Damien’s hips drove forward, and my head struck the pillow hard enough to knock a curse out of me.

“Fuck… slow down… ”

I did not mean it.

The second the words left my mouth, my legs tightened around him and my fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him back when he tried to give me the inch I had stupidly asked for. My body was hot, slick, aching, and far too eager for someone who had promised herself this was only business.

Only business. The thought barely survived another thrust.

The mattress shifted beneath us, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady, shameless rhythm. The luxury suite was too quiet for what we were doing, all polished glass, expensive furniture, and city lights shining through the tall windows while I lay beneath a man whose name I had only learned a few hours ago.

Damien Cross.

Thirty-two, if the information he had given me was true.

Ridiculously wealthy, judging by the suite, the watch on the bedside table, the black car waiting downstairs, and the envelope of cash sitting where he had tossed it before dragging me onto the bed.

He had paid for my time and I had agreed cause I was not here to fall in love with a rich man. I was not here to be chosen, rescued, spoiled, or turned into somebody’s obedient little wife. I had come because he wanted a woman for the night, I wanted the money, and I happened to like the way he looked at me.

That was the entire arrangement.

So why was I gasping like he had stolen the air from my lungs?

His hand slid beneath my thigh, lifting my leg higher, and the change in angle made my whole body jerk. A moan ripped out of me before I could bite it back.

Damien’s mouth found mine.

I kissed him badly, desperately, with my lips already swollen and my breath catching every time he moved. His tongue pushed past my mouth, his teeth caught my lower lip, and I made another helpless sound into him, which was humiliating because I had spent the whole evening acting like I was the one in control.

I was not in control. Not even a little.

His chest pressed against my breasts, the weight of him forcing them into the mattress whenever he leaned down. One of his hands closed around my waist while the other moved over my side, his fingers dragging across my skin and leaving every nerve awake behind them.

I turned my face away to breathe.

“Jesus Christ, you’re trying to break me.”

He did not answer.

Of course he did not.

Damien was not much of a talker. He had barely spoken when we met, and he had said even less after we came upstairs.

His hand tightened around my waist, and his thrusts grew harder, the rhythm turning rough enough that the words in my head scattered completely. My nails scraped down his back. His skin was warm beneath my palms, his muscles tense, his breathing getting deeper and heavier against my neck.

I felt the pressure building inside me, slow at first, then all at once, gathering low in my stomach until I could barely stay still.

“Damien, wait, I… ”

He shifted again.

My voice broke into a moan. His eyes were fixed on my face.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I breathed, although I was the one staring back at him.

His thumb moved over my cheek, slow and strangely careful, while his body remained pressed against mine.

“What do you want me to do?”

His voice was low, almost rough enough to disappear beneath the sounds around us.

I should have answered with something clever.

Instead, I pulled his mouth down to mine and wrapped my legs around him.

That was answer enough.

He kissed me harder.

The room became a blur of heat and movement. My breasts ached beneath his hands, my thighs trembled whenever he pushed deeper, and the sheets kept slipping beneath me no matter how tightly I tried to hold on.

Damien’s mouth moved from mine to my jaw, then lower, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath my ear. I tilted my head without thinking, giving him room, and his breath dragged over my neck.

A shiver ran through me. His thrusts did not slow. If anything, they became more uneven, harder and less controlled.

I felt his teeth graze my skin and sucked in a sharp breath.

“Careful,” I whispered, though my hands were already pulling him closer.

His mouth paused against my throat.

Something moved through him.

I felt it in the sudden tension of his body, in the way his fingers dug into my hip, in the rough sound that vibrated against my neck. It was not quite a groan. It was deeper than that, almost a growl, and the strange noise sent a burst of heat through me even as a small, confused part of my brain wondered what the hell was wrong with him.

Then he bit me.

Pain flashed through my neck.

I cried out, my back arching off the mattress, my nails digging into his shoulders as his teeth pressed into my skin. It hurt enough to make my eyes water, sharp enough that my first instinct was to shove him away, but he was still moving against me, still breathing hard, still caught in the heat of the moment. Like he had lost himself for one reckless second.

