Mature content ahead:
The mansion stood silent when Damon returned.
Too silent.
After hours of mentally tormenting Kevin—breaking him down piece by piece—Damon had expected to walk into the soft hush of normalcy. Into her presence. Into that illusion of peace only she could give him.
But the peace never came.
His thoughts were cluttered with Kevin's last defiant words, echoing like poison:
"She'll find out."
"You can't make her love you."
He scoffed, jaw clenching as he stepped through the grand hallway. Love? What did that even mean to a man like him?
You don't need her love, his mind hissed. Just keep her. Near. Yours.
You can break her. Own her. Fuck her till she forgets who she was. She won't leave—you won't let her.
But something colder answered back from deep within his chest.
She'll be near—but too far.
You'll never reach her heart.
The thought hit him harder than he expected. Damon shook it off, eyes scanning the house. The soft tick of the antique clock on the wall was the only sound. He moved swiftly—toward her room first.
Empty.
Anaya's?
No sign of her either.
Noah was still at school.
Panic began to slither up his spine.
He stormed into the living room, a dark fury rising with every unanswered second.
"She's not here," he muttered. Then louder—more guttural, almost feral—"SHE'S NOT HERE!"
The staff came running, fear etched into their faces.
"Where is she?" Damon growled, his voice a thunderclap. "Where the FUCK is she?"
None of them had an answer.
He turned on the nearest guard, grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall. "You had one job. One. You don't know where she went?"
"N-No, sir—mam didn't say anything—"
Fist. Flesh. Blood.
He beat the man blue.
His vision was red, mind wild.
"Pray she returns to me…"
His voice thundered, laced with rage.
"Or I'll turn your life into a living hell."
He stepped closer, his words dropping to a chilling whisper.
"I'll make you regret letting her go… in every way imaginable."
Had she found the truth? Had Kevin gotten to her? Had she left?
He was seconds away from snapping someone's neck when he heard it.
A voice.
Soft. Angelic. Unmistakable.
"Damon?"
He froze.
Spun around.
There she was—standing just outside the main doors, her breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide at the scene before her. Her presence was like a beam of light slicing through the chaos, cutting through him like salvation.
But her face…
Terror.
Not of the house. Not of the chaos.
Of him.
Damon moved before she could say another word. Fast, long strides, devouring the distance between them. She stepped back instinctively, but he didn't let her. He caught her in his arms, crushing her to his chest, burying his face in her hair.
The scent of her. The warmth of her. Real.
"Damon—what's wrong?" she asked softly, voice trembling.
He didn't answer.
"Don't talk," he whispered hoarsely. "Just… just stay like this. Let me hold you."
His arms tightened around her.
Everyone around them stood frozen, unsure what to do. The bloodied guard vanished into the shadows, the staff slipping away in silence, sensing a storm they couldn't stop.
Only she mattered.
Only this mattered.
Her.
Safe.
Here.
His voice cracked when he spoke again, barely audible against her hair:
"I thought something happened to you."
"Damon, what's wrong? What would happen to me?" she asked gently, her voice like a balm against the storm still raging inside him. Her hands moved on their own, rising to pat his back—soft, calm, nurturing. Like a mother comforting a broken child.
And something inside him cracked.
That touch.
So simple. So warm. So… undeserved.
No one had ever held him like this. Not even his mother. Not even in his most shattered memories.
It made something ugly twist in his chest.
He couldn't bear it.
"I need to go," he muttered suddenly, his voice thick with something he refused to name. Shame? Vulnerability? Rage?
He pulled away, abruptly, fingers twitching as he raked them through his hair. His breath came in sharp exhales. Too fast. Too uneven.
He didn't look at her as he turned and strode down the hall.
Up the stairs.
Into his room.
He slammed the door behind him.
Not out of cruelty.
But out of fear.
What's happening to me?
He stared at the floor, his chest heaving. His fists clenched.
"You were supposed to be a distraction," he whispered to the emptiness. "Something I could own. Possess. Break."
But she wasn't.
She was undoing him.
" why is your absence haunting me?" he grabbed his hair and shouted " Ahhhhh".
Every look. Every touch. Every second she breathed under the same roof as him.
