All Chapters of My Professor is A Mafia : Chapter 41 - Chapter 45

I woke up the next morning with every muscle in my body aching and the unmistakable throb between my legs that made the previous night impossible to deny. When I sat up, a sharp soreness flared deep inside me. I pushed the covers down and stared. Faint bruises in the shape of his fingers marked my hips. My inner thighs were tender. There was a dull, lingering burn that made me press my legs together with a wince. I looked ruined, claimed. And the worst part was the way my stomach fluttered at the sight of it. I remembered everything in vivid, humiliating detail the way he had bent me over the desk, the brutal stretch of him forcing his way inside, the hand fisted in my hair, the sharp slap across my ass when I tried to talk back. He had been rough, almost cruel, snarling reminders that I had started it with every short skirt and every deliberate look. Yet afterward… afterward he had been different. He had pulled out slowly, breathing hard, then reached for tissues and cleaned me wi

I walked into Damien’s office that evening trying so hard to act normal that my shoulders ached from the effort. The short skirt and low top he still required felt heavier than usual. I kept my left sleeve pulled all the way down to my wrist, fingers lightly curled around the fabric as if that small grip could hide what was underneath. My hands were already trembling when I sat in the usual chair and opened the project folder.I didn’t look at him but I could feel him watching me the moment the door locked. The air in the office always changed when we were alone, but tonight it felt thicker, sharper. I turned a page I wasn’t reading and forced my breathing to stay even. Pretend nothing is wrong. Pretend the dark, fresh fingerprint bruises blooming around my left wrist aren’t there. Pretend Julian’s grip hadn’t been hard enough to leave proof.Damien noticed almost immediately.He didn’t speak at first. I heard the soft scrape of his chair, then the slow, deliberate sound of his footst

That evening I entered Damien’s office expecting the usual thick tension, the familiar click of the lock, the weight of his eyes on me the moment the door shut. I wore what he still required the short skirt, the low top and sat in the chair across from his desk without being told. He barely glanced at me as he nodded toward the open folder already waiting. “Work.”I opened it and tried to focus. The only sounds in the room for a long time were the quiet turning of pages and the low, steady hum of the desk lamp. Nearly an hour passed like that. My pen moved across the paper, but my mind kept drifting to the bruises still fading on my wrist, to the way he had stood between me and Julian in the hallway, to the dangerous quiet that always seemed to live under his controlled surface.Then he closed his laptop. The soft sound made my hand still. I looked up. Damien was watching me with an expression I couldn’t immediately read calm, but unyielding, the same way he looked when he refused