The Alpha's Human Whore

“Stay right there.”

I stared at Damien.

My neck was still throbbing from the bite, my thighs hurt every time I shifted my weight, and there was an unpleasant ache between my legs that made me regret every single decision I had made after accepting his money.

Stay right there?

Seriously?

I looked at the door, then at him, then back at the door, because perhaps the man had forgotten that I was not one of the expensive decorations in his ridiculous suite.

“Are you actually hearing yourself?” I asked, dragging my bag higher onto my shoulder. “You paid for one night, Damien, not the rest of my morning, and unless the money came with a hidden clause saying I have to stand here until you finish having a nervous breakdown, I’m leaving.”

His eyes moved briefly to my neck. That stupid mark was still burning.

I had tried to ignore it while dressing, but every movement pulled at the bruised skin beneath my jaw. It was not unbearable, but it was irritating enough to keep reminding me that the man had bitten me like an animal and then looked at the wound as if I had walked into the room carrying a severed head.

He got out of bed. Even half-naked, with his hair messy and his chest marked by the scratches I had left on him, Damien still looked annoyingly put together. There was no awkwardness, no morning-after confusion, no searching for his clothes while pretending not to remember what happened.

He simply stood there and looked at me.

“Move,” I said.

He did not.

Instead, he glanced toward the door, then back at me.

“You should stay here.”

I laughed, but it came out dry because my throat was sore. “You should try saying something that makes sense, because I’m beginning to think the money has damaged your brain.”

His jaw tightened.

There it was again. That look.

Like he was trying very hard not to lose his temper, except I had no idea what I had done to deserve the performance. I had taken the money, slept with him, and was leaving. That was how these things worked. Men paid. Women left. Nobody made a fucking tragedy out of it unless somebody had been stupid enough to expect romance.

“I have somewhere to be,” I told him, walking toward the door.

My legs complained immediately.

A sharp ache ran up my thighs, and I slowed for half a second, annoyed that my body had decided to betray me in front of him. Damien noticed. His eyes dropped to the way I moved, and something dark crossed his face.

Not sympathy but more like displeasure.

As if he did not like the idea that I was hurting.

Well, he should have considered that before spending half the night trying to knock the breath out of me.

“I can barely walk because of you,” I snapped, though the words came out more breathless than angry. “So unless you’re planning to carry me downstairs and explain to everyone why I look like I’ve been dragged through a war, get out of my way.”

His gaze returned to my neck.

I touched it without thinking, and his whole body went rigid. Then I immediately lowered my hand.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I said, my irritation climbing. “You bit me, unless you somehow managed to forget the entire night while you were busy acting possessed.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Possessed?”

“Don’t start picking at one word when you know exactly what I mean.” I took another step toward the door, forcing myself not to limp. “You were normal enough when I came upstairs, and now you’re standing between me and the exit like some rich, emotionally constipated prison guard.”

Damien moved before I could reach the handle.

He crossed the space between us in two long strides and placed himself directly in front of the door.

I stopped so quickly that my bag swung against my hip.

The room seemed to shrink around him.

He was taller than me by enough to be irritating, broad enough to block the entire doorway without even trying, and close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his skin. His scent filled my nose, clean and dark and annoyingly familiar after a night spent with my face pressed against him.

My body reacted before my temper could catch up.

A weak shiver moved through me.

“Are you fucking serious?” I asked, looking up at him. “You’re blocking the door now?”

“You’re not leaving.”

I stared at him, then glanced toward the door as if it might suddenly open out of pity.

“Excuse me?”

His expression did not change.

I gave a short, disbelieving laugh, though my neck hurt when I tilted my head. “You’re going to have to try that again, because I don’t think you understand how ridiculous you sound right now. You paid for my company, Damien, and the night is over, which means I get dressed, collect my things, and walk out. That is the part where you stop pretending this is some grand arrangement and remember that I am not your girlfriend.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

“Your girlfriend?”

“Don’t be dense. You know exactly what I’m saying.” I shifted my bag from one shoulder to the other, wincing when the movement tugged at my sore back. “I came here because you wanted a woman in your bed and I wanted the money. We both got what we came for.”

His nostrils flared.

He looked at me like I had said something offensive, and that almost made me laugh again, because what exactly was offensive about the truth? Men like him loved honesty when it came from their own mouths. The moment a woman reminded them that they had bought her time, suddenly they developed principles.

“Whatever happened between us was one night,” I said, stepping closer because I was not going to let him intimidate me in a room I had already been paid to sleep in. “One night, Damien. You don’t get to wake up and decide that means I belong to you, and you definitely don’t get to stand in front of the door acting like I need your permission to leave.”

His eyes darkened.

“I didn’t say you belonged to me.”

“You didn’t have to.” I lifted my chin, though the movement sent another sting through my neck. “You’re standing there like a man who has never heard the word no without somebody immediately apologising afterward.”

His hand flexed beside his thigh.

I watched it.

Then I watched his face.

He looked calm, but there was something underneath that calm, something too tight and too restless. It made no sense. He had been quiet last night, yes, but not like this. Last night, his silence had been attractive. This morning, it felt like a locked door.

“Move,” I said again.

He remained exactly where he was.

I stepped to the left.

He shifted with me.

I stepped to the right.

He blocked me again.

A hot wave of anger rushed through my chest, stronger than the ache in my legs and sharper than the bite on my neck. I dropped my bag onto the nearest chair and planted both hands against his chest, pushing hard.

He barely moved.

That was the moment my fear tried to crawl in.

I crushed it beneath my anger before it could settle.

“Do not make me repeat myself,” I said, my voice shaking despite the effort I made to keep it steady. “I am leaving this room, and you are not going to stop me because you woke up feeling strange after getting what you paid for.”

Damien looked down at my hands against him.

Then he looked back at my face, breathing slowly, as though he was holding something dangerous inside himself and I was the only thing keeping it from breaking loose.

That made my stomach twist.

I glanced around the suite. The door was behind him. The balcony was too high.

My phone was in my bag, but my bag was on the chair near the sofa, and there was no chance in hell I was going to turn my back on him long enough to reach it.

My eyes moved across the room, searching for anything, anything at all that could make him take one step away from that door.

The silver ice bucket would not do much.

The lamp was too heavy to lift quickly.

The glass table would shatter, but I would have to get close enough to use it, and Damien was already close enough to make my skin crawl.

Then my gaze caught on the small side table beside the bar.

A knife lay there, half-hidden beneath a folded room-service menu, its metal blade catching a thin line of sunlight.

My breath stuck.

Damien’s attention shifted toward the window just for a second, then i looked at the knife again.

My heart began pounding so hard that I could feel it in my bruised throat, and every sensible thought inside my head started screaming at me to leave it alone, to wait, to stop making the situation worse.

But he was still between me and the door.

My legs were aching. My neck was burning. My bag was out of reach.

And the knife was close enough to touch.