Only Her Matters

Damien’s POV

A sultry voice, dipped in pouting charm, filled the line. “Damieeeen,” Cleo crooned. “Come pick me up? It’s raining and I don’t want to get wet. Let’s go home together, hmm?”

Her voice dripped with suggestion. With possession.

I stared out the window at the black clouds and let the silence stretch.

Then, with one slow movement, I ended the call and shoved the phone deep into my jacket pocket.

She was the least of my fucking problems.

All I wanted—craved—was Isabella.

I wanted her curled into my side. I wanted her sleepy smile when I brought her everything she'd asked for and more. I wanted her trust.

I wanted her to love me.

Even if I left the doors wide open.

Even if she could walk away.

I wanted her to stay.

We turned the corner onto my private drive. The gates opened with a slow groan, welcoming me back into my world of silence, control, and shadows.

But the moment the car stopped, I saw it.

A figure at the front of my door. Drenched. Leaning heavily.

I stepped out before the driver could stop me.

Rain pelted down, soaking my suit as I stalked toward the figure.

Lightning flashed—and there she was.

Her head lifted slowly, lips trembling, and my heart dropped.

“Ellie?” I choked.

My baby sister.

Her coat clung to her small frame like wet paper, hair plastered to her face. One eye was swollen shut, the skin around it an ugly shade of purple and red, and a thin line of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. My chest caved in with silent rage.

She didn’t need to speak. I already knew.

That bastard laid his hands on her. Again.

Without a word, I unlocked the door, caught her before she could collapse, and swept her into my arms. She was trembling, whispering some broken excuse, but I couldn’t hear past the blood rushing to my ears.

I called over my shoulder, voice sharp, “Bring the bags up. Make sure none gets soaked.”

The driver nodded and stepped back.

Inside, the marble floor gleamed under the chandelier light as I carried her through the foyer. “Lina,” I barked.

My maid was already at the stairs, eyes wide.

“Hot bath. Guest room. Towels—now.”

She disappeared, slippers skimming along the floor.

Ellie stirred in my arms, clutching the lapel of my jacket. “D-Damien—”

“What happened this time?” I growled low, setting her gently onto the plush chair in the hallway near the guest suite. “Huh? Why haven’t you left him, Ellie? Why won’t you let me press charges? He’s going to kill you.”

“I love him,” she whispered.

“Bullshit.”

“He’s just… going through a lot. He’s not like that when things are good.”

I crouched in front of her, gripping her hands.

“You’re covered in bruises. You’re bleeding. That’s who he is, El.”

She turned away, her breath hitching. “He said he was sorry. He cried.”

I swallowed the lava bubbling in my throat. “He always cries, doesn’t he? And then he drinks. And then he hits you again. Why can’t you just leave him?”

“I can’t leave him,” she whispered. “He needs me. He’s not always like this.

I stared at her, jaw locked, until soft footsteps crept down the hall.

Isabella.

She peeked out from around the corner like a skittish doe. Hair mussed, bare feet silent on the floor, curiosity and hesitation blooming across her features. She looked so young like that, like a teenager scared her father had brought a new woman into the house too soon.

The maid passed her with a warm towel, handing it to me. I knelt again, wrapping Ellie in it with a gentleness I didn’t know I could still summon given this situation.

Then Ellie sneezed, breaking the tension, her eyes flicking to Isabella. “Who’s the pretty girl? Another one of your countless call girls? When are you going to settle down with just one girl, Damien?”

Shit.

Now Isabella will think the worst of me. I cleared my throat, trying to cover up the awkwardness.

“Don’t worry about that. Ariana has come to stay,” I said tightly. “Go with Lina. She’ll take care of you and help you get warm. And, I’ll make your favorite.”

Her face lit up faintly through the bruises. “Meatballs?” she giggled.

I gave her a soft squeeze. “Of course.”

As she shuffled away, arm hooked with Lina’s, I stood slowly.

Isabella hadn’t moved. Still barefoot. Still watching, her gaze flickering to Ellie subtly.

"Hi,” I muttered, scrubbing a hand through my wet hair. “I’m Damien Voss. What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer. Just eyed me, gaze quiet and unreadable, like she was unraveling a puzzle.

So much for trying to make her feel comfortable. What was that anyway? I’m Damien Voss? She knows that already!

I hated the silence. It made me feel like she was winning some invisible game.

So I lifted the shopping bags—and she squealed immediately.

She ran toward me, eyes shining.

For a second, my chest twisted, almost expecting her to throw her arms around me. That thought—ridiculous and irrational—made something flutter low in my gut.

But she didn’t hug me.

She snatched the bags right out of my hands.

I blinked, stunned, as she tore through them with a hunger I hadn’t seen in days. Her fingers brushed each item like treasure, until she reached the bag of delicate lingeries.

Her cheeks flushed crimson.

She dropped the bag like it burned.

Like it disgusted her.

But I knew better.

I remember.

That night. Her gasp. Her nails down my back. Her begging. Her fire.

She could pretend all she wanted.

She could play innocent until her eyes turned to ice.

But I’d tasted the wild beneath her skin—and I wasn’t letting go.

Not now. Not ever.

Before I could speak, my phone buzzed again. I pulled it out.

Cleo.

Of course.

Her voice slithered out the speaker like smoke.

“Damieeeen,” she crooned. “Let’s just pretend you mistakenly hung up on me when I called earlier. I’ll forgive you. Playtime’s over. Now, can you come pick me up? I’ll reward you in the shower tonight.”

Possessive. Coated in sex.

I didn’t even wait for a second. I hung up again and blocked her line. She can go to hell and I won’t give a fuck.

I shoved the phone away and it landed on the couch.

She didn’t matter. And she would never matter.

Only one girl did.

And she was standing in front of me, still holding the bags, still flushed pink with embarrassment—and something else.

Curiosity. Danger. A thread of recognition that passed between us like static.

I moved closer. She didn’t back away.

“Dinner,” I said quietly. “I’ll cook. You’ll eat. And then… we talk.”

She bit her lip, eyes narrowing.

But she didn’t refuse.