The first thing Elena registered was the scent. Sandalwood, expensive musk, and something underlying it all—something raw, uniquely male.
It was a scent that didn't belong in her pristine, ivory-colored bedroom.
She shifted, a dull ache settling deep in her muscles—the good kind of ache. The kind that spoke of hours spent tangled in sheets, gasping for air. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the sliver of golden sunlight slicing through the heavy curtains.
Memory crashed into her like a physical blow. The storm last night. The whiskey in the library. The way Damon had looked at her—not as a business partner, or a convenient wife, but as a woman he wanted to devour.
And the way she had let him. No, not just let him. She had begged him.
Elena bolted upright, clutching the silk sheet to her bare chest. The other side of the massive California King bed was empty, the sheets cold.
Panic clawed at her throat. Had it just been a fever dream? A hallucination brought on by two years of loneliness in this gilded cage of a marriage?
Then she saw it. On the mahogany nightstand, placed squarely on top of her phone, was a single diamond cufflink. His cufflink.
It was real.
Her breath hitched. She traced the expensive metal with a trembling finger. For two years, Damon Croft had been the icy, untouchable figure inhabiting the west wing of their mansion. They were perfectly polite strangers bound by a prenuptial agreement.
But last night... last night he had been fire. He had stripped away her defenses with a terrifying precision, unlocking sensations she hadn't known existed. He had been demanding, possessive, and utterly intoxicating.
A shiver ran down her spine, a phantom echo of his hands on her waist. A dangerous warmth bloomed low in her belly just thinking about it.
She should be horrified. They had broken their only rule. This was supposed to be a sterile arrangement, not... this.Elena fell back against the pillows, pulling the sheet over her head, inhaling that lingering scent of sandalwood. A terrifying realization settled over her, heavier than the guilt.
She wasn't horrified. She wanted more.
She was already craving the next hit.
The walk from the bedroom to the dining hall felt like a walk to the gallows. Elena had changed into a modest, cream-colored silk dress, her hair pulled back in a tight, professional bun—a desperate attempt to reclaim the "Ice Queen" persona she had maintained for two years.
But her hands were shaking.
As she entered the dining room, the clink of silverware against porcelain echoed in the vast space. Damon was there, seated at the head of the table, looking as if the previous night had never happened. He was perfectly tailored in a charcoal suit, reading the financial news on his tablet.
"Good morning," Damon said, his voice smooth and deep. He didn't look up.
"Morning," Elena replied, her voice a pitch higher than usual. She sat at the opposite end of the long table, the ten-foot distance feeling like a canyon.
A maid placed a plate of poached eggs and avocado in front of her. Elena stared at it. She felt Damon's gaze lift from his tablet. It wasn't the cold, analytical stare she was used to. It was heavy. Dark.
"You're not eating," he observed.
"I'm not very hungry."
Damon slowly set his tablet down. He leaned back, his eyes tracing the line of her neck, lingering on the spot where he knew he'd left a faint mark the night before. "Energy is important, Elena. It was a… restless night. You should replenish."
Elena nearly choked on her water. The audacity. "Damon, about last night—"
"It was a breach of contract," he interrupted, his tone suddenly flat.
Elena felt a cold splash of reality. Of course. He was going to cite the prenuptial agreement. He was going to remind her that emotions were a liability.
"I know," she said, her heart sinking. "It was a mistake. The wine, the storm—"
"I didn't say it was a mistake," Damon said, cutting her off again. He stood up and began walking toward her end of the table. His footsteps were slow, deliberate. "I said it was a breach of contract. And in business, when a contract is breached, we either terminate... or we renegotiate."
He stopped right behind her chair. Elena could feel the heat radiating from him. He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core.
"I have no intention of terminating this marriage, Elena," he whispered, his hand resting firmly on her shoulder. "In fact, I find I've developed a taste for this particular breach. The question is... are you ready for the new terms?"
Elena looked up, meeting his intense, predatory eyes. The fear was there, but so was that undeniable, addictive spark.
"What terms?" she managed to whisper.
Damon leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing hers. "Total surrender. Every time I walk into a room, every time I look at you, and especially every time we are behind closed doors... you are mine. No more separate wings. No more separate lives."
He pulled back, a ghost of a smirk on his face. "Think about it. You have until tonight."
As he walked away, Elena realized she wasn't thinking about the "contract" at all. She was watching the way his suit jacket strained against his shoulders, already wondering if he would come to her room tonight, or if she would find herself knocking on his door first.
The addiction was real. And she was already losing the fight.