Deal with the devil's heir

Asha's POV

The kiss still lingers.

It's maddening how something I didn't want still clings to me like perfume that won't wash away. Damian's mouth on mine wasn't gentle-it was fire, possession, a silent declaration that I was his. My skin still burns where he touched me, and every time I breathe, I can almost taste him.

I hate it.

And worse-I hate myself for remembering it so vividly.

I pace across the lavish bedroom Damian insists is mine, though I know it's just another cage. Silk curtains sway in the evening breeze, chandeliers drip light like liquid gold, and the floor beneath me gleams with polished marble. Everything screams luxury, wealth, power. But to me, it's nothing but a prison dressed in silk.

This isn't my home.

My home is with my father. With the Montero legacy. With the empire he fought to save.

And yet, here I am, locked in the Blackwell mansion like some priceless artifact Damian bought at auction.

I press a hand against my chest, trying to steady my breath, but his words come back to me, whispered like poison at that gathering: "Every handshake, every smile tonight is another brick in the wall closing in on your father. He won't see it until it's too late."

That's what haunts me more than the kiss.

 What does Damian have against my father? Why target him now, after everything Robert Montero did to rebuild us? My father saved the empire from collapse. He fought with blood and steel for our survival. And yet Damian, with his calm arrogance, talks as if Robert's destruction is already written.

 I can't stay here and wonder. I need answers.

I pull open the wardrobe, running trembling fingers across rows of designer dresses Damian's staff picked for me. Every detail here was chosen for me without my say-like I'm a doll in his glass case. But tonight, I'll use it.

 I slip into a fitted black dress, the kind Damian would smirk at, the kind that clings to every line of me. My reflection in the mirror looks foreign: sharp eyes, red lips, a woman preparing for battle rather than a daughter seeking comfort.

I drape a coat over my shoulders and pull my hair back. I can't look like Damian's captive. I need to look like Robert Montero's daughter.

I open the bedroom door cautiously. The hallways of the Blackwell mansion are eerily quiet, the kind of silence that feels watched. Guards linger in the shadows; I've learned that the moment I step out, their attention sharpens. Damian's rules are everywhere, invisible but binding.

I descend the stairs, rehearsing excuses in my head.

"I need air."

"I'm meeting a friend."

"I need to pray." Lies, all of them. But I'll do whatever it takes to reach my father.

As I near the front doors, two of Damian's men step forward.

"Miss Montero," one says smoothly, though his stance is firm. "Going somewhere?"

My pulse skips. "Yes. To my father's house."

Their exchanged glance tells me enough: they're not letting me leave.

"It's late," the other replies. "Mr. Blackwell prefers you remain here for the night."

Mr. Blackwell Damian. The devil himself. Always pulling strings, even when he isn't in the room.

I straighten my shoulders. "I don't care what Mr. Blackwell prefers. My father is expecting me."

Before they can respond, a voice slides across the hall like velvet and knives.

"Is that so?"

I freeze.

Damian stands at the base of the grand staircase, hands in his pockets, his presence filling the room the way storms fill the sky. His dark eyes settle on me, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

Caught.

He descends slowly, each step deliberate. "Planning a little trip without me?"

"I don't need your permission," I bite out, even though my throat feels tight.

His lips curve in that infuriating half-smile. "You live under my roof, Asha. Under my protection. That means my rules."

"I'm not your prisoner."

"You signed the contract," he reminds me smoothly, stopping just inches away. His gaze drops briefly to the neckline of my dress before returning to my eyes. "You belong here. With me."

I force my chin higher. "I belong with my father."

Something flickers in his expression-mockery, maybe amusement, maybe something darker. "Your father is exactly why you're here."

 The words strike me like a slap. "What do you mean?"

He leans closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear. "You think this is about you. But this-" his finger traces the air between us, deliberate, taunting-"this is about Robert Montero. Every move I make, every step you take in this house, brings me closer to him. And you... are my perfect leverage."

My stomach twists. "Why? What did he do to you?"

Damian's smile is cruel and unreadable. "You'll find out. Eventually."

The silence between us hums with tension, anger, and something else I hate to name. Because even as his words slice through me, even as his arrogance fuels my rage, I can't stop remembering his kiss. The way it shattered me, claimed me, and left me breathless against my will.

"You won't break me," I whisper, though my voice shakes.

His eyes darken, his gaze dragging over me slowly, deliberately. "You're already cracking, Asha."

My hand curls into a fist at my side. "Then watch me put myself back together."

For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us is heavy, thick with defiance and heat. Then, without another word, he turns away, signaling his men.

"Escort Miss Montero back to her room," he orders.

I don't resist as they lead me back up the stairs. My fury is a fire inside me now, my chest rising and falling too fast.

If he thinks he can use me as his pawn, he's wrong. If he thinks I'll let him destroy my father without knowing why, he underestimates me.

I don't care what rules he's written into that contract, or how gilded this cage is-I will find out the truth.

And when I do, Damian Blackwell will regret ever thinking he could cage me.