"What are you doing to me, Alina?"
A knock.
He knew who it was before the sound even fully registered.
He didn't answer.
But the door creaked open anyway.
She stepped inside.
No longer calm.
No longer quiet.
"Damon, talk to me," she said, stepping closer. "Say something. What happened?"
He looked up—and she was already there. Inches away. Her brows furrowed, her lips parted in concern. Not fear.
Concern.
He couldn't breathe.
He lifted a hand, slow. Deliberate. Cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her eye.
"I thought I lost you," he said, voice hoarse, barely human. "I came home, and you weren't there. I searched every damn room. I asked everyone. No one knew. For a second…"
His eyes dropped to her lips.
"I thought something had happened to you."
Alina's lips parted. She froze. Her breath caught.
And before words could destroy the moment—
She kissed him.
Soft. Uncertain. Gentle.
But it silenced everything inside him.
The chaos. The voices. The war.
Everything went still.
He didn't rush it.
Didn't devour.
He just felt.
Her mouth. Her warmth. Her soul, pressed to his, as if she was trying to pull him back from whatever edge he stood on.
His hands threaded into her hair. Not to control her—but to anchor himself.
And when her lips moved against his, when her breath grew heavy and her body melted into him—
Only then did he deepen the kiss.
No dominance. No game.
Just need.
Their tongues met, slow and curious at first, then hungrier, tasting, exploring, burning.
She gasped for breath—and he allowed it.
Only to pull her back into him again.
He didn't stop.
Not because he wanted more.
But because she did.
This was no longer a battle for control.
This was something far more dangerous.
Intimacy.
Real.
Raw.
Terrifying.
When he finally broke the kiss, the sound was soft and wet in the silence. Alina's eyes fluttered open—dazed, glassy, wanting.
He stared at her mouth.
Her lips—swollen, pink, bitten from the intensity.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling.
"I want more, Alina…" he whispered.
The pause that followed felt like eternity.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them breathed.
"Am I asking for too much?"
Then, softly—deliberately—she spoke:
"Who said you're asking for too much?"
He froze.
Then her smile—small. Dangerous. Beautiful.
"What if I wanted more too?" she asked.
That was it.
The leash broke.
He kissed her again—harder, deeper, faster. Hands roaming, heart racing, breath coming out in staggered shudders. And this time, there was no hesitation. No doubt.
There was only them.
And the fire between them that refused to die
Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her—effortlessly, like she was made only for his arms. His Vara mia. His ruin. Step by step, he carried her to the bed as though the floor itself wasn't worthy to feel her touch.
He laid her down gently, like setting fire to silk. His mouth still tethered to hers, breath tangled in hers, the heat between them thick and trembling.
She looked up at him with all the gentleness in her soul—eyes filled with a love so raw, it stole the breath from his lungs. Love she didn't even know she carried.
He loosened his tie, unhurried, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt as though time itself bowed to him. Then he kissed her again—hungrier this time, with something aching beneath the hunger. Something deeper.
She couldn't keep up—not with that heat, that burn, that storm—but her innocence made him ache more than desire ever had.
He smiled against her lips.
Sweet, untainted Bella.
He kissed her deeper.
She clutched his shirt as if it were her anchor in a rising tide, her knuckles white, her breath stolen.
His hand slipped behind her, fingers finding the zipper. And slowly—torturously—he undid it.
Her straps fell.
Soft skin bared to him like a sacred offering.
He kissed her collarbone with reverence, slowly, like tasting something he might never deserve. Then lower. To her neck. Where he bit her softly. Then licked. Then sucked. Marking her. Worshiping her.
She moaned—quiet, unsure.
He buried the sound in his mouth, tasting the tremble on her skin.
Then he looked down at the swell of her chest. His mouth followed, pressing between her breasts, kissing and sucking her as if prayer lived in his tongue.
Her dress slipped further down, revealing her stomach—soft, warm, untouched.
He paused over her belly button.
Then blew his breath against it.
She gasped, arching slightly beneath him.
A sound he'd burn the world to hear again.
He kissed her navel slowly, dipping his tongue into it. She tangled her fingers into his hair, pulling, grounding herself in him.
It made him hungrier.
