(Nova's POV)
I shouldn't have been here.
I knew it the instant I slipped into the room and saw the paintings. Chaos and shadows tangled together, violent strokes across the canvas that felt like they were breathing. One piece in particular made my stomach knot, like it had teeth.
Then the air changed.
A voice rolled through it, deep, low, dangerous.
"What are you doing here?"
Damien.
I spun, breath catching. He stood in the doorway, half-dressed, a towel hanging from his neck. His hair was damp, beads of water sliding down the sharp cut of his chest. Sweatpants slung low on his hips, doing nothing to hide the breadth of him, the perfection of his build.
My mouth went dry. My pulse stuttered. He looked like sin carved into flesh.
I stumbled back and hit a frame. The painting toppled and split against the floor with a sharp crack.
"Damn— I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a deliberate click. The sound echoed like a lock on a cage.
