Chapter 170: The Devil’s Slave Wants To Go For Girls Day Out

The heavy silence in the suite barely had time to settle before Damian shifted, his raw weight pressing her deeper into the mattress. His breath was hot and ragged against her skin, every muscle in his back still locked in a lingering tremor.

He didn’t pull away; he kept her pinned beneath his frame, an immovable anchor holding her fast.

​Ana tried to draw a steady breath, her trembling hands coming up to push weakly against his broad shoulders, searching for space to rebuild her fractured pride.

​Damian caught both her wrists in one massive hand, pinning them firmly above her head once more. A dark, dangerous rumble vibrated in his chest.

​"You think you’re done, little bird?" he rasped against her jaw, his obsidian eyes burning with unyielding, unsated hunger. "I told you I’m taking everything you have to offer. We haven’t even started."

​Before she could voice a single protest, his mouth crushed down on hers again, swallowing her breathless gasp. He moved within her once more, relentless and deep, claiming her body and soul until the sky outside began to pale with the first faint traces of gray dawn.

***************************

​Bright Sunday morning sunlight poured through the glass window of the penthouse dining room.

​Ana walked into the kitchen wearing a silk emerald robe tied tightly at her waist, though the fabric did little to hide the faint purple marks scattered along the curve of her collarbone. Her limbs ached with a sweet, exhausting soreness, but her spine was held straight, her face a mask of cool, aristocratic composure.

​Damian was already seated at the head of the long marble island, clad in a charcoal cashmere sweater and dark trousers. He looked entirely restored, sipping black espresso while scrolling through overnight market indexes on his tablet.

The lethal savage from hours ago was neatly tucked behind the immaculate billionaire titan, though the predatory gleam in his dark eyes as he watched Ana pull out a chair spoke volumes.

​Before Ana could pour her tea, Valerie strolled in from the terrace in tailored cream loungewear, sunglasses perched atop her styled hair. She dropped into a stool opposite them, sliding a dark look between Damian’s calm posture and Ana’s tightly bound collar.

​Valerie picked up a silver spoon, tapping it sharply against her porcelain coffee cup.

​"I hope whatever corporate strategy you two were executing last night was worth it," Valerie said dryly, her voice dripping with pointed sarcasm. "Because the walls in the east wing are supposedly soundproofed with reinforced titanium, yet I didn’t get a single wink of sleep past two in the morning."

​Ana froze, the porcelain teapot pausing as heat rushed up her neck.

​Damian didn’t even look up from his tablet. He simply took a slow, leisurely sip of his espresso, a faint, wicked smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

​"The acoustics in this penthouse are fine, Valerie," Damian said smoothly, his gravelly voice thick with casual authority. "Next time, sleep with the terrace doors shut."

Valerie rolled her eyes at Damian’s dismissive comment, setting her porcelain cup down with a sharp clink against the saucer.

​"Terrace doors or not, I need fresh air," Valerie declared, leaning back on her stool with an airy flick of her hand. "Which is why Ana and I are leaving you to your spreadsheets. We’re doing a girls’ day out. Private shopping, lunch, and a desperately needed reset."

​"No," Damian said instantly.

​The single syllable cut through the sunny kitchen like a steel blade. Damian didn’t look up from his tablet, but the casual morning ease vanished, his broad shoulders locking rigid beneath his charcoal sweater.

​"You’re staying inside," Damian added, his gravelly voice dropping to an icy, authoritative rasp. "Both of you."

​Ana set her teapot down, her hazel eyes narrowing at his profile. "Damian, I am not spending Sunday locked up in an ivory tower. The traitors on the board were handled last night. I want to go outside. I refuse to stay barricaded in this penthouse living in fear."

​"This isn’t about the board, Anastasia," Damian countered, finally lifting his obsidian gaze to pin her where she stood, his eyes dark with lethal intensity. "Vivian Stark is on the run with blood on her hands. She already put you and Clara through hell once with that kidnapping, and she has nothing left to lose. And Dante Sullivan is tracking your every breath."

