Chapter 5 - THE OFFERING
The click of the heavy oak door latching shut behind her sounded like a gunshot in the silent room.
Alina’s back was pressed against the wood, her hands gripping the edge of the frame to keep her knees from buckling. Damon hadn't moved from his chair, but his gaze was a physical weight pinning her to the spot. The amber glow of the desk lamp cast deep shadows across his powerful physique, highlighting the sweat-sheened muscles of his chest and the dark, tangled hair falling over his forehead.
"Come here," he commanded. It wasn't a request. It was an absolute law of gravity.
Alina’s feet moved against her better judgment, carrying her slowly across the Persian rug until she stood three feet away from his desk. Up close, the air around him crackled with a dangerous, hyper-charged static. She could smell the expensive bourbon on his breath mixed with the raw musk of his arousal.
Damon watched her approach, his dark eyes tracing every inch of her slender figure outlined by the oversized sleepshirt. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips, though his breathing remained ragged and heavy.
"You walked in on the Pakhan in his most private moment," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly caress. "In this house, people have been buried alive for looking at me the wrong way. And you? You stand there watching."
"I was leaving," she whispered, her voice shaking so badly she could barely form the syllables. Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, her fingernails digging into her palms.
"Were you?" Damon tilted his head, his hand slowly sliding free from his trousers, though his gaze never left hers. He rested his forearm flat on the desk, looking up at her with a mix of mockery and dark fascination. "Your breathing says otherwise. Your pulse says otherwise."
Alina swallowed hard, her mouth bone dry. She looked down at him—at the powerful mafia boss who ruled the city with an iron fist, yet looked haunted, driven mad by ghosts and shadows. Something inside her snapped. The fear didn't vanish, but it transformed into a reckless, desperate courage.
She took a step closer, stopping right at the edge of his desk.
"You're in pain," she said softly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Damon’s eyes narrowed instantly, the playful darkness hardening back into ice. "Watch your tongue."
"You're punishing yourself," Alina continued, her voice gaining strength, echoing in the quiet room. "Every night in this room. You drink too much, you work until your hands bleed, and you torture yourself with memories of her." She pointed a trembling finger toward the desk drawer where his sister's photo lay hidden. "That's why you're like this. You think you deserve to suffer."
Silence slammed into the room. Heavy, suffocating, lethal silence.
For three seconds, Damon didn't move a muscle. His face became a mask of pure stone. Then, with terrifying speed, he stood up from the chair. Alina flinched, bracing herself for the blow, bracing herself to be thrown out or worse.
Instead, Damon closed the distance between them in a single stride, his large hands shooting out to grip her hips. He hauled her flush against his body, lifting her slightly off the floor so she had to wrap her arms around his neck to keep her balance.
"You talk too much for a maid," he growled against her lips, his breath hot and ragged.
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"Then shut me up," Alina breathed, her eyes locking onto his with a fierce, defiant challenge.
Damon stared at her in utter shock for a fraction of a second before his mouth crashed down onto hers in a fierce, demanding kiss that tasted of bourbon, sin, and absolute ruin.
