Chapter 4 HIS RULES

She could barely breathe as she stood in front of him. Damien leaned back with his arm resting along the back of the booth, legs parted in that effortless, arrogant sprawl only a man drunk on power could manage.

"You're nervous," he said, voice smooth and unreadable.

She tightened her grip on the tray, trying to ignore the way her heart was galloping in her chest. "Should I not be?"

He gave the ghost of a smirk. "No one forced you to come."

"I thought you wanted a drink."

"I do," he said slowly, eyes narrowing, "but not from the bar."

The heat that flushed through her skin was instant. "I'm just a waitress."

He studied her for a moment, like he was dissecting her soul. "You don't belong here."

That stung more than she expected. "No, I don't."

His smile deepened-dark, knowing. "That's exactly why I picked you."

Before she could speak, he lifted his hand in a lazy command and gestured toward the booth seat beside him. "Sit."

She hesitated.

"You can walk away," he murmured, voice softer now, dangerous in its calm. "But if you stay... you follow my rules. No lies. No hesitation. No hiding."

Her pulse hammered. Something primal curled inside her belly, something reckless.

She sat.

The booth was warm, the leather beneath her thighs sticking slightly against her bare skin. She was suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed her dress was, how close their legs were under the table, how he hadn't taken his eyes off her once.

"Touch yourself."

The words hit her like ice water.

Her head snapped toward him. "What?"

His gaze didn't waver. "Right here. Right now. I want to hear how you sound when you moan."

Her lips parted in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

He raised a brow. "You're free to leave."

She stared at him-this man who wielded silence like a weapon, whose calm made everything more dangerous. Something in her chest twisted.

"I can't do that," she said, voice shaking. "Not here. Not in front of everyone."

His eyes stayed locked on hers. "No one is watching. And even if they were... do you care?"

She stood abruptly, heart slamming against her ribs. "I'm not doing this."

He didn't stop her. He didn't move.

She turned and stormed away, weaving through the crowd until she found Tasha near the bar.

Tasha blinked when she saw her. "What happened?"

"He asked me to touch myself," she hissed. "In the booth. In front of everyone."

Tasha didn't even flinch. "And?"

"And?!"

"Girl, do you know how many women would kill to be in your spot?" Tasha grabbed her wrist, pulled her aside. "Listen. He's rich. Ruthless. Untouchable. But he asked you. Just tonight. One night. Play his little game. You'll walk out of here with more money than you've seen in a year."

"I'm not a whore," she whispered.

"No one's asking you to be. You can stop whenever you want. Just don't walk away before you've tasted what it feels like to be wanted by a man like that."

She hesitated.

Tasha's voice softened. "He won't chase you. He doesn't have to. If you go back, it's your choice. But he'll know what that means."

She bit her lip, the conflict twisting deeper. Pride or survival. Fear or power.

She turned back toward the booth, the music suddenly louder, the air heavier. Her heels carried her forward, past the dancers and bodies, back into the lion's den.

Damien was still in his booth. Still waiting.

She stood in front of him. "I'm not doing that."

He looked up, slow and unreadable. "No?"

"No."

His mouth twitched. "Then sit."

She slid back into the booth, pulse hammering.

This time, he moved.

His hand reached out and grazed her bare thigh, fingertips cool against her heated skin. She gasped, every nerve on fire.

"I'm not going to ask you to touch yourself again," he said, his hand trailing upward, his touch lazy, intimate, threatening. "But I want to feel what's mine."

"You don't own me," she whispered, trembling.

He leaned in, so close his breath fanned over her lips. "Not yet."

His fingers slid higher, brushing the edge of her underwear beneath her dress. She let out a shaky breath, eyes closing involuntarily at the shock of contact.

Her thighs pressed together instinctively, and he smiled against her cheek.

"You're wet," he murmured, voice dark silk. "You can pretend you're not curious. But your body doesn't lie."

She was shaking, caught between shame and arousal.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

She opened her eyes. He was inches away, staring at her like she was the most dangerous thing in the room.

"I don't do one-night stands," he said. "I take what's mine. And I keep it."

Her heart stuttered.

And when his lips brushed her neck-not quite a kiss, just a warning-she knew.

This wasn't just a game anymore.