Soft Hands
Damien’s POV
I tossed my jacket on the marble counter and turned to her, my expression unreadable.
“Come,” I said simply, motioning for her to follow me.
She hesitated.
“Dinner,” I added. “But first…”
I didn’t wait for her answer. I turned and walked toward the room we now shared—My room. Her prison.
She followed slowly, every step dragged by resistance. But she followed.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, warm shadows dancing on the cream walls. I shrugged off my jacket, let it fall to the floor, then turned to her with a lazy kind of authority.
“Help me change.”
Her mouth fell open, eyes rounding. “Excuse me?”
I didn’t blink. “Get me out of these wet clothes. I need something more comfortable.”
She stifled a hiccup. A sound halfway between shock and disgust. “I’m not your maid, Mr Voss. I’m not your anything. Do I need to remind you that I was kidnapped?”
That struck deeper than she probably realized.
Not your anything.
Not your fiancée.
Not your woman.
Not willing.
I clenched my jaw, but my voice stayed smooth. “You agreed to this, Ariana. Remember? You want your freedom? Then act like a proper fiancée. Be good… and unbutton my shirt.”
Her nostrils flared, and her eyes snapped up to mine. Defiant. Proud. Full of quiet rebellion.
Still, her small hands reached out—trembling, reluctant—and touched the first button.
She paused.
Then slowly, resentfully, started to undo each one.
Her fingers brushed the damp fabric, grazing my chest with the barest pressure. Her touch was hesitant but electric, leaving heat in its wake. I could feel the hum beneath my skin, my muscles tightening as each button slipped undone.
Halfway through, she paused again—whether to stop or test me, I wasn’t sure.
I didn't give her the chance.
I grabbed her waist and pulled her into me with one swift movement, claiming her mouth without apology.
She gasped against me, struggling, pressing her hands against my chest—but I bit down on her lower lip, hard enough to make her gasp again, and her mouth opened.
I took her.
Hungrily. Ruthlessly.
My kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.
It was possession, raw and searing.
And God help me, she started kissing me back.
I felt her resistance break, felt her melting into me like warm honey, soft and sweet and helpless. Her body molded against mine, breath shaky. Her hands clutched my shirt as if to anchor herself in the heat we were building.
And that was when I pulled back.
Just like that.
She swayed slightly, dazed, lips swollen from the kiss.
I turned away, finished unbuttoning my shirt, and tugged it off. Muscles shifting under my skin, I pulled on a navy polo and soft black shorts. Comfortable. Relaxed.
But when I looked up— I caught her staring.
She blinked quickly and turned her head, but it was too late.
A smug, wicked smile curved onto my lips.
“I see you, Ariana,” I murmured.
This was just the beginning.
‘When I’m done,’ I thought darkly, ‘you’ll beg me to keep you. You’ll beg me never to let you go.’
The lights over the marble kitchen island gleamed softly, casting a low golden glow across the open-concept living space. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the stormy skyline of the city, flickers of lightning reflecting in glass and steel.
I moved around the sleek induction stove with practiced ease, tossing garlic into sizzling butter. The aroma clung to the air—rich, indulgent, the kind of warmth that didn't belong in a place one would call a prison… and yet.
Isabella sat on a high-backed leather stool, watching me. Her arms were crossed, but her gaze betrayed her. She was hooked. Maybe by the food. Maybe by me.
I tood at the stove, sleeves rolled, forearm muscles flexing with each smooth stir of the sauce. Meatballs sizzled in a skillet beside me, golden and glistening.
“Stop staring,” I said without turning around, a smirk tugging at my mouth.
“I’m not,” she muttered.
“You are.” I glanced at her over my shoulder. “You’re practically drooling.”
She scoffed and looked away, but I noticed the way her thighs pressed together under the oversized T-shirt she wore. One of mine. No bra. Just bare, thin cotton and attitude.
“Come here,” I said, voice low, heat simmering beneath it.
She didn’t move.
I walked over, tasting the silence between us like smoke, and stopped just inches away. “Come. Taste it.”
My hand slid beneath her jaw, forcing her to look up at me. Her breath hitched, eyes wide as I dipped a spoon into the sauce, then brought it to her lips.
Her tongue darted out, tasting. She closed her eyes and sighed. “It’s good.”
I leaned in. “Told you. I’m good at everything.”
Our faces were inches apart and God, I wanted to kiss her over and over again.
In fact, I wouldn’t mind being that spoon.
And then—
Ding-dong.
The doorbell.
Isabella moved to get up, but my hand shot out, grasping her wrist.
“Don’t,” I said, firm. “Just look at me.”
“What?”
“I said look at me, Ariana. Not whoever’s out there. Not the world you came from. Me.”
A hiccup escaped her throat. Her cheeks pinked.
I smiled slowly, darkly, watching her squirm.
“The maid will get the door. Or whoever it is can go to hell.”
But they didn’t.
Instead, a sharp, shrill voice rang through the halls as soon as the front door was opened.
“Where the hell is Damien Voss?!”
Isabella blinked. “Oh no…”
I groaned.
“Damien!” the voice shrieked again. “You left me in the rain?!”
We stepped out of the kitchen and turned the corner—just in time to see Cleo standing in the entryway like a drowned, designer rat. Her silk dress clung to her skin, soaked and ruined, her hair plastered to her face. She looked deranged. And pretty angry.
“You’re gonna regret this, Damien!” she hissed, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at me. “You left me —me—out in the storm to play house with your new toy?!”
Isabella tilted her head, then smiled sweetly. “Watch your mouth, auntie.”
Cleo’s jaw dropped.
“You said you were a queen, right? Then where’s your golden chariot? Where are the servants lining up to carry you? Or is the royal court on strike?”
I stifled a laugh.
Cleo screamed in fury, fists clenched at her sides like she might throw herself at Isabella.
She took one step forward.
And I stepped in, voice low and lethal. “Take one more step, Cleo… and I’ll end you. I’ll burn every contract, and every tie. I will ruin you. And I won’t lose sleep over it.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to bleed.
Cleo’s eyes welled up—not with sadness, but fury—and she turned sharply on her heel and stormed towards the room where she stays, heels clicking violently on marble.
Just as the door slammed shut, Lina emerged from the hallway with a fresh towel in her hand. My sister appeared behind her, hair towel-dried, wrapped in a cozy robe, cheeks glowing.
“Was someone screaming?” she asked, descending the stairs.
I grunted. “No one.”
She raised a brow. “The witch?”
I nodded.
She rolled her eyes. “God, you need better taste in women.”
“Take a seat,” I said dryly. “Dinner’s ready.”
I nodded at Lina, who quickly moved to set the table.
Soon, the three of us sat around the dining table, meatballs and pasta steaming between us.
My sister twirled her fork, then turned to Isabella. “You know,” she said, “I like you for my brother. You’ve got fire. And you’re not fake like that—what was her name? Cleaver? Clepto?”
“Cleo,” Isabella said, trying not to smile.
“Right. Her.” She turned to me. “This one? Keep her.”
Before I could respond—