That truth wrapped around Alina like a silken rope long after she left Damian's studio. It was there when she washed his scent from her skin, when she tried — and failed — to sleep, when she woke aching and empty, craving a touch she had no right to demand.
It terrified her.
It thrilled her.
And it left her breathless for more.
---
The next morning, her phone buzzed with a message that made her stomach swoop.
> Damian:
There's an exhibit opening tonight at the Loring Gallery. Come as my guest. I'll send a car for you at 7.
Wear something that reminds you you're mine.
No polite question. Just an expectation. A pulse of heat spread between her thighs at the sheer audacity — at how easily her body thrilled to obey.
She typed out a quick yes before she could overthink it. Then spent the day in a haze, torn between nerves and a wicked sort of excitement that made her chest tight and her breath shallow.
---
By six, she was standing in front of her small bedroom mirror, fighting the urge to laugh at herself.
Wear something that reminds you you're mine.
What did that even mean?
She settled on a deep crimson dress, low-backed and silky, that hugged her figure shamelessly. She'd always thought it too daring. Now, it felt like an unspoken promise. She left her hair down in soft waves and applied a hint of dark lipstick — something she'd never worn before Damian.
Just as she slipped into delicate heels, headlights swept across her apartment window. Her phone buzzed again.
> Outside.
Her heart somersaulted.
---
The car pulled up to a grand building of stone and glass. Inside, the Loring Gallery was all marble floors and vast canvases lit by discreet spotlights. The crowd shimmered in designer gowns and sleek suits, voices a murmur of wealth and cultured laughter.
But when Damian appeared, cutting through the gathering like a dark blade, everything else fell away.
Tonight he wore a perfectly tailored black suit, no tie, collar slightly open to reveal a hint of his throat. His eyes found her instantly, sweeping over her with such raw possession that heat climbed her neck and settled low in her belly.
"Alina."
Just the way he said her name — like it was already his favorite word — made her knees weaken.
He took her hand, lifting it to his lips. The brief brush of his mouth over her skin felt shockingly intimate, scandalous even among strangers.
"You look exquisite. And entirely too tempting for my sanity," he murmured.
She managed a shaky laugh. "Is that… a problem?"
His eyes glittered dangerously. "Only for everyone else who has to watch me struggle not to devour you right here."
---
He guided her through the gallery, hand firm at the small of her back. People greeted him by name, eager smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes, offering air-kisses and thin compliments. Damian's responses were polite but distracted — his attention never strayed far from her.
At one point, he leaned down to murmur against her ear. "Do you know how many men here want to paint you, photograph you, possess you? They're all imagining it. And not a single one of them will ever touch you. Because you're mine, Alina."
A delicious shiver ran through her.
---
They stopped in front of a haunting oil portrait — a woman sprawled across velvet sheets, back arched in abandon, mouth parted in a silent cry. Alina felt her breath catch. Damian watched her closely.
"That's what I see when I look at you," he said softly. "How easily you surrender. How you crave to be undone."
Her skin flushed hot.
"Does that scare you?"
She shook her head before her mouth could catch up. "No. It… it scares me how much I want it."
A slow, wicked smile curved his lips. "Good."
---
The rest of the night passed in a blur of murmured introductions and soft gasps when Damian's hand wandered — a possessive stroke down her back, a proprietary brush of her hip that left her trembling. Each subtle touch reminded her of who she belonged to now.
By the time the car slid back into Manhattan's streets, her body was humming with need, nipples hard under the silk of her dress, thighs pressed tightly together.
Damian's hand found hers, lacing their fingers together.
"You're coming home with me tonight."
Not a question. A certainty.
Alina's lips parted on a breathless sound that might have been yes.
---
The townhouse door had barely shut behind them before Damian had her pressed against it, his mouth capturing hers in a fierce, hungry kiss. His hands slid into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the contact. When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged.
"Upstairs. Now."
Her legs wobbled as she obeyed. He followed close behind, every step heavy with anticipation.
---
In the bedroom, Damian didn't bother with lamps. Moonlight spilled through tall windows, silvering the sheets. He turned her to face the glass.
"Look," he ordered.
She did — at the city sprawling endlessly below them, glittering lights like scattered diamonds. Then at her own reflection, flushed and wide-eyed. Damian stepped up behind her, hands settling on her hips, pulling her back against the hard length of him.
"You see that woman?" he rasped against her ear. "She's mine. Every inch. Every breath."
"Yes," she whispered.
He smiled darkly, then lowered his head to bite gently at the curve where her neck met her shoulder.
"Then let me show you just how thoroughly."
---
His hands roamed down her sides, bunching her dress up around her waist. When he discovered she'd obeyed his earlier command — nothing beneath — he let out a low, approving sound.
"Perfect," he growled.
Without warning, he bent her forward slightly, one large hand pressing between her shoulder blades. Alina braced herself against the cool glass, breath fogging the pane. She felt him behind her, the soft rustle of his belt, then the blunt heat of him pressing at her entrance.
The first thrust stole her breath — deep, claiming, ruthless in its pleasure.
"Look at us," Damian commanded.
She forced her gaze up, eyes locking on the reflection: Damian towering behind her, shirt open now, his hands gripping her hips, driving into her with a force that made the windows tremble.
"Say it," he growled. "Say who you belong to."
"You… Damian… I belong to you."
His low groan vibrated against her spine.
---
When release finally tore through her, she cried out his name, watching her own mouth shape it in the glass. Damian followed a heartbeat later, burying himself deep with a broken curse.
They stayed like that for a long moment, bodies joined, foreheads pressed together against the cool window.
When he finally eased them both down to the bed, pulling her into his arms, Alina's last thought before sleep claimed her was dangerously sweet:
There was no turning back.
She didn't want to.