The morning sun didn't reach the palace's east wing — the part reserved for war, punishment… and now, Ariana.
She awoke with the echo of his kiss still imprinted on her lips. Her body was warm, her skin sensitive. Her dreams had been sinful. She hated it. Hated him. And yet… when the servant girl entered with a folded dress the color of blood, Ariana couldn't look away.
"His Highness requests your presence in the throne hall."
Her stomach tightened. Requests. He meant commands.
The dress was indecent. Thin fabric. A deep neckline. Slit up the thigh. Designed to provoke, to shame. Ariana nearly tossed it to the floor — but then she smiled.
"Fine," she muttered. "Let's play."
The throne hall was empty of nobles, filled only with shadows, torches, and him. Damian sat on his obsidian throne, one leg lazily draped over the other, dark eyes locked on her as she entered.
She walked slowly. Every step deliberate. Every sway of her hips intentional.
If he wanted to play with fire… she would let him burn.
"You dressed like a whore," he said smoothly, his voice low and deadly.
"You chose the dress," Ariana replied, stopping at the base of the dais. "I assumed you had a taste for them."
His jaw flexed. One second. Two.
Then he stood.
In the silence that followed, she could hear the beat of her own heart. He came down the steps, circling her like a predator sizing up his prey. His fingers skimmed her bare shoulder — featherlight, maddening.
"You look like temptation," he said, voice dipped in hunger. "But I wonder… are you ready to be devoured?"
"Try me," she whispered.
That did it.
He grabbed her — not harsh, but possessive, hungry — his hand sliding around her throat as he tilted her chin up.
"You want to play, little flame?" His breath brushed her lips. "Then don't cry when you're scorched."
Their lips met again — rougher this time, desperate. His mouth moved like he owned her, claimed her. His tongue pushed past her lips, demanding, exploring, consuming. She moaned before she could stop it, one hand tangled in his dark coat, the other fisting his shirt.
But then… she bit him.
Hard.
He pulled back, stunned, blood blooming on his lower lip.
She wiped it with her thumb and smiled. "Still think you're the only one who bites?"
Damian stared at her for a moment — then
laughed. Dark. Dangerous. Turned on.
"Careful," he whispered. "You keep that up and I might start falling for you."
Her breath caught.
And in that second, she saw something terrifying in his eyes: truth.