Chapter 22: Behind Closed Doors

Selene leaned in slowly, closing the space between her and Damien with calculated ease. The soft shimmer of her crimson dress caught the dim amber light, her perfume drifting over him like a spell. She let his thumb trace lines across her face, tilting her head to invite the sharp nip of his teeth and the heat of his kisses.

Then, her voice—a feather-light whisper—cut through the low thrum of the bass outside. “I really think… Cassian is just trying to make you look like a fool.”

The words were a spark in a room full of gasoline.

The air vanished as Damien’s hand snapped upward, tightening around her neck. Selene’s back hit the velvet cushion. For a terrifying moment, the world narrowed to the crushing pressure against her windpipe and the cold, dead fury in Damien’s eyes.

“Da- Damian—” Her voice was a broken rasp. Her fingers clawed at his wrist, her legs kicking weakly against the table.

Damien finally blinked, the red mist clearing just enough for him to see her face turning a panicked shade of flushed rose. He let go, his jaw still clenched so tight the muscle ticked violently. Selene slumped against the booth, clutching her throat and gasping for air.

She stayed curled away from him for a long heartbeat, the pulse in her neck throbbing against the ghost of his grip. She didn't just feel fear; she felt the weight of his instability. Her eyes watered, not from emotion, but from the trauma of the hold. She watched him through her lashes, realizing he was a wounded animal. She had to pivot, and she had to do it before he pushed her away for good.

“Brother Damian, I didn’t mean it like that,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a calculated fragility.

Damien looked away, unapologetic and still simmering in his rage.

Selene cleared her throat, swallowed against the soreness, and moved. She leaned in further, her hand gliding over the back of the booth to rest on his broad shoulder. Her thumb traced slow, hypnotic circles, petting the tension in his muscles, feeling the iron-hard strength beneath the fabric of his suit.

“I’m not trying to call you a fool. I would never.” As she spoke, she allowed the front of her gown to dip, her warmth pressing firmly against his arm. Still, he said nothing.

Damian’s gaze remained fixed on the far wall, but his pupils dilated. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, as he weighed the image of Elara’s indifference against the warmth Selene was forcing into his space. The rejection of the woman he actually wanted burned worse than the anger.

“I just don’t want to see you fall apart because of someone like him,” she murmured, her cheek nearly brushing his ear. “She doesn’t appreciate what she has, Damien. She doesn't see the man right in front of her.”

Damien’s jaw flexed. “Did he really drop her off?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice a symphony of fake pity. “The guards, the maids… They're all talking. Such an intimate relationship, don't you think? To know her size… to be with him so often even when she belongs to you.”

The mention of the staff was the final snap. Damien’s pride was a raw wound, and Selene was salt and honey all at once. He shut his eyes, forcing Elara’s soft, untouchable smile out of his mind. Elara was a winter chill; Selene was a furnace, right here in the dark.

Bold now, Selene let her hand drift down. Her fingers didn't just graze his knee; they slid upward, dragging over the heavy fabric of his trousers. She felt the sudden, iron-hard contraction of his muscles, but no resistance.

As her fingers worked the leather of his belt, the metallic rasp of the zipper sounded final in the quiet booth. She lowered herself, meeting his gaze one last time with that submissive, wide-eyed heat he had always hunted for in Elara but never received. It ignited something dark and possessive in his gut.

Damien’s hand shot out, his fingers tangling violently in the hair at the base of her neck. He didn't pull her close; he anchored her there. “Do it,” he growled.

When her warm mouth finally enveloped him, the world outside the velvet curtains ceased to exist. Damien’s head hit the cushion, a guttural groan ripped from his throat. It was an explosion of relief and sin—wet, rhythmic, and devastatingly precise. She was a master of his senses, her movements hungry, telling him he was the only man who mattered.

The air grew thick, sweet with the scent of whiskey and rising lust. He felt her nails lightly scratching against his thighs, anchoring him to the pleasure until his vision blurred. Suddenly, his patience broke. He didn't want to be served; he wanted to consume.

He caught her chin, forcing her gaze up. For a second, the only sound was their synchronized, heavy breathing. He didn't look like he loved her; he looked like he wanted to break something. The power dynamic shifted in a single, silent pulse of air. The hesitation vanished.

With a low roar of need, Damien’s large hands hooked under her arms, lifting her with effortless, bruising force. He hauled her onto his lap, her legs straddling his waist, her bunched-up satin skirt high on her hips.

He caught the delicate strap of her dress and yanked it down, baring her upper tto the cool, conditioned air. His hand moved up, his thumb grazing a sensitive peak, rolling it until a high, broken moan escaped her.

“You’re mine tonight,” he rasped, his voice raw, dark, and dangerous.

He didn't wait for an answer. He crashed his mouth against hers, a desperate, bruising kiss that tasted of salt and whiskey. He guided her body in a slow, punishing grind against his own, the friction of skin and cloth making the air feel like it was on fire.

Outside, the bass thudded like a distant heartbeat. Inside, there was only the sound of their combined breathing—jagged, desperate—and the quiet, predatory patience of a man who wouldn't stop until he’d erased every memory of his rival.

Two men in dark suits stood outside the curtain, their faces stone. No one was getting in. No one would hear the way she cried out his name.

In between her gasps, Selene watched Damien’s closed eyes. As he sank deeper into the pleasure she offered, her fingers digging into his shoulders to keep herself anchored, she knew the truth. At this moment, he wasn't the Blackwood heir. He was just a man, and he was entirely, hopelessly hers.