His mouth stayed there, hot against the sting, and I could feel his breathing shake against my throat. My fingers tangled in his hair, not quite pushing him away and not quite letting him go.

“Damien,” I gasped, half warning, half plea. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He pulled back. His eyes met mine, dark and unfocused.

For a second, he looked almost as confused as I felt.

Then his hand slid beneath my back, drawing me closer, and the question disappeared beneath another rough kiss.

I forgot the bite. I forgot the money.

I forgot every sensible thing I had promised myself before walking into his room.

The night broke apart around us in a mess of tangled sheets, sweat, sharp breaths, aching muscles, bruising kisses, and my own voice rising whenever he found another way to make me lose whatever remained of my mind.

By the time exhaustion finally pulled me under, my neck was throbbing, my body was sore, and Damien’s arm was locked around my waist as if even sleep had to happen on his terms.

….

Morning sunlight spilled across the suite, exposing every ugly detail of the night.

My dress was on the floor near the sofa. One heel had vanished beneath the bed, and my underwear was hanging from the handle of the balcony door like some cheap flag announcing exactly what had happened inside the room.

I stared at it.

“Classy,” I muttered, reaching for my dress.

Every part of me complained when I moved. My thighs were sore, my breasts were tender, and there was a dull ache between my legs that made me walk slower than I wanted. I pulled the dress over my head, searched for my missing shoe, and grabbed the envelope from the bedside table.

I slipped it into my bag and walked toward the mirror, intending to fix my hair before leaving. My reflection looked wrecked, which was not surprising. My lips were swollen, my hair was tangled, and my dress sat crookedly over my body.

Then I saw my neck.

I leaned closer.

The bite was dark and angry beneath my jaw, two small punctures surrounded by bruised skin. When I touched it, pain shot through the side of my throat.

I winced.

“Fucking hell.”

I turned my head, studying the mark from another angle.

That bastard had bitten hard.

I was already imagining the extra money I would demand if the bruise refused to disappear when I noticed Damien’s reflection behind me.

He was sitting upright on the bed and staring at my neck.

His eyes were fixed on the bite as though he had never seen anything like it, and his hand had closed around the sheet so tightly that the fabric strained between his fingers.

I turned slowly.

“What?”

He did not move. I took one step toward the door.

His gaze snapped up to mine, and something cold passed through the room.

Then he spoke, his voice stripped of the calm he had worn all night.

“Stay right there.”

“Stay right there.”

I stared at Damien.

My neck was still throbbing from the bite, my thighs hurt every time I shifted my weight, and there was an unpleasant ache between my legs that made me regret every single decision I had made after accepting his money.

Stay right there?

Seriously?

I looked at the door, then at him, then back at the door, because perhaps the man had forgotten that I was not one of the expensive decorations in his ridiculous suite.

“Are you actually hearing yourself?” I asked, dragging my bag higher onto my shoulder. “You paid for one night, Damien, not the rest of my morning, and unless the money came with a hidden clause saying I have to stand here until you finish having a nervous breakdown, I’m leaving.”

His eyes moved briefly to my neck. That stupid mark was still burning.

I had tried to ignore it while dressing, but every movement pulled at the bruised skin beneath my jaw. It was not unbearable, but it was irritating enough to keep reminding me that the man had bitten me like an animal and then looked at the wound as if I had walked into the room carrying a severed head.

He got out of bed. Even half-naked, with his hair messy and his chest marked by the scratches I had left on him, Damien still looked annoyingly put together. There was no awkwardness, no morning-after confusion, no searching for his clothes while pretending not to remember what happened.

He simply stood there and looked at me.

“Move,” I said.

He did not.

Instead, he glanced toward the door, then back at me.

“You should stay here.”

I laughed, but it came out dry because my throat was sore. “You should try saying something that makes sense, because I’m beginning to think the money has damaged your brain.”

His jaw tightened.

There it was again. That look.

Like he was trying very hard not to lose his temper, except I had no idea what I had done to deserve the performance. I had taken the money, slept with him, and was leaving. That was how these things worked. Men paid. Women left. Nobody made a fucking tragedy out of it unless somebody had been stupid enough to expect romance.

“I have somewhere to be,” I told him, walking toward the door.

My legs complained immediately.

