Mara didn't remember getting into the car.
One second, rooftop. Blood. Beasts.
The next, sinking into warm leather, Damian's scent—cedar and smoke—wrapping around her.
He didn't speak. Just drove. Hands steady on the wheel. Jaw tight. Gold eyes flicking to her in the rearview mirror every few seconds.
Like he was checking she was still real.
She stared out the window. Manhattan blurred past. Lives going on like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Her wrist tingled where the mark had appeared. She touched it. Nothing there now. But she'd seen it. Felt it burn.
The SUV slowed.
Blackstone Tower rose ahead—sleek, silver, impossibly tall.
"Home," Damian said quietly.
Not a question. Fact.
Underground garage. No cameras. Just smooth concrete and soft light.
He opened her door. Offered his hand.
She hesitated.
Then took it.
Heat shot up her arm. Strong. Steady. Right.
He didn't squeeze. Didn't pull. Just held on like she was something precious.
The private elevator had no buttons. Just a keycard slot.
Damian swiped.
Doors closed.
Silence.
Then—heat. Thick. Electric.
She turned.
He stood close now. Not touching. But his eyes tracked every breath she took.
"You're safe now," he said.
"For how long?"
"Forever."
No hesitation. Just truth.
The elevator dinged. Doors opened to a hallway—dark wood, soft lights, one door at the end.
He led her to it.
Then stopped.
Knocked.
On his own door.
"May I come in?" he asked.
Her eyes widened. "You own this building."
"I do. But this room?" He held her gaze. "It's yours. So I ask."
Her chest tightened. No one had ever asked her permission for anything. Not really.
She nodded.
He opened the door.
The room was soft. Warm light. Cream walls. Huge bed with gray linens. Balcony beyond.
On the nightstand: a steaming mug. Black coffee. One sugar.
She blinked. "How did you—?"
"I watched you order it yesterday."
He stepped inside—just far enough to set down her bag.
Then stopped. Waited.
She walked past him. Set her things down.
Turned.
He stood in the doorway. Tall. Powerful. Bleeding still.
"You're hurt," she said softly.
He glanced at his shoulder. The gashes had stopped bleeding but looked raw.
"It'll heal."
"How fast?"
"By morning."
She stared. "You're serious."
"Yes."
She crossed to him. Slowly. His eyes tracked her—wary, hopeful.
She reached up. Touched the torn fabric. Pulled it aside.
Three deep claw marks.
He hissed when her fingers grazed them.
"Sorry," she whispered.
"Don't be." His voice was strained. "Your touch doesn't hurt. It soothes."
She didn't pull away. Just traced the edges gently.
He shuddered. Breathing deepened.
"Mara," he said, voice rough. "If you keep touching me—"
"What?"
His jaw clenched. "I won't be able to stay respectful."
"Maybe I don't want you to be."
His eyes flared gold.
"You don't know what you're saying."
"Yes, I do."
She stepped closer. So close she felt his heat. Smelled cedar and smoke and something wild underneath.
"On that rooftop," she whispered, "you said you wanted to taste me."
"Mara—"
"Do you still?"
His hands fisted. Every muscle went taut.
"Yes. God, yes."
"Then why are you over there?"
Something snapped.
He moved. Fast.
One second, doorway. Next, in front of her. Hands cupping her face. Mouth crashing down.
No gentleness. Just hunger.
His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming, tasting like he'd been starving.
She moaned. Fisted his torn shirt.
He walked her backward until her legs hit the bed.
Didn't push her down. Just kissed her deeper. Harder.
His hands slid down—gripping her waist, her hips, pulling her flush.
She felt his erection—thick, hard—pressing against her.
A whimper escaped.
He pulled back. Eyes molten. Breathing ragged.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
"No."
"Mara—"
"I don't want you to stop."
His control wavered. She saw it. The beast beneath the man.
"If I start," he warned, "I might not be gentle."
"Good."
He groaned—broken—and kissed her again.
Deeper. Fiercer.
His hands found the buttons of her blouse. Undid them slowly. Deliberately.
When the fabric fell open, he pulled back to look.
Black lace bra. Breasts rising with each breath. Nipples hard through lace.
