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.
The afternoon sun was relentless, pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Elena's private art studio. Usually, this was her sanctuary, the one place where she wasn't "Mrs. Croft," the trophy wife of a titan. Here, she was just Elena, a woman with a canvas and a palette.
But today, the brush felt heavy. Every stroke of crimson paint reminded her of the flush on Damon's face when he'd whispered those intoxicating terms at breakfast.
Total surrender.
"You're overthinking the shadows," a deep voice vibrated from the doorway.
Elena jumped, her brush smearing a jagged line of red across the canvas. She turned to find Damon leaning against the doorframe. He had shed his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms and the expensive watch that glinted in the light.
"You should learn to knock," Elena snapped, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"In my own house?" Damon walked into the room, his presence instantly shrinking the space. He ignored her irritation and stood in front of the painting. "It's chaotic. Violent. Tell me, Elena, is this how you feel inside?"
Elena wiped her hands on a rag, trying to ignore how his scent—that damn sandalwood—was colonizing her studio. "I feel like I'm being hunted. You gave me an ultimatum, Damon. That's not a marriage. That's a hostile takeover."
Damon turned his gaze from the canvas to her eyes. The intensity in his look made her knees weak. "A takeover implies I'm taking something that doesn't want to be caught. But last night... your body didn't seem to mind the 'hostility' at all."
Elena flushed. "Last night was a lapse in judgment."
"Then let's have another lapse," he said, stepping closer. "Sign the amendment to our agreement, Elena. Give up the separate wings. Let me in."
He pulled a single sheet of paper from his pocket and laid it on her paint-stained desk. Beside it, he placed a heavy, gold fountain pen.
Elena looked at the paper. It was simple. One paragraph stating that the 'separate living' clause was hereby null and void. But she knew it was more than that. Signing this meant she was officially ending the cold war between them. It meant she was inviting the lion into her bedroom every single night.
"And if I don't?" she challenged, her voice trembling.
Damon stepped into her personal space, his hand reaching out to catch a stray lock of her hair. He tucked it behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her skin. The touch felt like fire.
"Then we continue as we were," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "Polite strangers. Cold dinners. Empty beds. You can go back to your quiet, lonely life, and I will go back to being the man who only sees you at charity galas."
He leaned down, his lips inches from hers. "But we both know you're already addicted to the way I make you feel. You can't go back to the cold, Elena. Not after you've tasted the sun."
The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the sound of their synchronized breathing. Elena looked at the pen, then at the man who held her entire world in his hands.
She was terrified. She was furious. But god, she was so hungry for him.
With a shaky hand, Elena grabbed the pen. She didn't read the legal jargon. She simply scrawled her signature at the bottom in bold, defiant strokes.
Damon watched her, a dark flash of triumph in his eyes. He didn't take the paper. Instead, he grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against him, his mouth crashing onto hers in a kiss that tasted of ink and desperation.
The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the sound of their synchronized breathing. Elena looked at the pen, then at the man who held her entire world in his hands.
She was terrified. She was furious. But god, she was so hungry for him.
With a shaky hand, Elena grabbed the pen. She didn't read the legal jargon. She simply scrawled her signature at the bottom in bold, defiant strokes.
Damon watched her, a dark flash of triumph in his eyes. He didn't take the paper. Instead, he grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against him, his mouth crashing onto hers in a kiss that tasted of ink and desperation.
"Good girl," he growled against her lips. "Pack your things. You're moving into the Master suite tonight."
As he walked away, leaving her breathless and clinging to the edge of her desk, Elena realized she hadn't just signed a contract.
She had signed away her freedom. And she couldn't wait to see what he would do with it.