A sharp ache ran up my thighs, and I slowed for half a second, annoyed that my body had decided to betray me in front of him. Damien noticed. His eyes dropped to the way I moved, and something dark crossed his face.

Not sympathy but more like displeasure.

As if he did not like the idea that I was hurting.

Well, he should have considered that before spending half the night trying to knock the breath out of me.

“I can barely walk because of you,” I snapped, though the words came out more breathless than angry. “So unless you’re planning to carry me downstairs and explain to everyone why I look like I’ve been dragged through a war, get out of my way.”

His gaze returned to my neck.

I touched it without thinking, and his whole body went rigid. Then I immediately lowered my hand.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I said, my irritation climbing. “You bit me, unless you somehow managed to forget the entire night while you were busy acting possessed.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Possessed?”

“Don’t start picking at one word when you know exactly what I mean.” I took another step toward the door, forcing myself not to limp. “You were normal enough when I came upstairs, and now you’re standing between me and the exit like some rich, emotionally constipated prison guard.”

Damien moved before I could reach the handle.

He crossed the space between us in two long strides and placed himself directly in front of the door.

I stopped so quickly that my bag swung against my hip.

The room seemed to shrink around him.

He was taller than me by enough to be irritating, broad enough to block the entire doorway without even trying, and close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his skin. His scent filled my nose, clean and dark and annoyingly familiar after a night spent with my face pressed against him.

My body reacted before my temper could catch up.

A weak shiver moved through me.

“Are you fucking serious?” I asked, looking up at him. “You’re blocking the door now?”

“You’re not leaving.”

I stared at him, then glanced toward the door as if it might suddenly open out of pity.

“Excuse me?”

His expression did not change.

I gave a short, disbelieving laugh, though my neck hurt when I tilted my head. “You’re going to have to try that again, because I don’t think you understand how ridiculous you sound right now. You paid for my company, Damien, and the night is over, which means I get dressed, collect my things, and walk out. That is the part where you stop pretending this is some grand arrangement and remember that I am not your girlfriend.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

“Your girlfriend?”

“Don’t be dense. You know exactly what I’m saying.” I shifted my bag from one shoulder to the other, wincing when the movement tugged at my sore back. “I came here because you wanted a woman in your bed and I wanted the money. We both got what we came for.”

His nostrils flared.

He looked at me like I had said something offensive, and that almost made me laugh again, because what exactly was offensive about the truth? Men like him loved honesty when it came from their own mouths. The moment a woman reminded them that they had bought her time, suddenly they developed principles.

“Whatever happened between us was one night,” I said, stepping closer because I was not going to let him intimidate me in a room I had already been paid to sleep in. “One night, Damien. You don’t get to wake up and decide that means I belong to you, and you definitely don’t get to stand in front of the door acting like I need your permission to leave.”

His eyes darkened.

“I didn’t say you belonged to me.”

“You didn’t have to.” I lifted my chin, though the movement sent another sting through my neck. “You’re standing there like a man who has never heard the word no without somebody immediately apologising afterward.”

His hand flexed beside his thigh.

I watched it.

Then I watched his face.

He looked calm, but there was something underneath that calm, something too tight and too restless. It made no sense. He had been quiet last night, yes, but not like this. Last night, his silence had been attractive. This morning, it felt like a locked door.

“Move,” I said again.

He remained exactly where he was.

I stepped to the left.

He shifted with me.

I stepped to the right.

He blocked me again.

A hot wave of anger rushed through my chest, stronger than the ache in my legs and sharper than the bite on my neck. I dropped my bag onto the nearest chair and planted both hands against his chest, pushing hard.

He barely moved.

That was the moment my fear tried to crawl in.

I crushed it beneath my anger before it could settle.

“Do not make me repeat myself,” I said, my voice shaking despite the effort I made to keep it steady. “I am leaving this room, and you are not going to stop me because you woke up feeling strange after getting what you paid for.”

Damien looked down at my hands against him.

Then he looked back at my face, breathing slowly, as though he was holding something dangerous inside himself and I was the only thing keeping it from breaking loose.

That made my stomach twist.

I glanced around the suite. The door was behind him. The balcony was too high.

