Mia Clarke was learning, once again, the true extent of Damien Lancaster's lawlessness.

He had a way of speaking that always sounded like a joke—a slight curve of the lips, a lingering, faux-affection in his eyes, as if everything he said was merely a witty remark. It was only when he finally struck that you realized he hadn't been joking at all.

Julian Lancaster had warned her once: "Mia, my brother is the kind of man who flirts while he's taking a life. With you, he'll be even more remorseless".

He had promised he would collect his "double payment" for the card game, and in this house, Damien Lancaster always collected his debts.

Mia sat in the oversized marble tub, her knees pulled tight against her chest. She was completely naked, the steam from the water curling around her like a shroud. Her body was rigid, her muscles locked in a state of crystalline numbness.

She felt like a prisoner waiting for an execution.

She had only known him for two years. Compared to the twenty-three years of her life before him, it was a heartbeat. Her upbringing—the rigid, elite education of a Clarke—was still fighting a losing battle against his lack of restraint.

Before Damien, the furthest she had ever gone with a man was a kiss on the cheek.

It had happened in London. While she was studying European Literature at Cambridge, she had a close friend—Timothy. He was a man with a gentle, scholarly temperament, his feelings as clean and peaceful as his appearance. He had smiled, told her he liked her, and then leaned down to press a soft, hesitant kiss against her cheek.

Mia remembered that kiss. It was the simplest gesture, yet she had felt as though she were burning alive. "I'm sorry," she had whispered to him, her face flushed crimson. "I'm... I'm not used to this".

She had been so afraid of hurting Timothy's feelings that she had offered him her hand instead. "We can hold hands," she'd asked timidly. "Would you like that?".

She had been naive enough to believe that a marriage began with holding hands—a slow, steady progression that only deepened after years of shared silence. She never expected to meet a man like Damien.

A man who specialized in the things she wasn't "used to." A beautiful monster who had systematically dismantled her entire world.

The water in the tub suddenly shifted, ripples expanding outward across the surface.

Mia didn't need to turn around. She knew he was there. Before she could react, his arms were around her shoulders, pulling her back against him. His voice, heavy with the moisture of the steam, was a low, sexy rasp against her ear.

"...Who were you thinking about?".

Mia's heart skipped a beat. Despite the warmth of the water, a sudden, bone-deep chill washed over her. In front of Damien, she was transparent. She couldn't hide a single secret from him. Not one.

She didn't deny it. She knew her limits with him; she knew she couldn't win, so she never wasted energy on futile lies. Total transparency was her only means of self-preservation.

She forced a small, clever smile and looked at the water. "I thought you took a phone call. Was it important?".

Damien didn't answer. He just watched her, his pale gray eyes turning dark and unreadable, locking onto her with a terrifyingly focused intensity. The pressure in the room became unbreathable. Mia realized, with a sick twist in her stomach, that she had just made a catastrophic mistake.

"Mia…".

He spoke her name with a softness that made her skin crawl. He looked as though he were about to smile, but the words that followed were enough to freeze the blood in her veins.

"You're the first person who has ever dared to change the subject with me".

Mia felt as if a razor-sharp blade had been pressed against her throat. She was wide awake now. He wasn't Timothy. He wasn't a man who could be handled with a bit of social maneuvering or a polite deflection.

He was Damien Lancaster: cold, lethal, and absolute. He was the man who had sentenced her to life without parole in a single sentence.

She didn't dare meet his gaze. She kept her head down, staring at the shifting water. "Are you... are you angry?" she whispered.

He didn't speak. Instead, he raised his left hand and began to untie the knot of her hair. Her long, dark tresses spilled down, the tips brushing against the surface of the water. He ran his fingers through the strands, his touch possessing a bizarre, deceptive tenderness.

Mia froze. 

She hadn't expected a beautiful monster like him to know such things. The fact that this gesture of ancient devotion was coming from his hands left her feeling a strange, dizzying mix of terror and adoration. She tilted her head slightly to look at him.

"Damien…".

Her voice carried a faint tremor—part fear, part surrender.

He suddenly smiled. It was a gentle expression, purely beautiful. He reached out, tipping her chin up with two fingers, and leaned down to claim her mouth in a deep, possessive kiss.

"From now on, remember: do not think of other men in my presence," he murmured against her lips. "Next time, I can't guarantee I'll be able to control myself".

With that one sentence, he laid his boundaries bare.

As he kissed her, Mia looked at the sharp, handsome profile of his face, and her heart tightened. Timothy had told her once that men only wore that kind of devastatingly tender expression when they were deeply in love.

So tell me, Timothy, Mia thought as the shadows of the room closed in on them, why have I found the only exception? Even if he doesn't love me... why does he have such devoted eyes?.