Chapter 4 The Penthouse

Damien's POV (Elias Reed)

London glittered below me, a thousand lights reflected in the glass walls of my Canary Wharf penthouse. From this height, the city looked like mine; its bridges, towers, and river bending to my will. But none of it compared to the woman standing in my living room, framed by those floor-to-ceiling windows, her profile lit by the shifting glow of headlights far below.

Meera.

She wasn't mine yet, not really. But she would be.

I leaned against the marble counter, a tumbler of whiskey untouched in my hand, and studied her.

The dress she wore clung to her curves in a way that made it impossible to look away, but it wasn't just her beauty that undid me. It was the way she carried herself; equal parts grace and quiet fire.

She had no idea what it did to me, to Elias Reed, a man who had stolen a name, an empire, and a destiny that wasn't his.

With her, I felt almost... real.

She turned, catching me watching her. The faintest blush colored her cheeks. "You have quite the view," she said softly.

My lips curved. "I was about to say the same thing."

Her blush deepened, and something inside me tightened. I had seduced women before, wealth drew them in, danger kept them hooked but this was different. With Meera, it wasn't the act of conquest that thrilled me. It was the fear that once I had her, I would never be able to let her go.

I set the glass down and crossed the room, each step deliberate. She didn't move as I came close, not even when my hand brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek.

"You don't belong in a world this cold," I murmured, my voice lower than usual, meant only for her. "You deserve warmth. Fire."

Her lips parted, and I felt her breath hitch as my thumb traced the line of her jaw.

"Damien..." she whispered my stolen name, and it hit me like a blade and a balm all at once.

I tilted her chin until her eyes met mine. God, those eyes. Clear, searching, too honest for a man like me.

"Say it again," I demanded, not because I needed to hear the name, but because I needed to hear it from her lips.

"Damien."

The sound unraveled me.

I kissed her. Slowly at first, savoring the sweetness of her mouth, the way she tasted of champagne and something that was entirely her. She gasped softly, and I deepened the kiss, my hand sliding to the small of her back, pulling her closer. She fit against me perfectly, as if she had been made for this very moment.

When her hands pressed against my chest, I thought for a heartbeat she might push me away.

Instead, she gripped my shirt, holding on as though she would drown without the contact.

That was all the permission I needed.

I guided her backward toward the couch, my lips never leaving hers. Every step made her softer in my arms, every sigh fueling the hunger that had been building since the night of the gala. By the time we reached the edge of the couch, I was burning.

She fell back against the cushions, breathless, flushed, impossibly beautiful. For a moment, I just looked at her, at the miracle that she was here, in my home, with me. Then the restraint snapped.

I stripped off my jacket and tie in one motion, tossing them aside, my gaze locked on her as I loosened the first buttons of my shirt. Her eyes followed every movement, wide, hungry, uncertain.

"Do you want this?" I asked, my voice rough. I had to hear her say it, even though every part of me already knew.

"Yes," she whispered, and that single word set me ablaze.

What followed was not gentle not at first. Months of suppressed need, of pretending to be someone I wasn't, poured out of me in every kiss, every touch. Yet even in the hunger, I was careful, attuned to her every gasp, every shiver. She responded to me like fire to oxygen, each touch igniting her until there was nothing left but heat and need.

Her dress slid from her shoulders, pooling around her waist as my lips trailed fire down her neck, across her collarbone, lower. She arched beneath me, her fingers tangling in my hair, her breath breaking into soft cries that only spurred me on.

I wanted to consume her, to brand her with every ounce of desire I had. But somewhere in the madness, tenderness crept in. The way I whispered her name against her skin. The way I slowed when she trembled, kissing away her hesitation.

By the time we came together, the world outside no longer existed. There was only Meera, her body, her voice, the way she clung to me as though she would never let go. I took her again and again, each time harder to remember that this was supposed to be temporary, a lie wrapped in silk sheets and city lights.

But as dawn crept through the glass walls, painting her skin in pale gold, I knew the truth.

I couldn't let her go.

She slept beside me, her hair fanned across my pillow, lips parted in soft breaths. For the first time in years, I felt... safe. Seen. As though Elias Reed could vanish, and the man she held would simply exist as Damien Cross.

I traced a finger down her arm, memorizing the curve of her shoulder, the rise and fall of her chest.

Mine. She was mine now. And if it took a lifetime of lies to keep her, so be it.

The thought struck me with a force that left me breathless: I wanted her forever. Not as a distraction. Not as a game. As my wife.

The idea lodged itself in my chest, dangerous and irresistible. And once it took root, I couldn't shake it.

I slipped from the bed and walked to the balcony, looking out at London still half-asleep.

Somewhere out there, the real Damien Cross lived in the shadows of my theft. But he wasn't here. I was. And I had the woman who made me believe in something beyond ambition.

When I turned back, Meera stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, still heavy with dreams, and a sleepy smile curved her lips.

"Good morning," she whispered.

God, she was beautiful. Vulnerable. Mine.

I went to her, sat on the edge of the bed, and took her hand. For once, I let the mask slip, let her see something raw in me.

"Meera," I said, my voice low, husky. "I have built empires. I have bought everything a man could ever want. But last night..." I shook my head, words catching in my throat. "Last night was the first time I felt like I wasn't empty inside."

Her gaze softened, and she squeezed my hand.

I leaned closer, kissing her knuckles. Then, with a certainty that shocked even me, I whispered:

"Marry me."

Her breath caught. "What?"

"Marry me," I repeated, firmer this time. "Be mine. Not for tonight, not for a season. Forever."

I expected hesitation. Shock. Maybe even refusal. But her eyes shone with unshed tears, and her lips curved into the faintest, trembling smile.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, Damien."

Relief crashed through me, so fierce it almost hurt. I pulled her into my arms, kissing her with the kind of desperation reserved for men who had finally claimed the one thing they could never afford to lose.

She said yes.

She was mine.

And yet, as I held her, as her laughter warmed the hollow places inside me, I couldn't shake the prickle at the back of my neck, the sense that somewhere in the city below, the shadows had begun to stir.

That the real Damien Cross was closer than I dared imagine.