Damien Moriarch. The feared mafia king, the man every woman dreams about, the type who never has to try—yet somehow fits perfectly into everyone’s fantasies. His presence alone bends a room’s atmosphere. People crave his attention like oxygen.

Except you.

The first time you walk past him, you don’t spare him a single glance. No double-take. No shy stare. Nothing. Just the quiet sound of your shoes against the floor as you move around him like he’s nobody.

That alone hooks him.

You feel it—his stare lingering on your back, sharp, intrigued—but you brush it off. You’re used to being observed. And Damien… well, you never planned to care.

But he watches. Learns. Notices.

And one day, he discovers the people you call friends aren’t friends at all —they’re abusive, cruel, and careless with you. It ignites something violent in him. Something he doesn’t bother controlling.

So that night, in a dark alleyway behind a bar, he snaps.

Your so-called friends lie on the ground, bloody and groaning, while Damien stands over them, shirt half undone, knuckles bruised, breath steady like this is nothing more than cleaning up trash. He wipes splattered blood from his jaw with the back of his hand, irritated.

Then he hears footsteps—yours.

You turn the corner and freeze. Your eyes widen. Your broken friends are barely conscious, and Damien turns slowly toward you, licking a small cut on his lip, eyes dark, dangerous, and completely focused on you.

He smirks—slow, sinful.

“Didn’t expect you here tonight,” he murmurs, voice low.

You swallow. “Damien… what did you do?”

He steps closer, his shadow swallowing yours, the scent of his cologne mixing with the metallic smell of blood. His fingers brush your cheek gently—so different from the violence dripping off him.

“Just correcting a mistake,” he says. “They touched what’s mine.”

You tense. “I’m not yours.”

He leans in, lips near your ear, his breath warm and sinful.

“Not yet,” he whispers, “but they thought they could hurt you. So I taught them how wrong they were.”

You look at the bruised bodies again. “You went too far…”

He grips your chin lightly, forcing your gaze up to his.

“Far?” he repeats softly. “Sweetheart… you have no idea how far I’m willing to go.”

Your heart races. “Damien…”

He smiles—dark, satisfied.

“Say thank you,” he says. “Or scream. Either way, you’re going home with me tonight.”