He kissed lower. Then back up. Then took the dress off completely—just enough to leave her half-naked beneath him.
Breathless.
Waiting.
His Vara mia.
He hovered above her again, catching her lips in another kiss. This one slower. Surer.
Then he whispered, "Unbutton me bella."
She obeyed. Hesitant hands finding the buttons on his shirt. One by one. Slow. Shaky. Silent thunder in her touch.
He never knew unbuttoning could feel like undressing his soul.
When she finished, he tossed the shirt somewhere behind him, never looking away from her.
Then he leaned down, buried his face into her neck, breathing her in, as if it could anchor him to this moment.
His hand moved lower, cupping her where she was still clothed—her most sacred place.
She gasped, sharp and quiet.
He stilled, just feeling her.
"Bella…" he whispered into her skin. "Vara mia."
His beautiful.
His only.
He massaged her covered womanhood, and with each motion, her moans grew louder.
"Ah… ah…"
He didn't stop.
Positioning himself between her legs, he slowly slid her panties down and tossed them aside. She instinctively tried to close her legs as the cool air hit her, but it was too late—she was already dripping wet.
Without thinking, drawn in by the flushed look on her face, he leaned down and kissed her womanhood.
Alina arched her back and grabbed the sheets.
But he didn't stop.
He kissed, sucked, and bit gently along her inner thighs, savoring every reaction. Her fingers tangled into his hair, pushing him closer as if begging him not to stop.
And she came undone beneath his mouth.
Yet he didn't rush.
He wasn't finished.
He continued to devour her, letting the sound of his kisses and sucking echo against her skin.
Alina moaned harder this time—his name falling from her lips like a broken prayer.
"Damon… ahh…"
He paused for a second, just to feel it.
Her voice. Saying his name like that.
It was beautiful.
Then he continued, kissing her again, tasting her, drowning in her.
He only stopped once he had enough.
Her eyes were shut, her breathing unsteady, lips slightly parted in a silent tremble. The sight beneath him was stunning.
She was stunning.
His Bella.
Slowly, he undid his pants and hovered over her once more.
"Open your eyes, Bella," he whispered. "Look at me."
Her body obeyed.
She looked straight into his eyes—then glanced downward. As she saw him, her eyes shut tightly again in shy panic.
He smiled and kissed her eyelids, her forehead, and then her lips—still tasting of her.
As he kissed her, his hand reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. He broke the kiss to remove the last piece she wore, tossing it aside.
Now, she lay before him—fully naked.
By him.
For him.
He removed his boxers next and leaned down, kissing her breasts. His mouth took one nipple in while his other hand gently massaged the other.
Alina moaned, her half-lidded eyes fluttering, her fingers tangled in his hair again.
He took his time—tongue and hands switching places, worshiping both sides equally. She was lost in the haze of his touch, her body trembling beneath his.
He gently parted her legs wider.
Then slipped one finger inside.
She gasped sharply.
"Ahh—Damon, it… it's hurting."
He kissed her forehead softly.
"It'll pass, Bella," he murmured.
His lips returned to her neck as he gently added a second finger. Her discomfort grew, her cry sharper now.
"Ahh—it hurts…"
"The pain will turn into pleasure, Bella," he whispered, his voice low, soothing.
And soon, it did.
The ache melted into heat, the burn into something unbearable in the best way.
As his fingers moved in and out of her slowly, deliberately, her body surrendered.
Her walls clenched around his fingers, her breath hitching with each stroke.
"Damon…" she whispered, voice drenched in helpless desire, "I… I can't—"
"Yes, you can, vara mia," he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth, "You're doing so well."
Her back arched, head thrown against the pillow, her body trembling with a heat she'd never known before. Every flick of his fingers, every brush of his thumb against the sensitive spot, unraveled her—thread by delicate thread.
She was moaning now, softly, rhythmically—his name like a chant that filled the silence between them.
When he finally withdrew his fingers, slick with her need, she whimpered at the loss.
But he wasn't done.
Not even close.
He kissed her belly, then her ribs, then trailed up to the valley between her breasts. Slowly. Worshipfully. His lips were a silent promise—you are mine.
Then he looked into her eyes.
Truly looked.
"Are you ready, bella mia?" he asked, voice raw, reverent.
