“Trapped in the Enemy’s Den”

I run.

The second my feet hit the ground, I sprinted through the chaos. People are still screaming, scattering like frightened birds as the sound of the gunshot echoes through the massive church. Ivy Monroe is down. She’s alive, but bleeding. That’s not my problem anymore.

I need to get out of here.

My heart pounds as I dodge past terrified wedding guests. My mind is racing, my instincts screaming at me to move faster. I was supposed to be the one to take the shot. Now, someone else wants Ivy dead, and I have no idea who.

That’s not my job to figure out.

Right now, my job is getting out alive.

I make it to the church doors, but before I can push them open—a strong hand grabs my arm.

I’m yanked back so hard my body slams into a wall of muscle.

A familiar scent floods my senses—dark cologne, cedarwood, and something uniquely him.

Damian.

His grip tightens on my wrist, his breathing harsh against my ear. “You’re not going anywhere.”

I twist, trying to free myself, but he’s too strong. His hands lock around me like iron shackles, his touch both familiar and terrifying.

I shove at his chest. “Damian, let go.”

His jaw clenches. “Not a chance.”

The look in his eyes makes my stomach twist. He’s angry—furious—but beneath the rage, there’s something else. Something unreadable.

But I don’t have time to analyze it.

I knee him in the side, aiming for his ribs. He grunts in pain, his grip loosening just enough for me to break free. I take off, sprinting toward the exit.

I almost make it.

But Damian is faster.

Before I can reach the door, he tackles me from behind, sending us both crashing to the marble floor. The impact knocks the breath out of me, pain shooting up my shoulder as I land beneath him.

He pins me down, his weight pressing against me.

I struggle, but it’s useless. His hands clamp around my wrists, pressing them to the floor. I can feel his breath on my skin, his body tense, his heart hammering against mine.

I hate that my body still reacts to him.

I hate that I remember what it felt like when he held me for other reasons.

I glare up at him, my chest heaving. “Let. Me. Go.”

Damian stares down at me, his blue eyes like ice. “You just saved my life, Selene. And I have a feeling it wasn’t part of your plan.”

His voice is low, controlled—but there’s a sharp edge to it, like he’s barely holding back his emotions.

I turn my head away. “It was instinct.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Instinct?”

I refuse to meet his gaze. “Believe whatever you want.”

For a moment, neither of us moves. I can feel the weight of his stare, searching, digging, demanding answers I won’t give.

Then, without a word, he pulls me to my feet.

Before I can react, he yanks something from his pocket—a syringe.

My stomach drops.

“Damian—”

He jabs it into my arm.

A sharp sting. A rush of warmth.

The world tilts.

The last thing I see is his face—his cold, beautiful, infuriating face—before everything fades to black.

***

I wake up to the scent of leather and smoke.

My head is pounding. My body feels heavy, my limbs sluggish. My vision is blurry at first, but when it clears, I know exactly where I am.

Damian’s penthouse.

I’ve been here before—back when things were different. Back when I would wake up tangled in his sheets, his lips on my skin, his hands tracing every inch of me.

Now, I’m his prisoner.

The room is dimly lit, a fire crackling in the grand fireplace across from the bed. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, offering a breathtaking view of the city lights below.

The bed I’m lying in is too soft, the silk sheets smooth beneath my fingers. It’s disorienting. Nothing about this feels like a prison.

Except for the fact that the door is locked.

I push myself up, my head still spinning. My heart pounds as I take in my surroundings. The last time I was in this room, Damian had held me in his arms, whispering things I thought were real.

Now, I know better.

A shadow moves near the fireplace.

Damian.

He stands with his back to me, hands in his pockets, his suit jacket discarded. His tie is loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He looks like a man who’s just barely keeping himself together.

I hate that he still looks so good.

I shift on the bed, making the silk sheets rustle. His head snaps toward me. His blue eyes lock onto mine.

Neither of us speaks.

The silence is thick with everything we don’t say.

Finally, Damian moves. He walks toward me, slow and controlled, like a predator. When he reaches the edge of the bed, he doesn’t sit. He just watches me, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“Who sent you?”