Damion King's private office sat on the top floor of Ross Tower, tucked behind a hallway that always felt too long and too quiet—like it was designed to make you second-guess every step closer to him. The glass walls, the black marble floors, the intimidating silence… everything about it whispered power. Controlled, sharpened, elegant power.
And today, for the first time, I was walking toward that power alone.
Liam had tried to tag along.
My father had asked if I wanted security to escort me.
I said no to both.
Because avoiding Damion King felt impossible after what happened yesterday.
The moment he touched me… the moment he said his name was the only thing he wanted on my lips…
Something in me cracked open.
Something terrifying and intoxicating.
So here I was, stepping into the office of a man who had nearly undone me without even kissing me.
The receptionist gestured toward the double doors.
"Mr. King is expecting you, Ms. Ross."
Of course he was.
I swallowed, squared my shoulders, and pushed the doors open.
He stood by the window, back turned to me, hands behind him—an immaculate silhouette against the skyline. The morning sun poured around him but somehow never quite touched him. His suit was dark, perfectly tailored, broad shoulders sharp enough to cut.
He didn't turn.
Didn't greet me.
"Mira," he said instead, voice low and precise, "close the door."
I did.
But it felt like shutting myself inside a vault.
His office was huge, shadowed in all the right places, the scent of leather and cedar settling into my skin as if it belonged there. I stepped forward.
"You asked to see me?" I said, relieved that my voice didn't shake.
He finally turned.
And God.
He looked… dangerous.
Not angry.
Not unhinged.
Just—quietly intense. A storm sheathed in a man's body. A storm that recognized me, wanted me, and hated that it did.
His eyes dragged down my face to my mouth—briefly, but unmistakably—before he masked it.
"Sit."
It wasn't a request.
The command in his tone threaded down my spine.
I sat in the leather chair in front of his desk. He walked around it slowly, every step calculated, deliberate… like he was preparing for something. Or restraining something.
He placed a folder on the desk between us.
"We need to discuss the restructuring proposal," he said.
"The one we reviewed yesterday?" I asked.
"Yes."
His eyes held mine. "Among other things."
A flicker of heat shot through me.
But I ignored it.
Tried to.
He opened the folder, sliding a document toward me. "Your projections were accurate. I want you to revise the next phase of the plan. Alone."
I blinked. "You want me to handle it without my department?"
"Yes."
"That's… unusual."
His jaw flexed. "So is your potential."
I froze.
Potential.
Coming from anyone else, it would've sounded like a compliment.
Coming from him… it sounded like a mark.
Stamped. Claimed. Chosen.
I cleared my throat. "Is that all?"
His eyes darkened, a storm moving behind them.
"No."
He leaned forward slightly, resting his palms on the desk. Close enough that I felt the heat of him.
"What happened yesterday," he said quietly, "has consequences."
My heartbeat thudded through my ribs. "Damion—"
"Don't say my name like that."
Like what?
Soft?
Unsteady?
Wanting?
I swallowed. "What consequences?"
He studied me, gaze unflinching.
"You're distracted," he said.
"So are you," I countered before I could stop myself.
Silence.
Thick.
Electric.
His jaw tightened—not in anger… in loss of control.
The air between us pulsed.
"Come here," he said.
My breath hitched. "What?"
He stood up straight, slowly, as if unfolding something ancient inside himself.
"I said come here."
I should've refused.
I meant to refuse.
But my body moved before the thought finished forming.
I stood, walked around the desk… stopped in front of him.
He exhaled lightly—as if he'd been holding his breath since I walked in.
His hand lifted.
Hesitated.
Then brushed a loose curl away from my cheek, fingertips barely touching my skin.
Warm.
Unbearably gentle.
And devastating.
"Mira," he murmured, "I don't lose control."
His fingers trailed down the side of my jaw. My lashes fluttered despite every ounce of pride I owned.
"Ever."
I swallowed hard. "And yesterday?"
His hand paused at my chin, thumb grazing my lip—slow, subtle, claiming.
"Yesterday," he said, voice dropping into something sinful, "you forgot my rules."
I shook my head, breath shaky. "What rules?"
His thumb pressed lightly against my mouth.
"You're saying the wrong things."
My pulse jumped.
"What are you talking about?" I whispered.
His other hand rose, sliding behind my waist—not pulling me in, just resting there, an unspoken threat of what he could do.
He leaned in, lips inches from mine.
"I told you," he said, voice dark velvet, "I only want to hear my name on those lips."