She nodded—but it wasn't just a nod.
It was surrender.
He guided himself to her entrance, brushing lightly against her, waiting for her body to invite him in.
" Ahh Damon it's paining ahh I.. I can't Damon".
"Look at me bella, open you eyes and kiss me " he said in a husky tone.
Her hands moved up, framing his face, and she kissed him—this time with more certainty, more hunger.
As their lips met again, he slid inside—slowly.
Agonizingly slow.
She gasped against his mouth, her fingers tightening in his hair, her thighs trembling.
"Shh…" he soothed. "I've got you."
Her breath came in shivers as he filled her, inch by careful inch, until he was fully inside. His forehead pressed to hers, eyes never leaving hers, giving her time to adjust. Their hearts beat in sync, wild and tender all at once.
"You feel…" he whispered, barely holding himself back, "like home."
She exhaled shakily, her body clinging to him, needing him. Needing all of him.
Then, slowly, he began to move.
It wasn't just physical—it was something deeper. A rhythm born from longing. A claiming of souls more than skin.
Each thrust was a slow symphony of possession.
"Oh my God… Alina," he breathed, voice thick with awe. "You take me so perfectly."
"Ahh… Damon… ahh…"
"Say my name, bella," he whispered against her lips.
And she did.
"Damon…"
Her voice broke something inside him.
His pace changed—stronger, wilder, a storm in motion. The rhythm of their bodies shook the bed, its headboard knocking the wall with every thrust. Skin collided in fevered claps. The air was heavy, fragrant with lust and breath and burning need.
He came with a groan, spilling over her soft belly.
But it wasn't enough.
Not even close.
He entered her again—deeper this time, all at once. She gasped, arching beneath him, nails carving red crescents into his skin as he kissed down her chest and thrust harder.
She shattered—undone in every way.
Still, he couldn't stop.
Wouldn't.
Not when she was beneath him like this.
Not when Kevin's words clawed at his memory: She'll find out. She'll leave you.
The fear—the rage—fueled him. He lost control.
His movements turned punishing.
"Damon—slower, please," she begged through broken moans, her body trembling.
Reality returned in a rush.
He stilled.
His lips trembled near her ear. "I'm sorry, bella. I got lost… I won't hurt you again."
He kissed her—gently this time. Apology in every breath.
And then he moved again.
Slower. Softer. Reverent.
His climax came like a wave, drawn out and raw. He spilled again over her, but he still wasn't finished.
He took her in every way his mind had ever dreamed of. Bent her, lifted her, pulled her into him until there was no space left between them.
Her breasts bounced with every movement, and he was starving for her. Dying.
She came again.
And again.
Five times… maybe more. She was limp with pleasure, her body trembling, her voice reduced to quiet, dazed whimpers.
Only when her eyelids began to fall did he finally let go.
He withdrew with care.
Slipped into the bathroom, cleaned himself, then returned with a warm towel. Each stroke of the cloth across her body was tender—worship.
He gazed down at her.
Vita mia.
Her chest rose and fell, her skin flushed, glowing. Her hair sprawled like ink on the sheets, her thighs marked with the memory of him.
She was his masterpiece.
He joined her beneath the sheets, slid her head against his bare chest. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other cradled her like something too precious for this world.
He made sure her soft breasts pressed to his skin, her warmth tangled with his own.
He held her as if he could anchor her there forever.
Because she was his storm.
His peace.
His bella.
His everything.
Golden light spilled through the window like melted honey, caressing her bare skin when Alina finally stirred. Her lashes fluttered slowly, like wings waking from a dream, and she winced softly as her body reminded her of the night before — the ache, the pleasure, the depth of it all.
She tried to shift but stilled immediately.
Her cheek was pressed against something warm and firm — rising and falling in a slow rhythm.
She opened her eyes.
Damon.
His bare chest beneath her. His arms tangled around her waist like he had no intention of letting her go. His face, sculpted and impossibly serene, rested against her hair. One large hand splayed over her hip, fingers curved gently but possessively.
She lay there for a moment, unmoving.
Not afraid.
Just… overwhelmed.
By everything he was.
By what they'd done.
By how he made her feel.
