrapping around me, stealing the breath from my lungs.
We hit the pavement hard. The world tilted. Spun.
But the arms around me didn't falter. Didn't let go.
They caged me, shielded me, possessed me.
I gasped, blinking against the dizzying blur, and through the haze—
I saw him.
Damon.
His face hovered above mine, wild and feral and desperate, as if he had dragged me back from the edge of death itself just to remind me—
He would find me. Save me.
Always.