Chapter 6: Unwanted Cravings

Three weeks had passed since the night everything changed between them, and Elara had fallen into a routine that both comforted and terrified her. Days were spent in the gilded cage of the penthouse—reading in his extensive library, sketching cityscapes from the floor-to-ceiling windows, or accompanying him to carefully selected social functions where she played the perfect companion. But it was the nights that had begun to reshape her understanding of herself.

Damian no longer used the pendant as a tool of public humiliation. Instead, it had become something else entirely—a bridge between them, a way for him to touch her even when they were apart. The vibrations were gentler now, almost teasing, arriving at unexpected moments throughout the day like secret messages only she could feel.

She should have hated it. Should have continued to fight against the way her body responded to his control. Instead, she found herself anticipating those moments, her breath catching in her throat when his phone would appear in his hand and that familiar warmth would bloom against her skin.

The realization that she was beginning to crave her own submission should have horrified her. Instead, it felt like discovering a hidden part of herself she'd never known existed.

"You're distracted today," Damian observed, glancing up from his laptop where he sat at the dining table. They'd been sharing breakfast in comfortable silence, but Elara had barely touched her food.

"Just thinking," she replied, forcing herself to take a bite of the perfectly prepared omelet.

"About what?"

She hesitated, then decided on honesty. "About how different this is from what I expected."

"And what did you expect?" His voice was carefully neutral, but she caught the flicker of interest in his pale eyes.

"I thought it would be..." She searched for the right words. "More clinical. More about power and control."

"Isn't it?" The question held a dangerous edge.

"Yes. But also..." She set down her fork, meeting his gaze directly. "Also about something else. Something I don't have words for yet."

His phone appeared in his hand as if summoned, and the pendant came to life against her skin. But this time, instead of the sharp bursts or overwhelming intensity he'd used at the gala, it was a slow, rhythmic pulse that matched her heartbeat. Intimate. Almost tender.

Her breath hitched, and she felt heat bloom in her cheeks. But she didn't look away from his gaze.

"Is this what you mean?" he asked softly.

"Yes." The admission escaped as barely more than a whisper.

He increased the intensity slightly, watching her face with predatory focus. "And how does it make you feel?"

The question was loaded with implications. He wasn't just asking about the physical sensation—he was asking her to acknowledge what she'd been fighting against for weeks.

"Like I'm losing myself," she said honestly. "And like I'm finding myself at the same time."

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps even approval. "Good girl."

The praise shouldn't have affected her the way it did. But the warmth that spread through her chest had nothing to do with the pendant and everything to do with the satisfaction in his voice.

Later that afternoon, as they lay tangled together in his bed, Elara found herself studying the play of afternoon light across his scarred back. The brutal marks that told the story of his past had become familiar to her now, each one a piece of the puzzle that was Damian Blackwood.

"Tell me about the worst one," she said quietly, tracing a particularly vicious scar that ran from his shoulder blade to his spine.

He tensed under her touch. "Why?"

"Because I want to understand you. The real you, not just the persona you show the world."

For a long moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. Then, slowly, he began to speak.

"I was fifteen. My father's enemies thought they could use me as leverage." His voice was emotionless, clinical. "They were wrong, but not before they'd made their point."

"How long?" she asked, her fingers gentle against the raised tissue.

"Three days." He turned to face her, his eyes holding memories she couldn't begin to imagine. "That's when I learned that pain is temporary, but weakness is forever."

"You weren't weak," she said fiercely. "You were a child."

"I was prey." His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "I swore I'd never be prey again."

"Is that what you think I am? Prey?"

"I thought you were." His admission was quiet, almost reluctant. "But you're not, are you? You're something else entirely."

Before she could ask what he meant, his mouth was on hers, and thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. But as he moved above her, as their bodies found their familiar rhythm, she noticed something different in his touch. It was still commanding, still dominant, but underneath was something that felt almost desperate.

As if he needed this connection as much as she was beginning to.

The revelation should have given her power, should have shifted the balance between them. Instead, it only made her want to surrender more completely, to give him whatever he needed from her.

When he reached for the remote afterward, she caught his wrist.

"No," she said softly.

He went still. "No?"

"I mean..." She struggled to find the words. "You don't need it anymore. To make me respond to you."

The confession hung between them, loaded with implications neither of them was ready to fully acknowledge. Damian stared at her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

"Are you sure?" His voice was rough, uncertain in a way she'd never heard before.

Instead of answering with words, she moved against him, letting her body demonstrate what her mind had been fighting against for weeks. The gasp that escaped his lips was reward enough.

But it was what happened next that shattered both their carefully maintained defenses. As her response built, as her body moved toward the edge of control, she felt something crack open inside her chest. Not just physical pleasure, but something deeper, more dangerous.

She was falling for him. Not Stockholm syndrome, not survival instinct, but genuine, terrifying emotion.

The realization must have shown on her face, because Damian suddenly stopped, his hands framing her face as he searched her eyes.

"Elara." Her name on his lips was a question, a prayer, a warning all at once.

"Don't stop," she whispered. "Please."

But he did stop, pulling back to study her face with an intensity that made her feel exposed in ways that had nothing to do with her nakedness.

"Are you okay, Elara?"

The question was so unexpected, so gentle, that it shattered the last of her defenses. For the first time since entering his world, he was asking about her welfare, her comfort, her needs. Not as his possession, but as herself.

The sound of her own name in his mouth—not as a command or a claim, but as something precious—broke something fundamental inside her. Tears she'd been holding back for weeks finally spilled over, and she found herself sobbing against his chest while he held her with surprising tenderness.

"I don't understand what's happening to me," she confessed between gasps. "I should hate you. I should be counting the days until I can leave. But instead..."

"Instead?" His voice was carefully controlled, but she could feel the tension in his body.

"Instead, I think about what will happen when the year is over, and it terrifies me." She pulled back to meet his eyes. "Not because I'm afraid of leaving, but because I'm afraid of wanting to stay."

The admission hung between them like a bridge neither of them was sure they were ready to cross. Damian's pale eyes searched her face, looking for deception, for manipulation, for anything that would let him dismiss her words as strategy.

But there was nothing but honesty in her tear-stained face, and they both knew it.

"Elara," he said again, and this time her name sounded like a confession of his own.

"What's happening to us?" she whispered.

He didn't answer, but the way he held her—protective, possessive, but also reverent—told her everything she needed to know. Whatever this was between them, it had stopped being about ownership and submission somewhere along the way.

It had become something far more dangerous.

Something that might actually be real.