"Perfect," he murmured.
His hand slid behind her. Unhooked the clasp.
The bra fell.
Cool air. Heated skin.
He looked—really looked. Like memorizing.
"Beautiful."
Then his mouth was on her. Tongue circling her nipple. Sucking gently. Then harder.
She cried out. Fingers threading into his hair.
His hand cupped her other breast. Kneading. Rolling the nipple.
She trembled. Ached. So wet now she felt it soaking through.
His hand slid down. To her skirt waistband.
Paused.
Looked up.
"Tell me to stop."
"Don't you dare."
He smiled—dark, dangerous.
Unzipped her skirt. Let it fall.
She stood in just panties now. Black lace. Soaked through.
His eyes locked on the wet patch.
A growl rumbled in his chest.
"You're drenched."
"Yes."
He dropped to his knees.
The powerful billionaire. On his knees.
His hands gripped her hips. He leaned in. Pressed his nose against soaked lace.
Inhaled deeply.
"Heaven," he groaned.
Then his mouth was on her. Through fabric. Hot breath. Wet tongue pressing against her clit.
She gasped. Knees buckled.
He held her up. Kept licking. Sucking. Driving her insane.
"Please—"
He hooked fingers in her waistband. Pulled panties down slowly.
They pooled at her feet.
She stepped out.
Now completely bare.
He looked up. Gold eyes burning.
"Last chance. Tell me—"
She threaded fingers into his hair. Pulled him closer.
"Taste me."
His eyes blazed.
Then his mouth was on her. No barrier. Just tongue sliding through slick folds.
She cried out—loud, broken.
He groaned against her. The vibration sent shockwaves through her core.
His tongue found her clit. Circled. Flicked. Sucked it into his mouth.
She couldn't stand. Couldn't think. Just feel.
He slid two fingers inside. Slowly. Stretching.
She was tight. So tight.
He worked them deeper. Curled. Found that spot.
"Damian!" she gasped.
He pumped his fingers. Slow. Then faster. Harder.
His mouth never left her clit. Sucking. Licking. Devouring.
She felt it building. Coiling. Tighter.
"I'm going to—"
"Come," he commanded. "Come on my tongue."
She shattered.
Her orgasm crashed through—violent, overwhelming.
She screamed his name.
Her pussy clenched around his fingers. Rhythmic pulses. Endless.
He didn't stop. Just licked her through it. Prolonging it until she trembled, oversensitive.
When she finally came down, he rose slowly.
His lips glistened.
His eyes glowed.
He lifted his fingers—wet with her—to his mouth. Sucked them clean.
"Delicious."
Then he kissed her. Deep. Let her taste herself.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead on hers.
"Mara," he whispered.
"Yes?"
"I've waited sixteen years for that."
She smiled. "Worth it?"
His eyes glowed faintly.
"Not even close. Because now I know what I've been missing."
He stepped back.
She reached for him. "Stay."
He looked at their joined hands. Then her face.
"I will. But not in here."
She frowned.
He smiled—small, dangerous.
"I'll be next door. Door unlocked. If you need me—I'll be there before you finish calling my name."
He turned. At the door, paused.
"Goodnight, Mara."
"Damian?"
He looked back.
"Thank you."
His expression softened. "For what?"
"For asking permission. For making me feel seen."
"Mara," he said quietly, "you were never invisible. The world was just blind."
Then he was gone.
She stood there—lips tingling, heart full.
Walked to the balcony. Opened the door.
Cold air hit her face.
Below, the city glittered.
Across the hall—through his open door—she saw him.
Standing on his balcony. Facing hers. Arms crossed. Watching.
Not intruding. Just there.
A guard. A promise.
She didn't close her door.
Just whispered: "Okay."
Then smiled.
And went to bed.
Leaving the balcony door open.
But on her nightstand—beside the coffee—something new appeared while she slept.
A photograph.
Black and white. Dated 1994.
A woman who looked exactly like Mara.
Standing beside a younger Damian.
His arm around her.
Both smiling.
And written on the back in faded ink:
"Selene & Damian. One day before—"
The rest was burnt away.