Ruthless Claim

DAMIEN'S POV

The gun aimed at my stomach barely registers.

I've stared down barrels more times than I care to count. Guns don’t scare me. Men who hold them? Even less.

But Isla? She shouldn’t be here.

I turn my head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of her. She wore red. Fucking red.

Her chest rises and falls, those lips slightly part as if a scream is caught in her throat.

The dress clings to her like sin—tight, dangerous, slit so high it's practically a threat. Her cleavage teases the edge of control. And yet, she doesn't tremble.

Not yet.

“Stay close to me,” I say slowly. “And you’ll be okay.”

She nods, but her eyes flick to the man across her, his fingers twitching against the trigger.

“Shut the fuck up, man.” He grits his teeth.

He can't pull that trigger. He's obeying strict orders. Rafael likes his guests alive.

“This isn’t the first time someone’s pointed a gun at me,” I add. “Won’t be the last. But I always walk out. Understand?”

Still no words. Just her nodding.

But it is her silence that worries me.

I force myself to look away.

Her presence has been fucking with my head ever since that goddamn contract.

Since the moment she said yes. And tonight?

That look in her eyes as I fucked another woman, knowing she watched…like she wanted to be the one clinging to me? It clawed its way into my mind, still clinging, still burning.

The car jerks. She shifts closer. I don't stop her.

The scent of her—warm vanilla and defiance wraps around me like a noose. I should push her away.

Instead, I find myself remembering how her fingers lingered on the choker I clasped around her neck.

Diamonds are forbidden in my world. I don't allow jewelry. It makes things too real. Too personal. But I got her that damn choker anyway.

And it looks perfect on her.

Too perfect.

Fuck.

******

The car stops in front of The Eros Circle. A place I once considered mine. Now it belongs to the bastard who stole everything else—Rafael Cross.

The doors are flung open, guns still drawn. A show of power, all for Rafael’s sick amusement. He likes theatrics. I like blood. We are different that way.

“Move,” a man barks

I step out first, then hold out a hand to Isla. She hesitates. Smart girl. But she takes it. Her fingers slide into mine, sweaty but steady.

The bouncer leads us through crimson-lit corridors that pulse with sin.

Moans leak from behind velvet curtains. Eyes watch us from the shadows.

This isn't a club. It’s a fucking hunting ground. And Rafael owns it all.

We enter the lounge.

And there he is.

Lounging like a damn king on his throne of leather and sin. Black silk shirt, three buttons undone. Rings glinting. Eyes colder than the barrel once aimed at my head.

“Damien fucking Crowe,” Rafael says, rising with a smug smile that makes me want to break his teeth. “And here I thought you’d died in some ditch.”

“Wishful thinking,” I reply, my tone dead. “But I’m too stubborn to die.”

He chuckles. Then his eyes slide to Isla.

“Well, well. Who’s the treat in red?” His tongue clicks. “Did you finally get bored of the old ones? This one looks... fresh.”

Isla’s hand tenses in mine.

I squeeze back. A silent promise.

Rafael circles. Eyes raking over her like she is for sale. I want to put a bullet in his skull right there.

But I don't. Not yet.

“I’m here for a deal,” I say flatly. “I want your club. Two nights a week. Private floors. No questions asked.”

He arches a brow. “You came to your rival to book a venue? How cute. What, running out of friends?”

“No,” I say, smiling coldly. “I just like quality. And for an asshole, your club delivers.”

He laughs again, but there is no joy in it. Only venom.

“Hmm,” Rafael muses. “And what do I get in return?”

“The usual rate. No complications. I stay out of your way. You stay out of mine.” What else does he want?

He looks back at Isla. “I’ll give you a discount,” he says. “If you throw in Miss Cupcake over there.”

Silence. I want to punch him in his fucking throat.

My jaw tightens. Isla's body goes stiff.

A bouncer steps forward, smirking, hand outstretched—aiming for her arm.

Wrong fucking move.

Crack.

My fist shatters his wrist. Bone snaps clean. The fucker howls.

I snatch the gun from his holster, shove it in Rafael’s face before anyone can blink. Isla doesn’t even have time to gasp.

“Touch her again,” I say slowly, voice low, lethal, “and I’ll repaint these floors with your intestines.”

Rafael doesn't flinch. He never does. That’s what makes him dangerous.

Still, his grin falters.

“You always were dramatic.”

“And you always talked too fucking much.”

I toss the contract on the table. “Sign it.”

He looks between me and the trembling bouncer, then at Isla, whose wide eyes refuse to blink.

“You’ve changed,” he says, almost in awe.

“No,” I correct him, my voice dark and steely. “I’ve just run out of patience.”

He picks up the pen.

Signs.

And smiles as he slides the contract back.

“Fine. The club’s yours.”

We turn to leave. Isla clings to my side like she wants to disappear.

Then Rafael’s voice echoes behind us.

“Don’t get too attached, Isla. We’ll have more… private time soon.”

She freezes.

I don’t.

But inside?

I burn.

She shouldn’t matter. She doesn’t matter.

And yet… the thought of her in Rafael’s hands makes something primal coil in my gut.

I console myself as I cross the entrance, half dragging Isla with me.

The plan is already in motion. I just have to be patient.