Chapter 9: The Devil’s Disobedient Slave
Anastasia grew rigid, her breath hitching at the sudden, overwhelming proximity.
Slowly, Damian raised his hand. His large, warm fingers brushed against her cheek, his touch impossibly gentle yet entirely unyielding as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
His thumb lingered on the soft skin of her jawline, a quiet reminder of the grip he had held on her throat just hours before. The sheer heat of his skin against hers sent a sudden, traitorous spark of static electricity straight through her core. Her heart hammered, not just out of fear, but from a sudden, involuntary rush of raw, physical awareness.
He reached over to the silver tray, picked up the spoon, and dipped it into the steaming chicken soup. Lifting it, he brought the spoon directly to her lips.
"Blow it slowly," he ordered, his deep tone dropping into a low, intimate murmur.
Ana stared at the spoon, her eyes wide with a mix of rebellion and sheer confusion. Why was he doing this? Why was the man who had just systematically ruined her life now feeding her like she was something fragile?
"Why are you doing this?" She whispered, trying to pull her chin back from his touch. "You destroy everything I have, you threaten me... and now you’re acting like you care? You’re a hypocrite, Damian."
Damian’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t blink at her words. He simply held the spoon steady, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a suffocating weight.
"Don’t flatter yourself, Anastasia. This isn’t care," he purred, his voice smooth and lethal. "This is your training. I told you that you will obey whatever I demand, whenever I demand it. If I command you to open your mouth, you open it. If I command you to swallow, you swallow. You have to learn to let go of your will, doll. Now, blow."
The raw, dominating authority in his voice sent a dizzying shiver straight down Ana’s spine. Inside her mind, a fierce war raged.
She wanted to scream, to knock the spoon out of his hand, to fight the terrifying pulling sensation of submission creeping into her chest. But looking into his unyielding eyes, she felt her defenses melting against her will.
Lowering her gaze in bitter defeat, she leaned forward slightly and blew gently on the soup.
Satisfied, Damian tilted the spoon forward against her bottom lip. "Eat."
Ana parted her lips and swallowed the warm liquid. The rich flavor immediately soothed her hollow stomach... but the comfort of the food was entirely eclipsed by the suffocating intimacy of the man feeding her.
Spoon by spoon, Damian patiently fed her. His eyes tracked every single movement of her lips, the slight tremble of her jaw... and the flush rising rapidly on her neck.
With every brush of his fingers against her skin, a heavy, dark tension pooled low in her stomach. She hated how much power his simple touch held over her body, hated the way her breath caught every time his thumb swiped a stray drop of broth from her bottom lip.
He was commanding her and she was eating directly from his hand, completely trapped in the tight, domestic illusion he was weaving around them. He wasn’t just breaking her life; he was invading her physical boundaries, rewriting her reactions... and forcing her body to crave the very dominance she was fighting against.
Once the bowl was completely empty, Damian set the spoon down. He didn’t immediately pull away.
Instead, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his scent of expensive cologne and amber whiskey wrapping around her senses.
"Good girl," he whispered, his hot breath sending a violent, illicit thrill down her spine. "Get some rest, Anastasia. You’ve taken your first lesson beautifully. The moment you are fully healed, the real work begins."
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The soft rays of the morning sun filtered through the curtains, waking Anastasia from a deep, dreamless sleep. For the first time in months, her body didn’t ache from a brutal, freezing shift at the diner.
The IV fluids had done their magic; her mind felt clear... and the sharp pain in her soles had dulled down to a faint, manageable throb.
She carefully slipped out of the bed, testing her weight. The doctor’s healing salve had worked wonders. After a quick shower, she changed into another ridiculously soft, expensive lounge set left for her in the bathroom.
As soon as she opened the bedroom door, a rich, mouth-watering aroma hit her senses. The scent of freshly brewed coffee, sizzling bacon... and warm buttered pastries wafted up from the lower floors, making her stomach roar in demand.
Driven entirely by her hunger, she began to walk down the grand staircase, gripping the mahogany railing tightly to keep the weight off her healing feet.
She traced the scent all the way to the grand dining room, stopping at the threshold. Peeking through the slightly open double doors, she saw a lavish breakfast spread... And right at the head of the table sat the Devil himself, calmly reading through documents on his tablet.
"Miss Vance?" A soft voice whispered beside her.
Ana jumped slightly, turning to see one of the young maids holding a silver tray covered with a cloche. The maid looked at Ana’s feet in pure panic. "I was just bringing your breakfast up to the master bedroom. Why did you come downstairs with your injured feet? If Master Sterling sees..."
"Let her in."
The deep, chilling tone cut through the air from inside the dining room, interrupting the maid instantly.
The maid bowed her head quickly, pushing the double doors wide open. Ana swallowed hard, forcing her shoulders back as she stepped into the room.
Damian didn’t look up from his tablet immediately. He waited until she had walked halfway into the room before he finally set the device down, his dark, piercing eyes locking onto her. He waved a dismissive hand at the maid. "Leave the tray on the table and get out."
The maid scrambled to set the food down and practically bolted from the room, closing the doors behind her.
"Come here," Damian commanded, his voice smooth, low, and entirely unyielding.
Ana hesitated for a fraction of a second, but the reminder of the grip on her throat from last night made her feet move. She walked over, stopping just a few feet away from his chair.
Damian’s gaze dragged down her body, lingering on her bandaged feet before snapping back up to her face. A dark, dangerous aura settled around him.
"Did I not severely command you to rest and heal until it was time to return to Manhattan? You are already failing to follow my orders, Anastasia. I do not tolerate a disobedient slave."