Marco's Glance

‎I woke up sore.

‎The ache was everywhere, as if the night had carved itself into my skin. My thighs trembled when I shifted, my wrists carried the imprint of the cuffs, and even my lips felt bruised. I pulled the sheets tighter around me and sank deeper into the mattress, wishing for a few more minutes where I could pretend the world outside the bedroom did not exist.

‎It wasn’t just the soreness that held me still. It was the memory.

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‎Every detail came rushing back the moment I opened my eyes. The red glow of the room. The sting of the crop. Damien’s voice commanding me to yield, his hands pulling me apart, his mouth swallowing every sound I made until I had nothing left. He had stripped me of everything I thought I could hide, until there was only raw need and the cruel mercy he gave me when he chose.

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‎My body flushed hot beneath the sheets, shame curling with something darker. He had destroyed me and left me craving him in the same breath.

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‎I finally sat up, slow and stiff, and reached for the robe laid across the chair. The silk slid against my skin like a whisper, almost mocking in its softness. I tied it around my waist, covering myself as if that could undo the night, and forced myself to step out of the bedroom.

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‎The penthouse stretched open around me, silent, polished, filled with too much light. The floor-to-ceiling windows painted the room in early gold, glass and steel gleaming in the morning. For a second, I thought I would find Damien here, his presence filling the space the way it had filled me.

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‎But the kitchen was not empty.

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‎Someone else was there.

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‎He stood by the counter, pouring coffee into a mug. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair cut short with military precision, his suit immaculate even at this hour. His movements were sharp and economical, not a wasted motion, as though he had trained his entire life for efficiency.

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‎The sound of liquid filling the cup stopped. Slowly, he turned his head, and his eyes landed on me.

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‎It was not curiosity. Not surprise. It was a gaze that cut straight through the silk robe, through my skin, through whatever fragile armor I thought I had left. My breath caught before I could stop it.

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‎I tugged the robe tighter, clutching the knot at my waist. Something primal told me to retreat, but my feet refused to move.

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‎His stare held me in place.

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‎Dark eyes, steady, unblinking, like the barrel of a gun trained on my chest. He took me in without shame, his silence louder than any words could have been.

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‎The air between us thickened until my throat felt dry.

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‎Finally, he inclined his head slightly, the smallest of acknowledgments. His voice followed, low and even, carrying an accent I couldn’t place. “Good morning.”

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‎It was not a greeting. It was a measurement.

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‎I swallowed, forcing sound past my dry lips. “Who… who are you?”

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‎He placed the mug down with deliberate care, the porcelain clinking against marble. Then he straightened fully, turning to face me with his hands clasped behind his back.

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‎“Marco,” he said. “Damien’s right hand.”

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‎The words dropped heavy, and my stomach twisted.

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‎Right hand. Not friend. Not colleague. Not employee. Something sharper, something that carried weight I didn’t yet understand.

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‎He didn’t smile. He didn’t look away. His gaze was a blade, and I was already bleeding beneath it.

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‎My pulse thudded in my ears. I wanted to step back, but that would mean showing weakness. I wanted to step forward, but that would mean inviting something I couldn’t control. So I stayed frozen in the doorway, fighting to breathe evenly.

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‎“Damien isn’t here,” Marco said after a pause. His tone carried no reassurance, only fact. “He had business to attend to.”

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‎Business. The word sounded like a warning.

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‎I nodded, though my voice barely worked. “I… I see.”

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‎Marco tilted his head the way a predator studies prey. “Do you?”

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‎The question wasn’t about Damien’s schedule. It was about me. About whether I understood where I stood, whose bed I had slept in, whose world I had stepped into without a way back.

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‎Heat crawled up my neck, not from desire but from exposure. He looked at me as though I were transparent, every thought and fear laid bare for his judgment.

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‎I opened my mouth, searching for something to say, but he cut me off with silence. His eyes lingered on the faint redness around my wrist where the robe had slipped back, revealing the mark Damien’s cuffs had left. For a flicker of a second, his jaw tightened, and something unreadable crossed his face.

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‎Then it was gone, shuttered behind the same controlled stillness.

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‎“You should eat,” he said simply, as though the conversation had been dismissed. He turned back to the counter, sliding one of the mugs closer to the edge for me. “Coffee.”

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‎The gesture should have been ordinary. It wasn’t. It was command disguised as courtesy, a reminder that my choices here were illusions at best.

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‎I stepped forward slowly, each movement careful, and reached for the mug. My fingers brushed the porcelain, warm against my trembling hand.

‎Marco did not move away. He stood close enough that I could smell his cologne, something sharp and clean, different from Damien’s dark spice. He was taller than I expected, his presence filling the space like a wall.

‎When I glanced up, his eyes were waiting. Still steady. Still watching.

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‎I forced myself to lift the cup, sipping quickly just to break the moment. The bitter taste hit my tongue, grounding me, though not enough to still the racing of my heart.

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‎Marco studied me for another breath before speaking again. “You’re important to him.”

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‎It wasn’t a compliment. It was a threat wrapped in fact.

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‎I froze, the mug halfway back to the counter.

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‎His voice stayed calm, but there was an edge beneath it, a sharpened warning. “That makes you important to me. And it makes you dangerous.”

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‎I blinked, my throat closing. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

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‎“Yes, you do,” he replied quietly. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

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‎The weight of his words pressed down until I felt suffocated. He was not asking. He was telling me, in the simplest terms, that I was already marked. That my presence had shifted something I didn’t yet see, and that he would not hesitate if it threatened Damien’s world.

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‎I lowered the mug, setting it carefully on the counter so the sound wouldn’t betray my shaking hands.

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‎Marco watched me a moment longer, then gave a small nod, as if he had finished his evaluation. He turned away, picking up his own coffee, and walked toward the window without another word.

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‎I stood there, heart pounding, staring at the broad line of his back.

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‎I had thought Damien was the only danger I had to face.

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‎Now I wasn’t sure if the greater threat had just introduced himself.

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