Everything inside me spiraled.
Heat.
Fear.
Want.
The world narrowed to the space between our mouths.
"Damion…" I breathed.
He inhaled sharply—like my voice hit him somewhere he couldn't defend.
His hand tightened on my waist.
Just enough to make my knees weaken.
But then—
He froze.
I felt the shift before I saw it. His entire body went still, shoulders tensing, eyes flicking past me toward the door as if he sensed something I couldn't.
"What—" I began.
"Quiet," he whispered.
Not unkind.
Protective.
He turned slightly, positioning himself between me and the door.
A second later, there was a faint sound—a footstep.
Someone outside.
Someone… watching?
Damion's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, I saw something raw break through the mask.
Not desire.
Not control.
A hunger edged with violence.
"Who is out there?" I whispered.
He didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
He recognized the presence.
He knew.
And whoever it was… they froze and walked away. Quiet, but not quiet enough for him.
Damion exhaled slowly, the tension ebbing but not disappearing.
Then he turned back to me.
His fingers slid away from my waist—a retreat so controlled it stung.
"We're done for today," he said, voice tight.
"No," I said before thinking. "Damion, wait—"
"Don't."
The word was soft.
Pained.
He stepped back again, running a hand through his hair—something I'd never seen him do. He looked almost… unmoored.
"You should leave."
I stared at him, heart pounding. "Why?"
"Because I'm close to doing something," he said quietly, "I can't take back."
I took a step toward him.
I shouldn't have.
His breath shuddered out.
"Don't come closer," he warned.
That tone—the frayed edge of desire and restraint—made every nerve in my body ignite.
"Why?" I whispered.
His eyes fell half-closed, as if even the question hurt him.
"Because, Mira," he said, voice almost a growl, "I am not safe for you today."
I hesitated.
But only for a moment.
"Damion," I said softly, "I don't think you're dangerous to me."
He laughed once—a low, dark sound that wasn't amusement.
"You have no idea what I am."
He stepped around me, brushing past my shoulder. My skin lit like a struck match.
As he walked toward the window, I saw his reflection in the glass—sharp, carved, breathtaking—and something else.
His eyes weren't normal.
Not fully.
They darkened—deepened—flashed something unnatural for less than a second.
My breath hitched.
He knew I saw.
He turned away from the window too slowly.
Too carefully.
"I need you to go," he repeated.
"What if I don't want to?" I whispered.
His jaw clenched.
His eyes softened.
His voice broke.
"Mira…"
There was a knock on the door.
He went still again.
"Come in," he said, but the warmth vanished completely. Professional. Cold. Pose restored.
The door opened.
Magnus leaned inside, expression unreadable, but his eyes flicked to me instantly—slow, assessing, curious. Far too curious.
"Everything alright in here?" Magnus asked.
Damion's gaze sliced into him. "I didn't call you."
Magnus smirked. "And yet… here I am."
I felt caught between them—heat on one side, ice on the other.
Magnus's eyes drifted back to me, lingering a little too long.
Enough for Damion to notice.
"I needed to discuss something," Magnus said lightly. "Privately."
Damion stepped toward him—subtle, but protective.
"Mira was just leaving."
The way he said it…
Possessive.
Wounded.
Dangerous.
Magnus raised a brow. "Was she?"
I stepped back—both drawn in and pushed out—and grabbed my folder.
"I should go," I said.
Magnus's eyes softened with something like interest. "Until next time, Mira."
Damion's murderous glare at him said there will be no next time.
But Magnus simply slipped fully inside the room as I passed him. His presence felt different from Damion's—lighter, but edged with something clever. Something pulling.
I didn't look back.
Not until I reached the door.
The last thing I saw was Damion watching me—not with anger, not with restraint—
But with hunger.
And regret.
I stepped into the hallway, exhaled shakily, and finally let myself breathe.
My phone buzzed.
A text.
From the unknown number.
"You're stepping into places you don't belong, Mira.
Some shadows don't just want to watch.
Some want to keep."
My stomach twisted.
And then—another message, sent less than two seconds later.
"He doesn't deserve to touch you."
My blood froze.
Who was he talking about?
Damion?
Magnus?
Or someone else entirely?
My hands shook.
The elevator doors opened behind me.
I didn't step in.
Because deep in my chest, I felt it—felt him.
Someone was watching.
Not Damion.
Not Magnus.
Someone else.
The stalker.
Closer than ever.
And for the first time…
I wasn't sure if Damion was the danger.
Or the only one who could save me.