Damon's POV
The call came just as I was finishing a drink. Atlanta.
My sister from another mother. The only woman I respected in this world.
"Come for dinner tonight," she said, her voice smooth, almost coaxing. "Noah wants to see his uncle."
Noah.The only child I could stand.
I didn't hesitate. Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to their mansion. The night air was crisp, the scent of the ocean carried in by the wind, but it did nothing to cool the slow burn simmering beneath my skin.
Adrion opened the door, leaning lazily against the frame, his smirk sharp. He was always watching, always waiting for something to unravel.
"Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence. The great Damon King himself."
His voice dripped with amusement, but his gaze was something else entirely—something knowing.
"Shut it, Adrion," I muttered, stepping inside. The warmth of the house contrasted the ever-present cold inside me. The scent of expensive wine, roasted meat, and faint vanilla filled the air. A house that felt like a home—something I could never grasp.
Atlanta was setting the table, her golden curls tumbling over her shoulder as she placed Noah's small plate down. The domesticity of it all was disarming. When she looked up and saw me, her lips curved into a slow, genuine smile.
"Damon," she said, voice tinged with relief, as though she hadn't been sure I would come. She walked over, wrapping her arms around me lightly, her warmth something foreign against my skin. "It's been too long. Noah's been asking for you every day."
I smirked faintly. "Well, I'm here now."
Dinner was slow, drawn out. Atlanta talked about Noah's schooling, Adrion made his usual sarcastic quips, and I let the conversation drift around me.
Adrion leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass like it bored him. But his eyes—those sharp, calculated eyes—never left mine.
"Stalking teenage girls now, Damon?" he said casually, but there was a venom in his tone. "Didn't peg you for the sentimental type."
The words sliced through the warm atmosphere like a blade.
The scrape of metal against porcelain sent an unpleasant chill through the air. The atmosphere shifted, growing heavier. Atlanta's fork froze mid-air, her blue eyes widening, confusion settling deep into her features.
I didn't blink.
"Careful, Adrion," I muttered, the warning in my voice low, dangerous.
He smirked. A challenge. Always a challenge.
"Just trying to keep the monster honest," he said, his tone light but laced with something darker. "But even monsters have rules. Don't they?"
I stood slowly, setting my drink down with a soft clink
Adrion didn't flinch.
"I know enough," he said, voice dropping. "I know you've been spiraling ever since she showed up. I know you're not sleeping. And I know that whatever control you pretend to have left—it's slipping."
A muscle in my jaw twitched. He saw it. He wanted to.
"She's not a game, Damon. She's not one of your usual toys you can break and walk away from."
I stepped even closer, now just inches from his face.
"She's not a toy," I said coldly. "She's mine."
Atlanta's breath hitched.
The air thickened. The silence wasn't empty anymore. Those two words hung there, heavy and poisonous, curling through the room like the smoke of something burning slowly.
Adrion's smirk wavered—just barely—but it was enough.
"And if she doesn't want to be?" Adrion pressed, pushing that last button. "What then, brother?"
A dangerous silence stretched. My hand clenched at my side, nails biting into my palm.
"She will want to," I whispered, voice like frost. "Eventually."
Adrion's smile faded entirely. For once, there was no sarcasm in his voice.
"You're playing with fire," he said quietly. "And for the first time, I think you're the one who's going to burn."
I turned away from him, a slow, deliberate smirk tugging at my lips.
"I am the fire."
"Damon? A girl?" She blinked, slowly setting her utensils down.
There was something in her eyes—unspoken, unsettled. Fear's shadow, delicate and shapeless, tugging at the edge of her soul.
"You're slipping, Damon .The old you wouldn't hesitate" Adrion added before I would say something further
"You know Damon, you've been acting strange after your encounter with that girl. You used to be ruthless,but now you seem conflicted".
What was that I haven't changed. I'm still the ruthless beast who hunts prey. Meeting her hasn't changed that… has it?
Atlanta's lips parted slightly. Unlike Adrion, she wasn't laughing. She was studying me, her fingers tightening around the napkin in her lap, knuckles faintly paling.
A long silence stretched between us, and then, softly—so softly it sent a strange, sharp sensation through me—she asked, "Do you... love her?"
The question was absurd.
I scoffed, leaning back. "No."
And yet, even I could hear the slight hesitation in my voice.
"She belongs to me. That's all."
Atlanta didn't flinch, but her jaw clenched.
"No, Damon. No one belongs to anyone. That's not love, that's obsession. And it's beneath you."
The silence thickened.
Atlanta exchanged a glance with Adrion. A glance that made my skin itch, like they were seeing something I couldn't.
Her fingers drummed lightly against the table , a nervous tick I had never seen before.sge exhaled slowly, almost as if she were convincing herself not to push further."Damon..."