​A muscle in Damian’s jaw twitched, a vicious possessiveness flaring behind his gaze as he thought of Dante’s syndicate ties and that offshore vault. He leaned closer to her and whispered. "Your legal status is still single until our vows are inked. Dante knows that the vault is waiting, and he will tear this city apart to drag you to an altar. We have to stay careful. A cornered psychopath and a desperate syndicate heir do not play by gentleman’s rules."

​"Which is exactly why hiding makes us look weak," Ana pushed back, her chin lifting with stubborn defiance. Her hands smoothed over the silk lapels of her robe, refusing to shrink under his glare. "If we crawl into hiding the morning after our triumph, Dante and Vivian will think we’re terrified. They’ll think your wound crippled you and left me vulnerable. We need to be seen in broad daylight, untouched and untouchable."

​Valerie smiled wide, pointing an approving manicured finger at Ana. "Whatever conversation you guys are having... I don’t understand. But listen to your soon to be wife, Damian. She’s completely right. Besides, Dimitri and the premier armed detail will be flanking us every single second. We aren’t going to be wandering into dark alleys alone."

​Damian stared at the two of them, a low, rough breath scraping through his teeth as he pinched the bridge of his nose. The sheer obstinacy radiating from Ana... paired with Valerie’s relentless poking... was enough to test the patience of a saint, and Damian was no saint.

​"Fine," Damian ground out, tossing the tablet onto the marble island with a dull crack. "Then I’m coming with you."

​Valerie burst into a sharp, mocking laugh, snatching up her sunglasses from the counter.

​"Oh, absolutely not," Valerie scoffed, waving him off with pure amusement. "Look at you, Damian. You took a bullet just days ago, you’re supposed to be recovering, and you spent half the night exhausting yourself when you should have been resting. You need to calm down, sit on that sofa, and heal. There is zero room for an overbearing, brooding bodyguard on a girls’ day out."

Ana stood before the full-length mirror in the master walk-in closet, fastening a pair of pearl drop earrings. She had chosen an ivory ribbed knit dress with a high neckline and long sleeves... deliberately picked to conceal every dark, blooming bruise Damian had carved along her throat and collarbones hours ago.

It was modest, but the heavy fabric clung like water to the swell of her hips and the narrow curve of her waist.

​The heavy pocket door slid open and shut with a sharp, definitive click.

​Ana’s gaze flicked to the mirror. Damian had abandoned his casual sweater, clad now in a dark, open-collar linen shirt that stretched tight over his broad chest. His obsidian eyes fixed on her reflection, tracking the fluid sweep of the ivory knit over her curves with a heavy, predatory focus.

​Before she could turn around, he stepped directly into her space.

​His large hands settled onto the sides of her waist, fingers digging into the knit with uncompromising grip, anchoring her back flush against his chest. Ana felt the heat radiating off him, the hard wall of his frame making her breath hitch in her throat.

​"You’re defying me, little bird," Damian rasped low against the shell of her ear, his rough jaw grazing her temple. "And you do it wearing a dress that looks like it was poured directly onto your skin."

​Ana tried to draw a steady breath, resting her hands over his on her hips. "It has a high neck, Damian. It covers your last night’s handiwork."

​A dark, gravelly chuckle vibrated against her spine. His hands didn’t stay still. One broad palm slid slowly up her ribs, his fingers splaying beneath the curve of her breast, while the other traced down the swell of her hip, gathering a handful of the heavy knit fabric to hike it several inches up her thigh.

​"It doesn’t cover anything that matters," he murmured, his teeth nipping the sensitive juncture of her neck and shoulder through her swept-up hair, making her shudder. His palm drifted across the exposed skin of her inner thigh, the calloused heat of his touch dragging an involuntary gasp from her lips. "Every vulture in the city is going to watch you walk through Fifth Avenue and think you’re available. They’ll look at you and wonder why you haven’t taken the Sterling ring back yet."

​His grip tightened on her thigh, pulling her hips back harder against his center, leaving no doubt about the violent pull she still held over him despite the wound stitched across his ribs.

​"Remember whose mark is under this dress, Anastasia," he whispered, his thumb grazing dangerously high on her skin. "Dimitri has orders to put a bullet in anyone who steps within three feet of you. Especially if it is Dante."