Unwanted Touches

This is not how I expected it to feel.

It was unexpected that the weight of the stillness would push against my chest, making it difficult for me to think and breathe. I've been thrust into his world, and this is my first night with him. I would like to remind myself that this is merely a commercial deal. An agreement. However, the situation is even worse than I had anticipated.

Damian Wolfe embodies all of my fears. Chilly. Detached. When a man wants something, he gets it. He wants me right now.

For something as private as a dinner, the room is much too vast. The table that separates us feels like the ocean, an imperceptible barrier that I am unable to overcome. As I enter, he is already sitting and his black eyes are staring at me. I pause at the entryway, my steps faltering as the cold marble floor seeps through my heels.

His eyes seem to look right through me, and they are piercing as he observes me. I'm not sure what I anticipated, but it wasn't the way he currently views me—like a predator evaluating its victim.

His voice, deep and forceful, pierces the air, "You're late."

I tighten my hands at my sides and swallow forcefully. Even though I had no intention of showing up, I kept thinking about my father's warning. "Lyra, you no longer have authority here."

As though his words were a shadow that followed me into the room, I can just hear him whispering it now.

Despite the knot in my gut, I say, "I had things to take care of," maintaining a steady tone of voice.

Nothing is said by Damian. He merely observes me, a slight smirk twisting his lips. Just the way he looks at me makes my skin tingle. This type of look exposes you; it doesn't just see you.

Uncertain of what to do with my hands, my body, and the pressure of the circumstance, I approach the table. I feel like I'm getting deeper and deeper into quicksand with each step. The air gets thicker the closer I get to him. With every beat, my heart thuds louder.

He gestures toward the chair across from him. "Take a seat."

I'd prefer not to. Turning around and running as far away as possible is what I want to do. However, my body betrays me by shifting toward the chair as though I were being drawn toward him by an unseen power.

I sit with a tight posture and a straight back. I wish to demonstrate to him my lack of fear. However, my hands shake on the table, and I can feel his eyes on my skin like a brand.

We both avoid touching the meal when the waiter brings it to us and places it in front of us. There is a long, uncomfortable silence. I am acutely conscious of the distance between us and the tension that is seething beneath the surface.

The stillness is finally broken by Damian. "Aren't you going to eat?" Despite his nonchalant tone, there is a hint of sharpness in his voice.

I look at the plate in front of me, tempted by the food's wonderful aroma. However, I am unable to. Not while he's observing me. Not with the issue looming like a storm cloud over us.

Without glancing at him, I respond curtly, "I'm not hungry." I am unable to. Not when his gaze is scorching through me with heat.

His tone softens slightly as he says, "You should eat." "Your strength will be needed."

For what purpose? I don't inquire. The solution is already known to me.

With a harder tone than I intended, I say, "Damian, I'm not here for your kindness."

My breath catches as his smile gets bigger. It's not a kind grin. It's risky; he seems to be playing with me and enjoying the altercation.

His voice is silky and deep, like dark honey, and he continues, "I'm not offering kindness, Lyra." "I have something else to offer."

Another stuff.

Though I'm not sure what he means, the phrases keep repeating in my head.

His eyes keep drawing me back even if I want to turn away. I'm the metal that can't resist him, and he's like a magnet.

If you can call it that, the conversation feels like a game. The rules of the game are apparent, but I'm not sure how to play it. Every action he does and every word he says draws me farther into his universe, one in which I don't have authority. The one under control is me.

His eyes never leave me as he suddenly leans forward, arms resting on the table.

His tone abruptly becomes serious as he says, "Lyra, you're more than just a pawn in this arrangement." "You're difficult."

I don't get it.

"You consider me a challenge?" I speak again, letting the words escape my lips before I can stop them.

His smirk reappears, sharper and colder now. "Do you dislike being told what to do?"

I don't respond. Rather, my body becomes rigid as I squeeze my lips together. I detest the fact that he is correct. I detest how he can see right through me and knows just what to say to irritate me.

"I dislike being in charge," I grit my teeth and reply. "And you won't be able to control me."

His smile broadens, but something darker is now seen in his eyes. "Lyra, we'll see about that."

The tension between us is thick and electric, and I can feel it. Despite the risk of the words we are exchanging, neither of us is going to back down.

But then, as if he’s had enough of the verbal fighting, he reaches across the table, his hand stretching toward me. I go cold.

It feels as though a spark sparks between us when his fingers touch mine. The contact is so fleeting that it barely registers, but it makes me feel hot all over. I yank my hand back as though his contact had burnt me, and my breath freezes in my throat.

My heart pounding, my eyes wide, I look him in the eye.

He doesn't say sorry. Does not even mention the recent events. Instead, the smirk never leaves his lips as he intently observes me.

With a hint of humor in his voice, he continues, "You're not as immune to me as you think." "Lyra, that's why you're here."

I swiftly shake my head and answer, "No." "You compelled me to come here. This isn't...

He interrupts me by leaning in. "You have no choice but to come here."

I can feel his breath on my face, thick and heavy like a physical presence. As I fight to keep the heat down and remind myself why I should despise him, my body betrays me, and my pulse quickens. Reasons for fighting this.

His lips are so close to my ear that I can feel his warmth and the danger there. "You might not have a choice, but you're still mine now," he murmurs. "And, Lyra, that makes you interesting."

He gets up before I can reply, his chair making a loud scraping sound as it hits the floor. I stare up at him, feeling both confused and angry.

He says in a low, threatening voice, "I'll have you." "But only after you acknowledge it at last."

I start to object, but Damian has already started to go, his footsteps resonating in our quiet.

I'm left alone in the dark room with my heart racing as the door shuts behind him.