I cut her off."Do you believe in fate Atlana?" My voice was softer now, almost mocking. "Do you think a man should take what's his?"
She stiffened slightly the napkin in her grip twisting. "That depends on whether what he takes was ever his to begin with".
I chuckled. " That's where you're wrong".
Her eyes locked with mine, fierce and unblinking.
"Don't become the monster you swore you'd never be."
Adrion's smirk faltered ,just slightly. Atlana's eyes flickered with something _ doubt, concern,maybe even fear. She looked away first.
The tension was palpable, but she didn't press further. Instead, she shifted the conversation, her voice lighter, though something in her demeanor remained guarded. "Noah's birthday is coming up. I thought of arranging a party for his friends.
But I could see the gears still turning her head.
I smirked, the tension lifting just enough for amusement to creep in.
Perfect.
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a slip of paper and placed it on the table. "Order from here."
Atlanta raised a brow. "What's this?"
"The café where my little vixen works."
Adrion coughed, shaking his head. "Now you're playing dirty now, aren't you?"
Silence
"Alright, I'll place the order."
She grabbed her phone and dialed the café.
Seconds passed.
And then, her voice.
"Hello! This is Alina speaking. How can I help you?"
My grip on my glass tightened.
That voice.
Soft. Sweet. A melody I had memorized, one that haunted my nights.
She was laughing softly in the background, talking to someone—Kevin.
My blood simmered.
Atlanta was speaking, placing the order, but I wasn't listening. My mind was consumed with a singular thought.
I was done playing from the shadows.
Alina's POV
My shoulders slumped, breaths shallow and uneven. A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes as I ran a hand through my hair, fingers trembling slightly. Each step felt heavier than the last, my body protesting against every movement. I blinked slowly, struggling to focus, the world blurring at the edges.
Moving my family in, adjusting to a new routine, balancing work and school—it had drained every ounce of energy from me.
Yet, for the time in what felt like , I felt safe.
Or at least, I wanted to believe I was.
The thought lingered in the back of my mind as I collapsed onto my bed, the coolness of the sheets a welcome relief against my skin. My body sank into the mattress, my eyes fluttering shut almost instantly. Sleep came easily, pulling me under in a haze of deep, dreamless blackness.
And then—
Something felt wrong.
A shiver crawled up my spine, slow, deliberate, as if invisible fingers trailed along my skin. My breath hitched, my chest suddenly tight, the weight of the air around me heavier than before.
I wasn't awake. Not fully. But I wasn't asleep, either.
A presence.
Familiar.
Unseen.
My fingers twitched, instinct telling me to move, to wake up, to run—but my body remained still. Trapped. Frozen beneath an unseen force.
Seconds stretched into an eternity.
I don't know how long I lay like that, but when I finally managed to pull myself from the strange fog of unconsciousness, my skin was damp with sweat, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I bolted upright.
The room was silent. Still. But wrong.
My breaths came shallow and uneven as my gaze darted around, scanning the dimly lit space. My desk. My bookshelf. My closet—half open, a dark sliver of space peeking out between the door.
Had I left it like that?
I swallowed hard, shoving the thought away.
It's fine. It's just your mind playing tricks on you.
But I didn't believe it.
A sharp chill prickled against the back of my neck, and before I could stop myself, my head snapped toward my bedroom door.
Closed.
Or—
Was it?
I stared, my stomach twisting. Had I locked it? I always locked it before bed. Always. But now, doubt slithered through me, cold and suffocating.
Slowly, I peeled the blanket away from my legs, my movements stiff, hesitant. I stood on shaky feet, every step toward the door feeling like I was walking straight into something unseen. Something watching. Waiting.
When I reached for the handle, my fingers trembled.
I turned it.
Locked.
A breath of relief sagged from my lips.
And yet—
It didn't make sense.
The unease in my chest only grew stronger. If my door was locked… if no one could have come in… then why did I feel like I wasn't alone?
The thought sent another violent shudder through me, my skin breaking into a cold sweat. I forced myself to take slow, steady breaths, to fight the panic clawing at my ribs.
This was ridiculous.
I was overthinking.
Letting my exhaustion turn shadows into monsters.
I shook my head, forcing my feet to move, dragging myself toward the bathroom. Maybe a shower would help.
Needing to clear my head, I stepped into the shower, hoping the water would wash away the weight pressing down on my chest. But as the droplets cascaded down my skin, a prickle crept along the back of my neck—subtle at first, then sharp.
That eerie, suffocating feeling returned.
Like eyes were on me. Watching.
My breath hitched.
I froze mid-lather, my arms instinctively crossing over my chest as dread coiled in my gut like a serpent waking from slumber. The warm steam did nothing to ease the chill crawling up my spine.
No sound. No shadow. But the silence screamed louder than anything else.
