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I jump from the bed as the door swings open to reveal Damien in all his terrifying glory. His entrance is as commanding as ever, and I can't help but feel a wave of fear wash over me.
"Damien," I begin, swallowing the lump in my throat, "What do you want?" My voice is steady, much to my surprise.
He hesitates for a moment, and his eyes narrow slightly before he answers. "I want to apologize, Isabella. I was wrong."
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. Apologize? He wants to apologize? A bitter laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it.
"You're sorry? Really?" I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. "You can take your apology and shove it up your ass, Damien. I don't accept it."
His expression doesn't waver, but I see a flicker of surprise in his eyes at my words. Good. Let him be surprised. I'm done playing the victim.
I watch him intently, his jaw clenching tightly as he struggles to control his temper. He steps forward with determination flashing in his eyes.
"Too damn bad. I'm apologizing anyway," he snaps, and the force of his words makes my eyes widen. "I apologize for being vicious towards you...for not listening to you."
His admission hangs in the air between us. I can see the regret in his eyes, the remorse, but I refuse to make this easy for him.
"I never deserved your wrath, Damien," I whisper, my voice trembling with suppressed anger. "I never deserved any of this." My tone softens, just a fraction, as I meet his gaze. "I may have hated your brother, but I am truly sorry for your loss."
"If you hated Jackson so much, why did you marry him," he asks, and I can hear the judgment in his tone.
"My father forced me to. It's not something I wanted," I snap at him.
"So, you hated my brother for your father's actions," he states like it's a fact, and it pisses me off even more.
"Your brother was a narcissistic woman-beating asshole, and I’m glad he’s dead,” I spit out, and my eyes blaze with righteous anger.
Damien recoils as though I've struck him, his eyes widening in shock before quickly morphing into a steely glare.
“He hit you?” he demands, his voice laced with disbelief and something akin to horror.
“Like you didn’t know,” I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re all the same.”
The accusation hangs in the air between us like a venomous bite lingering long after the words have left my lips.
“I have never hit a woman, and I never will,” Damien growls, and his temper barely restrained. “Why didn’t you say something?”
My laugh is bitter, a harsh sound that echoes in the silence following his question. “Are you serious?" I yell, throwing my hands up in exasperation. "You sure as hell had no problem cutting me or having your men hit me. You thought I was some lying, money-hungry whore who killed your brother and only glared at me in hatred every time you saw me.”
I plant my hands on my hips, meeting his gaze head-on. "Tell me, would you have gone to talk to someone like that when they make it clear they despise you every time they see you?”
“I only wanted the truth, and then I was going to hand you over to the police. My men only did enough to cause pain, not to seriously injure you. And I never despised you,” he murmurs, the softness of his voice at odds with the turmoil in his eyes.
“You sure as hell acted like it,” I reply with my heart pounding in my chest. “Like I said. You and Jackson are the same.”
Before I can move away, he grabs my arms, and the sudden contact sends a jolt of electricity through me. He pulls me closer until we're face to face, his breath fanning across my cheeks as he stares me down.
"You don’t know me. I’m starting to think I didn’t know Jackson either,” he admits in a voice barely above a whisper. “You’re his widow. That means what was his is now yours.”
"I don’t want anything of his," I snarl at him. "Not his money. Not his house. Not his possessions."
This angers Damien, and the arguing continues. We continue to shout and argue, and there's a tension weaving its way through us. It's not just anger or resentment but something else. Something that sends the adrenaline coursing through my veins. It's a tension of a more primal kind, a tension that has nothing to do with our hatred for each other and everything to do with the undeniable attraction that lurks beneath our heated exchanges. It's a sexual tension, thick and palpable, threatening to consume us even as we're at each other's throats.
"Let me go," I say, noticing how his breathing has changed. With him this close, I can really see how blue his eyes are and how full his lips look. "Get away from me."
"Just talk to me," he says. "Why are you trying to escape? I want to make things right."
I blink in surprise before a look of disbelief crosses my face. "Are you serious right now? You and your family made my life hell. Why wouldn't I want to get away from you? I hate you, Damien."
