The dim light from the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the room, the hum of tension thick in the air. You waited for the right moment, fingers clutching the cold steel of the knife hidden beneath the pillow. Each thrust brought him closer, his grip on your hips firm, dominant, as though he owned not just your body but the very air you breathed.

Your heart pounded, a deafening rhythm in your ears as you wrapped your free hand around his neck, pulling him closer under the guise of passion. The moment his lips brushed your ear, a deep groan of pleasure escaping him, you made your move.

With a sharp twist, you lunged upward, the knife slicing through the air. But instead of connecting with his throat, it met resistance—his hand. His fingers clamped around your wrist like a vice, halting your attempt in its tracks. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, and the corner of his mouth tugged into a wicked smirk.

"Really, love?" Damien's voice was a silken mockery, laced with arrogance and just a hint of affection. "You thought you’d catch me off guard?"

You tried to twist free, anger and frustration bubbling in your chest. But he merely tightened his hold, his other hand gripping your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“I’m a mafia boss, darling,” he whispered, his tone both a warning and a declaration. “You think I didn’t see this coming?”

He resumed his rhythm, his movements deliberate, almost punishing, as though reminding you of his power, his control. The knife clattered to the floor as your strength waned, replaced by a mix of fear and unwanted thrill.

"Nice try," he murmured against your lips before claiming them in a bruising kiss, leaving you breathless and unable to discern if his dominance terrified or thrilled you more.