Chapter 8: Owned

Damian’s POV

This felt too good. I should stop, but I want more.

I was setting myself up for a lot of things, but I wasn’t sure if I was really ready for this.

I couldn’t stop thinking about every single thing that happened. My mind kept relaying every single detail of it.

I should avoid him. But I don’t think I can.

It’s been days of me being confined to my room—drawing on so many canvases and making sure they get to the website as soon as possible, trying to distract myself from everything. Derek comes in once in a while to check on me.

I mostly go out to eat and then come back inside the room. I’ve saved enough for the penthouse studio, and I can’t wait to pay him and give him his money.

Maybe then he won’t want to touch me anymore.

The bell dinged.

I swallowed hard.

I couldn’t help the way my cheeks reddened. Maybe it was just a way of deceiving myself—pretending I wanted him to come.

As I rushed to the door, a sudden shrill realization brought me back to reality.

He doesn’t knock. It’s his house.

When I pulled the door open, it was the mailman with a beautifully packed box.

“Are you Da…mian?” he asked, struggling with the last name attached to mine.

“Yes, I am,” I answered. He handed me the box and asked me to sign his paper for confirmation.

I smiled at him and signed it, still wondering what was in the package.

The moment he left, I checked outside properly to make sure he was alone. Then I slammed the door and put the locks back in place.

I settled into the chair and started pulling the wrappers off the rectangular-shaped box. Curiosity was eating at me.

As I struggled with the wrapping, I couldn’t keep my mind straight about what might be inside the box.

Then I opened it.

It was right there—a place I had dreamt of, day and night.

A shiver ran down my spine.

The document for the penthouse studio, with a space for my signature.

I had saved up for this. I had to pay him back. I couldn’t be his toy in exchange for the studio. I had worked and earned my money, and I was going to pay for it.

I went into my room to get my phone—I needed to set things straight—so I sent him a text.

Minutes passed. Hours passed. But he hadn’t replied. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do at this point.

I sat down, painting my canvases and designing them for my new studio. Then I heard the door slowly opening.

I knew he was here.

His scent wafted through the air even from a distance.

A strong mix of wood and him. My body reacted immediately. It shouldn’t have.

He was here because he knew Derek wouldn’t be around.

He opened the door. It creaked as it swung. I tried to concentrate, but I couldn’t. I looked at him, reliving every single thing that had happened at the restaurant.

He walked into the room, this time leaving the door open.

“You should start getting your things ready,” he said, his tone blank.

I hated that he was behaving so neutral after everything that had happened the other time.

I sighed deeply, ignoring the way my body reacted—ignoring the pulse I felt, just because he was here.

I shook my head, trying to distract myself from how his clothes clung to him and made my skin tingle.

“I have the money,” I said, clearing my throat.

He looked at me and broke into a deep, rich laugh that echoed through the mansion.

“For what?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“The pent—” he cut me off abruptly.

He stepped closer. The fully ventilated room suddenly felt warm and small.

“Use your money for something else,” Nickolai said, moving around the small studio that had become crowded with my canvases because of how fast they were selling out.

“The towing company will be here soon,” he commanded. “You need to start packing them.”

I hated him for how he made me feel. He made me feel small, inferior, and weak.

I avoided his gaze and continued painting. He would not control me. I was tired of being controlled.

He moved closer this time, resting his head on my bare shoulder as he watched me paint. I tried to distract myself and convince myself it was alright. His scent drifted into my nose.

My face turned a darker pink—almost red.

“You need to angle the brush to the left side of what you’re drawing, so it brings out a sharper look,” he advised.

I was too afraid to look at him, even though a desperate part of me longed to.

I tried his method for painting the better part of the piece I had on the big canvas. I smiled when I saw it worked better than anything else.

He stood up, moving away from my shoulder, and I could feel his smile as he watched me.

He came closer again, this time looking at my face like he wanted to devour me. His shirt stretched across his back as though it might rip at any moment.

“You still owe me,” he said, his eyes full of a lust that shimmered like tears.

I sighed as the tension filled the room. I looked back down at the lines of my drawing.

He stepped in, lifted my chin, and brushed the pad of his thumb across my lips.

“You are mine. My pretty boy. Don’t ever forget that.”

My knees weakened at his words as I watched him walk away. This time, my lip quivered, and I wondered what I was going to do for the rest of my life, knowing I was someone’s own.