Chapter 4: Touch Me, Hurt Me, Keep Me

The city outside Damien’s penthouse shimmered like a dream—unreachable and distant, as if it belonged to a different version of Savannah. One who hadn’t given in. One who hadn’t fallen under his spell.

She sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, legs drawn up to her chest, wrapped in a silk robe that still held his scent. Every inch of her skin tingled with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice commanding her into submission.

But it wasn’t just desire that haunted her now. It was the way he looked at her.

Like he owned her. And she was starting to believe he did.

Damien hadn’t tried to seduce her again since Valeria’s visit. Instead, he’d left her alone—physically. But she felt him everywhere. His presence filled the penthouse like smoke, curling around her mind, her senses, her will.

She hated that she missed him.

She hated more that part of her liked being missed.

When the clock hit midnight, she stood, barefoot and restless, and padded down the hall toward the library.

The door was slightly open.

He was inside. Shirtless. Back turned.

And he was playing the piano.

The haunting melody echoed through the dimly lit room—slow, aching, raw. Nothing like the Damien she’d seen in boardrooms. This was a man unraveling.

He didn’t stop when she stepped inside. Didn’t look at her. Just kept playing, his fingers moving like the keys were confessions only he could make.

“I didn’t know you played,” she said softly.

He stopped.

“I don’t,” Damien replied. “Not unless I’m trying to forget.”

“Forget what?”

He turned then, and the weight in his eyes stunned her. They were darker than usual—stormy and wild, like something barely restrained.

“You.”

Her breath caught.

“I thought I could have you and stay in control,” he murmured. “I was wrong.”

Savannah swallowed hard, stepping closer. “Then what do you want now?”

Damien rose, slow and dangerous. “To lose control with you.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer. His hand snaked around her waist, dragging her flush against him. His lips found hers with an urgency that made her knees weaken. The kiss wasn’t tender. It was war—hungry, messy, desperate.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Tell me to stop.”

She didn’t.

He shoved the robe off her shoulders.

“You’re mine,” he growled.

And then everything blurred.

He lifted her onto the piano bench, pushing her knees apart, his mouth trailing fire along her neck. His hands were everywhere—claiming, teasing, punishing.

Savannah arched into him, gasping as his fingers traced the wet heat between her legs. “You like being owned,” he whispered. “You want to be good for me.”

She trembled. “What if I don’t?”

He sank two fingers inside her, slow and deep. “Then I’ll make you want to.”

She cried out, body reacting before her mind could catch up.

He devoured her.

His mouth. His hands. His voice in her ear, commanding and filthy.

When she finally shattered, her back arched and his name spilled from her lips like a prayer.

Damien didn’t let go.

Not after.

Not even when they collapsed onto the rug in front of the fire, skin slick with sweat, bodies tangled in silence.

He pulled a blanket over them and wrapped his arms around her like she might disappear.

“You scared me,” he said against her hair.

“You scare me,” she whispered back.

They stayed like that, breathing the same air, neither one willing to admit what was happening.

They were falling.

And neither knew how to land.

---

The next morning, Savannah woke alone.

Again.

She found a note on the nightstand, in Damien’s elegant scrawl:

“I’ll be back tonight. There’s a dress in the closet. Wear it. Don’t be late.”

No details.

No time.

Just orders.

And somehow… it thrilled her.

She opened the closet and found the dress.

Red.

Barely there.

Strapless. Skin-tight. Designed to be noticed.

There was something else beneath it.

A box.

Inside it, velvet black and cold to the touch… was a collar.

Not a choker. Not jewelry.

A collar.

Simple. Leather. With a small gold tag.

SAVANNAH.

Her knees nearly buckled.

She sat on the bed, staring at it, heart pounding.

She should’ve thrown it across the room.

Instead, she ran her thumb over her name.

Owned. Claimed. Branded.

The part of her that once screamed for freedom was silent now.

Because another part—a darker one—wanted to know what it would feel like to wear that for him.

To be seen.

To be chosen.

To be his.

---

Night fell.

A sleek black car waited downstairs.

The driver didn’t speak.

He took her to a private club uptown—exclusive, shadowed, filled with beautiful people who looked like they knew secrets the world didn’t.

She stepped inside and immediately felt eyes on her.

Damien was at the far end of the room, leaning against the bar in a charcoal suit. No tie. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. One hand in his pocket.

He saw her. And time stopped.

He walked to her slowly, eyes never leaving hers.

When he reached her, he didn’t say anything.

He simply turned her around and fastened the collar around her throat with reverent fingers.

It clicked shut.

The sound echoed louder than the music.

Whispers started around them. She didn’t care.

Neither did Damien.

He leaned in and kissed the back of her neck.

Then whispered against her ear:

“You wore it.”

She nodded.

“I didn’t tell you to,” he said.

“I wanted to.”

He exhaled shakily, then took her hand and led her deeper into the club—into his world, into the dark, into the promise of everything forbidden.

---

Tonight, she wasn’t a girl with doubts.

She wasn’t scared of the collar.

She chose it.

And when Damien pressed her against the wall of a private room, his mouth hot against her skin, his voice rasping her name like worship and sin, Savannah didn’t resist.

She surrendered.

To him.

To this.

To being his.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be anything else.

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