Like she was the center of his world. Like he'd waited a lifetime to touch her.
His lashes fluttered open.
The second his eyes found hers, something shifted in him. The storm returned behind the calm. He didn't smile, but the heat in his gaze deepened — as if he were drinking her in all over again.
"Bella mia," he murmured. "You're awake."
His voice was rough silk, still husky from sleep, edged with something tender — and hungry.
Alina opened her mouth, but the words got caught somewhere in her throat.
Instead, she reached up and brushed her fingers across his collarbone, where faint red crescents from her nails remained.
"You… didn't sleep much," she whispered.
He let out a quiet breath. "Didn't want to waste a second not holding you."
Her heart skipped.
She should've felt awkward. She should've pulled away.
But all she felt was… warm. Safe.
Loved — even if he hadn't said the word.
He shifted slightly, brushing her hair from her cheek. "Are you sore?"
She nodded a little. "Just a bit. But… not in a bad way."
That made something flicker in his gaze. Not guilt. Pride, maybe. A quiet possession he didn't bother to hide.
He sat up against the headboard and pulled her with him, the sheet slipping down and revealing the soft curve of her back. His eyes lingered.
"you were you…" she began, searching his eyes. "Was that… normal for you?"
Damon's jaw ticked. "No."
She blinked.
He leaned in, brushing his lips over her shoulder. "I've never been like that with anyone. I don't even know what came over me."
Her heart thudded.
But his voice softened. "You do something to me, vara mia. You make me lose control."
Alina looked down, her cheeks blooming pink. She still couldn't believe how natural it felt — to belong to him. Her body still tingled from the way he'd worshiped it. She had never been touched like that. Never been seen like that.
He dipped his head and kissed her collarbone. Then her jaw. Then her cheek. "You're quiet, bella. What's in that head of yours?"
"I just…" she hesitated. "I've never felt that way before."
He stilled for a second. "Good or bad?"
"Good," she whispered, meeting his eyes. "Too good, maybe."
That made his lips curve.
He cupped her cheek. "There's more where that came from."
She rolled her eyes. "I think you nearly killed me."
"And yet you're still here," he murmured, kissing the tip of her nose. "Still mine."
Still mine.
It didn't register as a threat. It felt like a vow. Like he'd meant it in the softest, most reverent way.
He leaned closer. "I'll run you a bath. Then we'll get lunch you haven't had anything."
Her eyes widened. "You cook?"
"No," he said with a small smirk. "But I have people who do."
" But if you want I can try for you"
She laughed, light and musical. The sound made something soften deep in Damon's chest — a place he didn't know he still had.
Before she could pull the sheet tighter around herself, he slid it down gently, exposing the marks he'd left on her.
He kissed one.
"Don't hide from me," he whispered. "You were made to be looked at."
She shivered.
And as he rose, walking naked across the room, Alina realized something that made her pulse race.
She had given herself to him.
Completely.
And even though she didn't understand it yet — the depth of his hunger, the secrets behind his silence, the fire behind his touch — she wanted to give more.
She wanted him.
Not knowing the storm that still waited just beyond the curtain.
Not yet.
The evening light poured into the room like melted gold, tracing over tangled sheets and discarded clothes strewn across the floor — remnants of a night neither of them would forget.
Alina stirred, her limbs heavy, her body humming with aftershocks. She reached for the sheet and wrapped it around herself, covering her bare skin with a soft blush of modesty. Her eyes scanned the room, and a small smile tugged at her lips when she saw the chaos they'd left behind — his tie on the lamp, her dress draped over a chair, their passion painted into every inch of the space.
She let her head fall back, smiling at the ceiling.
A moment later, warm arms wrapped around her waist from behind. Damon pulled her gently against his chest, his bare skin brushing her back as he pressed a kiss into the crook of her neck.
"You look like sin and sunlight, bella mia," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. "Let me bathe you."
She let out a soft laugh. "I'd never make it out of that tub if we go in together."
He grinned against her skin. "That's the idea."
But she turned, resting her forehead against his. "Anaya and Noah will be home soon. I don't think I can handle round two right now."
Damon's hand cupped her cheek. "Then let me take care of you. Just you."
