Bound by fire, Claimed by love

For the next few days, Damian made it his personal mission to torment Evelyn—not with cruelty, but with something far more dangerous. Attention.

He was everywhere. Holding doors open for her. Offering his hand when she climbed into the carriage. Whispering in her ear when no one was looking, just to see her shiver.

And worst of all? He looked at her. Constantly.

Not with the sharp, irritated glares of the past. No, now his gaze was something else entirely—something smoldering, something patient.

Like a predator waiting for his prey to come willingly.

Evelyn refused to give him the satisfaction.

So, when she arrived at the evening banquet, wearing a deep crimson gown that brought out the fire in her eyes, she didn't so much as glance at him. She laughed at other men's jokes, danced with visiting lords, and ignored the weight of Damian's stare.

Or at least, she tried to.

It was only when she stepped onto the balcony for fresh air that she realized her mistake.

Because the moment the cool night air kissed her skin, a deep voice murmured behind her, "Tiring yourself out, are we?"

Evelyn spun around, pulse leaping. Damian leaned against the balcony railing, the moonlight carving shadows across his sharp features.

"I didn't realize I needed your permission to enjoy myself," she said, lifting her chin.

He hummed, pushing off the railing. "Oh, you certainly don't. But tell me, did any of them make your heart race the way I do?"

Evelyn's breath caught.

That insufferable, arrogant—

"I see you, Evelyn," Damian continued, stepping closer, his voice soft but firm. "You can dance with every man in that ballroom, smile until your cheeks ache, but at the end of the night, it's me you can't stop thinking about."

She swallowed. "You think too highly of yourself, Duke."

"Do I?" He tilted his head, smirking. "Then why are you trembling?"

Damn him. She was trembling, just slightly, her breath uneven. And he noticed everything.

"I should go," she said quickly, moving past him—

But he caught her wrist.

The same way he had that night on the terrace.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled her closer, until only inches separated them. His thumb brushed over the sensitive skin of her wrist, feeling the wild pulse beneath.

"Tell me to let go," he whispered. "Tell me you feel nothing, and I will."

Evelyn opened her mouth—to lie, to end this, to regain control.

But nothing came out.

And Damian saw the truth in her silence.

His smirk softened into something else entirely. Something real.

"Darling," he murmured, lifting her hand to press the faintest kiss against her knuckles. "I told you—I never stood a chance."