I yanked the faucet off, heart pounding. Every instinct told me to run. Wrapping myself in the bathrobe, I stumbled back from the mirror, refusing to meet my own reflection—afraid I'd see something else staring back.
I needed to get out. Now.
But as I reached for the mirror, my fingers barely brushing against the cool glass—
I froze.
A sharp gasp caught in my throat.
My reflection stared back at me, wide-eyed, pale. Marked.
Dark bruises bloomed across my throat— deep, deliberate like fingerprints carved into skin.
My stomach twisted violently.
My hand trembled as I touched my neck, tracing the edges of the marks, my breath breaking into uneven shudders. A sharp sting bloomed beneath my fingertips.
Too real. Too deep.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't my imagination.
I yanked my collar down, desperate, panicked—
And then I saw them.
More.
Just above my hip bone.
My entire body went cold.
No. No, no, no.
A sharp, sick feeling clawed its way up my throat, and suddenly, I couldn't breathe.
I stumbled back, gripping the edge of the sink, my chest rising and falling in frantic, shallow bursts.
Who?
My hands clutched the porcelain so tightly that my knuckles turned white. My head spun, my thoughts tangled in a web of fear and disbelief.
Who could have done this? How?
I was alone.
But the marks told another story.
A story I didn't remember.
A violent tremor ran through me, and before I could stop myself, my gaze flickered back toward my bedroom door.
Still locked.
Still closed.
"Confusion swirled in my mind like a relentless storm, each unanswered question hammering against my skull, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache."
Damon's POV
Leaning back in my chair, I let my fingers skim over the controls, the screen before me flickering as the camera adjusted, focusing… capturing every movement. The grainy black-and-white feed sharpened as Alina stepped under the shower, unaware, vulnerable, perfect.
The moment the first stream of water cascaded down her delicate frame, I exhaled slowly. Steam curled around her, clinging to her skin like an embrace—my embrace—if only she would let it be. My grip on the mouse tightened as she tilted her head back, exposing the soft curve of her throat — pale, marks I had left like a signature etched into her skin. Beautiful, her collarbone, the delicate rise and fall of her chest.
The marks.
A smirk tugged at my lips as I zoomed in, my pupils dilating at the sight of them.
Deep. Bruised. Mine.
She thought she was alone.
She thought she was safe.
A low chuckle rumbled in my chest.
She had no idea.
She belongs to me—mind, body, soul. No force on this earth could sever the bond I've carved into her, the mark of my obsession branded deep beneath her skin.
I licked my lower lips, watching as she turned under the spray, water slicking down her curves, droplets tracing the very places my hands had explored in the dark. My fingers twitched, the phantom sensation of her warmth searing my palms.
Selena had tried to sate me once, tried to be what I needed, but she had never made me feel like this. No one had. No one ever could. Because they weren't her. They weren't Alina.
She was different.
She was everything.
A slow heat coiled in my gut, dark and consuming, as she pushed her hair back, strands sticking to her flushed skin. The sight of her standing there, bare, vulnerable, so beautifully unaware, made something raw claw at my chest.
She would come to me.
She would need me.
Soon, she would understand.
My fingers hovered over the screen, the urge to reach through, to touch, to claim, growing unbearable. She shivered, as if sensing me, her arms crossing over her chest as she hugged herself.
A smirk tugged at my lips as she stumbled back from the mirror, robes clinging to her damp skin, panic contorting her face. The bruises had surfaced. My marks. She would never forget them now, even if her mind tried to erase the night.
She stared at her reflection, disbelieving. Her mouth parted slightly as if she wanted to scream, to demand answers—but I knew there was, no one to save her.
The way she breathed, the way her hands trembled at her sides, the way she clutched the sink like it was the only anchor in her drowning world—that was memory. Muscle-deep. Instinctual.
Not even Kevin.
Especially not Kevin.
My phone vibrated against the table. A soft buzz. I didn't look. Nothing could pull me from this moment. She was breaking again—slowly, beautifully. Like porcelain fracturing from the inside. But it wouldn't shatter just yet. Not until I let it.
I'd stitched myself into her life like a shadow she couldn't shake.
And soon, even her dreams would bleed with me.
I leaned closer to the screen, whispering into the dark, just low enough that no one else could hear.
"You're mine, little vixen. And you will know it soon."
And yet—
I had never felt less alone.
He knew what he was doing was wrong, but that didn't stop him. Justifying his actions was second nature now.
Regret flickered at the edges of his mind, but it never stayed. The thrill, the power—it overrode everything else. He couldn't stop. Not until she was his in every way.
I closed the laptop gently, the screen flickering into darkness, her image fading with it—but not from my mind.
Never from my mind.
Atlanta was wrong.
Obsession? Maybe.
But love?
No Never