My phone was in my bag, but my bag was on the chair near the sofa, and there was no chance in hell I was going to turn my back on him long enough to reach it.

My eyes moved across the room, searching for anything, anything at all that could make him take one step away from that door.

The silver ice bucket would not do much.

The lamp was too heavy to lift quickly.

The glass table would shatter, but I would have to get close enough to use it, and Damien was already close enough to make my skin crawl.

Then my gaze caught on the small side table beside the bar.

A knife lay there, half-hidden beneath a folded room-service menu, its metal blade catching a thin line of sunlight.

My breath stuck.

Damien’s attention shifted toward the window just for a second, then i looked at the knife again.

My heart began pounding so hard that I could feel it in my bruised throat, and every sensible thought inside my head started screaming at me to leave it alone, to wait, to stop making the situation worse.

But he was still between me and the door.

My legs were aching. My neck was burning. My bag was out of reach.

And the knife was close enough to touch.

My fingers closed around the knife.

I did not even realise I had picked it up until the handle pressed into my palm.

I kept looking at Damien.

He was still standing there, between me and the door, watching me with that same irritating expression he had been wearing all morning, like nothing in this room could possibly surprise him and I was just another problem he would deal with when he got bored.

His eyes dropped to my hand. Then back to my face.

That was it. There wasn't even any panic or sudden movement.

Nothing.

I looked down at the knife.

It was just a stupid little room-service knife, probably sitting there because rich people apparently needed knives beside their bars at all times, and here I was holding it like I had suddenly become some criminal mastermind.

I almost laughed. This was ridiculous.

I was not going to stab him. I only needed him to move.

That was all.

I shifted the knife in my hand.

Damien watched.

“You're really going to stand there?”

His gaze stayed on mine.

“You should put that down.”

The calmness in his voice irritated me so badly that my fingers tightened around the handle.

“Why?”

“Because you don't know what you're doing.”

There was no fear in his face which made me angry so I stepped closer.

He did not move.

The blade hung beside my thigh, almost hidden by my body.

“Move.”

“No.”

I stared at him.

He actually looked bored.

I had a knife in my hand and this man looked bored.

What the hell was wrong with him?

My heart was beating too hard, my legs were still aching from last night, my neck was burning beneath the mark he had left there, and I was standing barefoot in an expensive hotel room trying to figure out how to get away from a man who seemed to have forgotten that women were allowed to leave his bed.

I raised the knife slightly and his eyes followed it, but still nothing.

“You're not scared?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“Of that?”

I looked at the blade.

Then at him.

Something about the way he said it made heat crawl up my neck.

I should have put it down. Instead, I stepped forward.

Damien stayed where he was. I really fucking hated that my hand was shaking.

Damien expression changed slightly. Something closer to impatience.

“Ava.”

My name in his mouth made me look up.

“What?”

“Don't.”

That was all he said, and somehow it annoyed me more than everything else.

I stepped closer. He reached for my wrist. I jerked away.

His hand missed, then he knife moved with me.

His eyes dropped to it again, and this time I saw the smallest flicker of irritation cross his face, as though I was being difficult rather than dangerous.

That was when I stopped thinking.

I moved.

I just shoved forward because I wanted him away from the door, because I wanted out, because I was angry and tired and scared and too damn stubborn to stand there begging a man I had slept with for permission to leave.

The blade slipped into his side.

Barely. Just a shallow thrust that I felt it catch, then stop.

My hand froze. So did his.

For a second, Damien looked down.

The knife was still in my hand.Still inside him.

His fingers were around my wrist. Neither of us moved. Then his eyes lifted.

Something was wrong.

I knew it before he said anything. His face had gone completely still.

“What…”

His voice broke as he looked down again.

Blood appeared around the blade.

Then more.

A lot more.

It soaked into his shirt almost immediately, spreading far beyond the tiny place where the knife had entered.

My mouth went dry.

I had barely stabbed him.

I knew I had barely stabbed him.

So why the hell was he bleeding like that?

Damien's fingers tightened around my wrist.

“Take it out.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“The knife.”

His voice was rough now.

He tried to pull away from it himself, but the movement made his whole body jerk.

A sharp breath tore through his teeth.