Before she could protest, he slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her effortlessly. She gasped, clutching the sheet to her chest as he carried her to the bathroom, his gaze never leaving her face.
He gently set her down beside the warm bath already drawn, the scent of lavender rising from the steam. When he pulled the sheet away, her body instinctively tensed.
"It's okay," he whispered, brushing her hair back. "I'll be just outside."
She nodded, and he gave her one last kiss on the temple before stepping out, closing the door behind him.
She sank into the water with a soft hiss — her muscles sore, her thighs aching — but the warmth enveloped her quickly, soothing her body and calming her breath. The tub was deep and silent, and for a moment, she let herself float in the quiet, her fingers drifting lazily over the surface.
When she stepped out, freshly wrapped in a plush white robe, she found the bedroom spotless — the evidence of their night erased. In place of chaos, a soft white t-shirt and a flowy pastel skirt were neatly folded on the bed.
Damon stood by the window, shirtless, sunlight carving gold across the ridges of his back.
She smiled and tiptoed over to him, wrapping her arms around him from behind, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades.
"I wasn't running away," she said softly.
He turned slightly, curious.
"I went to submit my project... and visit Grandma," she whispered. "I should've told you. I'm sorry if I made you worry."
His hands found hers where they rested on his chest.
"I'm used to waking up alone doing everything alone but I can't not anymore," he said, voice low.
She nodded against his back. "Next time, I'll tell you."
A pause.
"I also went to the café. I wanted to see Kevin." Her voice grew quieter. "But they said he hasn't been there since I resigned."
Damon stiffened slightly but said nothing.
She stepped around him to meet his eyes.
"It's not like him. Even if we fight, he never stays silent this long. I'm... I'm worried."
He brushed her damp hair behind her ear. "What are you planning to do?", he needs to know her plan inorder to ruin her plan.
"I'll visit his apartment tomorrow," she said, softly but firmly. "So if you don't find me in the morning… don't panic."
" I'll come with you" he said in a lovely that she never suspects him.
"Damon i can manage you" he placed in finger on her mouth and shh her.
" shh i don't want to do anything alone anymore" he kissed her temple.
Her arms slipped around his waist, holding him tighter this time.
"I want to make sure that he's okay."
Damon didn't speak at first. His jaw was tight. But his fingers grazed her back in soft, slow circles.
"Alright," he murmured eventually. "But tell me first next time, bella. You belong to me now."
She smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to his chest where his heart beat steady beneath her lips.
"Belongs to you." she said and smiled without knowing the true intension behind each words.
Damon's POV – Quiet Chaos
She wrapped her arms around him again, soft and warm, her voice brushing his chest like a prayer.
"I'm just worried about Kevin," she murmured. "I'll visit his place tomorrow."
His breath stilled for a second — just a second — but inside, it echoed like a dropped blade.
Kevin.
Tomorrow.
The name fell from her lips like a stone into still water, rippling across everything Damon had buried beneath the surface.
She didn't know.
Of course she didn't.
Her voice was too gentle. Her concern, too pure. She didn't know that Kevin wasn't missing — he was taken. That Damon's men had already buried him in silence for digging too deep, for asking questions that could unravel everything.
She didn't know that the man holding her now had blood on his hands and a lie stitched into every breath.
But still.
His mind spun. Fast. Quiet. Controlled.
If she went alone…
No. He couldn't risk what she might see. The unlocked door. The absence too clean. The echo too empty.
So he pulled her in tighter, kissed her temple, and said with the calm of a practiced liar,
"I'll come with you."
She looked up at him, surprised — and then smiled.
That smile.
So trusting. So unguarded.
It carved through the storm inside him like light cracking a tomb.
She reached up and brushed her lips across his jaw. "Okay," she whispered. "Tomorrow, then."
Then she pulled back, eyes glancing at the clock, and let out a soft laugh. "Come on. Anaya and Noah will be home soon. We should probably leave the room before they assume we've merged into the furniture."
He chuckled, and let her go — but not before stealing one last look at her face.
Innocent.
Unaware.
Still his.
But his heart was no longer steady.
It beat in dissonance — not from guilt, but from the creeping fear that the truth was getting too close.
And that one day, even she might stop smiling when she looked at him.