Chapter 5 The Kiss That Shouldn't Happen

Isabella's POV

I was about to scream when I heard footsteps-fast, purposeful. I didn't relax until I saw him. Damien. His tall frame filled the doorway like a shadow. A faint glow from a flashlight lit up his face-stern, unreadable, cold as always.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice low, almost growling.

"I didn't know the door would lock," I replied. "I was just reading."

He stepped inside, examined the old hinges, then looked at me again. His shirt was wet from the rain, clinging to his chest. I tried not to stare, but I did. His muscles moved like they were carved from stone, every inch of him tense.

"There's no way out until the storm settles. The west wing is old. The power fails here first."

I sighed. "So we're stuck?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he turned to the fireplace and began lighting it with the matches kept in a glass jar nearby. His movements were efficient. Controlled. Too controlled.

"I'm not cold," I said, even though I was.

He didn't look back. "I don't care."

Still, he built the fire. Soon, the warmth started to spread through the room. I stood awkwardly near a bookshelf, trying to pretend I didn't feel the way his presence pulled at me.

He sat on the rug in front of the fire, one knee bent, arms resting on it. I hesitated, then sat too-but not too close. We didn't speak for a while. The crackle of the fire was the only sound between us.

"You're quiet," I said softly.

"I'm always quiet."

"I noticed," I murmured.

I watched the flames dance, but I could feel him watching me. His gaze was hot. Heavy. My skin prickled even though I didn't move.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

His jaw tightened. "That you don't belong here."

"Then why bring me here, Damien? Why marry me?"

He looked away, silent again. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer. Then he spoke, his voice low and tight. "It was necessary."

"That's not an answer."

He stood suddenly. I flinched, but he didn't come toward me. He walked to the window, looked out into the rain. The fire lit the angles of his face-sharp cheekbones, clenched jaw, eyes like steel.

"I don't want this," he said. "I never wanted a wife."

I swallowed hard. "But you chose me."

His hands curled into fists. "That's because... you were already mine."

I blinked. "What?"

He turned then, slowly. Walking towards me, with each step louder than the last. My heart pounded. I didn't move. He stopped a foot away. Close enough to feel the heat of his body. Close enough to smell the rain still clinging to his skin.

"I should've stayed away," he whispered. "But I watched you for too long."

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. My breath caught. "Why?"

"Because I knew once I touched you, I wouldn't stop."

I didn't know who moved first. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was him. But suddenly his mouth was on mine-hot, demanding, rough.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't romantic. It was wild.

His lips bruised mine, and I kissed him back like I needed him to breathe. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him. I could feel the tension in his muscles, the war inside him. He kissed like a man trying to punish himself for wanting.

My hands tangled in his wet shirt, pulling it tighter against him. He growled low in his throat, deep and guttural. It made my knees weak.

Then, as suddenly as he started, he pulled away.

I stood there, chest rising and falling, lips swollen, heart racing. He looked at me like he regretted everything.

"This is a mistake," he said.

"Then why didn't you stop?" I whispered.

He turned his back to me, running a hand through his dark hair.

"Don't confuse this for something it's not," he muttered. "I don't do love, Isabella. I never will."

"But you feel something."

He didn't answer.

I stepped closer, slowly, placing my hand on his back. "You can lie to me, Damien. But don't lie to yourself."

He stayed still.

"You kissed me like you meant it," I said.

His shoulders tensed. "That's the problem."

Silence fell again. Only this time, it wasn't heavy. It was thick with all the things we weren't saying.

I didn't push. I stepped back, sat by the fire again, wrapping my arms around my knees. He stayed standing, breathing hard.

Minutes passed. He finally sat beside me, not close, not far. I glanced at him. His expression was blank again, mask back in place.

But something had changed.

He didn't touch me again that night. Didn't speak. But his presence beside me was enough. Because I knew now-he wasn't as cold as he pretended to be.

And I wasn't as safe as I thought I was.