His free hand flew to the wound. He pressed down. Blood pushed between his fingers.

His eyes widened. I had never seen that face on him.

He looked down at his hand as though it belonged to somebody else.

“Damien?”

He looked at me.

“Get it out.”

I tried.

My fingers tightened around the handle. The moment I moved the knife, his body buckled.

He made a sound that scared the shit out of me.

The knife stayed where it was refusing to pull out.

Damien caught my wrist before I could step away.

“Don't.”

His breathing had changed.

Every breath came harder than the one before it, his shoulders pulling sharply as he fought for air, and the calm bastard who had spent the last hour looking at me like I was a mildly irritating woman had disappeared.

“It’s not getting out.”

“No shit.”

The words came through clenched teeth.

I stared at him. He looked furious now.

“I barely touched you.”

His eyes snapped to mine.

“You call that barely touching me?”

“I didn't mean…”

Another violent cough cut me off.

Damien bent forward. Then blood hit the floor which made me stopped breathing.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the blood smeared across his skin.

“What the fuck?”

He said it like he was asking himself.

Then he looked at me.

“What did you do?”

“I stabbed you.”

His grip on my wrist tightened until my fingers went numb.

“I mean what did you do to me?”

I stared at him.

“I don't know.”

His eyes searched my face.

“You don't know?”

“I didn't do anything except stab you.”

“You're lying.”

“I am not fucking lying.”

He tried to stand but his leg shook.

He caught himself against the edge of the table, but his hand slipped because it was wet with his own blood.

He dropped to one knee.

I gasped.

“Damien.”

He looked up at me immediately.

His face was pale now, his hair falling across his forehead, his hand still clamped over the wound.

The blood would not stop.

It should have.

It should have slowed down.

Instead, the edges of the wound moved beneath his fingers.

I saw the skin pull together.

My stomach twisted. For one second, I thought it was healing.

Then it tore open again.

Damien sucked in a sharp breath.

His eyes dropped to the wound.

“What the hell…”

He touched the skin carefully. His fingers came away red.

“No.”

I stared at him.

He pressed his palm against the injury again, harder this time, as though he could force his own body to behave.

Nothing happened.

His breathing became ragged.

“Why isn't it closing?”

I had no answer. He looked at me again.

And suddenly his grip changed.

He pulled me closer and I stumbled toward him.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“You're hurt, Damien, you need to let me get help.”

“No.”

“You're going to bleed to death!”

His eyes flashed.

“I am not dying.”

The certainty in his voice would have been comforting if he did not look like he was barely holding himself together.

Another cough hit him.

He turned his head, but not quickly enough.

Blood touched his lips again.

My stomach rolled.

He was staring at my hand. The hand that had held the knife.

His thumb moved slowly across my wrist, almost absent-mindedly, while his other hand remained pressed against the wound.

His breathing was still uneven. His body was still shaking.

Yet somehow his attention had become frighteningly fixed on me.

“Where did you get this?”

I frowned.

“The knife?”

He shook his head. His eyes moved to the mark on my neck.

That stupid bite. His face went completely still. Then he looked back at me.

His voice dropped.

“What did I do to you?”

I stared at him.

“What are you talking about?”

He did not answer. He pulled me closer again.

Not enough to hurt me, but enough to make it clear that even half-collapsed on the floor, bleeding through his clothes, he still had no intention of letting me walk out of that room.

His eyes stayed on the mark. Then something happened behind them.

His pupils widened. His entire body went rigid.

The hand holding my wrist suddenly tightened so hard that I cried out.

Damien looked at me like he had just seen a ghost.

“No.”

The word came out almost breathless.

I tried to pull away.

He held on.

“Damien, you're scaring me.”

His gaze snapped back to mine.

And this time, whatever he saw in my face seemed to frighten him even more.

He looked at the wound. Then at my neck. Then back at me.

His lips parted.

“That's impossible.”

I stared at him.

“What is?”

He did not answer. His fingers slowly moved toward the bite mark on my neck.

He stopped just before touching it.

His face had gone white.

And then, with blood still running down his side and his hand locked around mine, Damien whispered something that made my entire body go cold.

“You're the one who did this to me.”