Emperor of Lust: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance
Emperor of Lust: Chapter 33

Nothing can touch us.

For the first time, I feel indestructible. Invincible. Like the two of us together are harder, darker, and stronger than forged steel.

She’s the reason. She’s what makes it feel this way. When she’s with me, everything sharpens, every purpose has a more honed edge, everything makes me feel more alive, more grounded.

So this is what being in love feels like.

…Who knew.

It hits me hard every time I think of it. And I have no fucking clue how it happened.

I’ve had walls around parts of me deep inside since I was a kid; since I watched my parents die in front of me in a maelstrom of twisted steel and shattered glass across an intersection.

It’s not even that I swore I’d never open up to anyone. I simply assumed that what I was and what I’d been through made it impossible for me.

And then Hana burst in and burned everything I thought I knew about myself to cinders.

I didn’t expect her, didn’t expect to need her. But here I am.

Needing her. Never letting her go.

And together, we’re fucking unbreakable.

“You ready?”

Hana stiffens as I walk into our dressing room. She’s dressed to fucking kill in a slinky, gorgeous black dress, with a pair of strappy heels that…well, she knows what ribbons bound around her skin do to me.

“Or…we could not go out,” I growl, sliding up behind her. “We could stay in, and I could tie you up and do very bad things to⁠—”

The second I put my hands on her hips, she flinches, evading my grip.

My brow furrows. “Everything okay?”

She turns, her face blank.

“Yeah,” she says flatly, not meeting my eyes. “Fine. But I can’t go out tonight. I have plans.”

I frown. “I thought we had plans.”

“Something came up,” she says sharply. Without another word, she pushes past me and strides out of the dressing room.

What the fuck?

I frown, following her out the bedroom and into the open concept living area of the penthouse.

“What came up?”

She pauses and grabs her purse off the back of a chair. “Just…work stuff.’

My eyes take her in—the short black dress. The makeup and hair. The heels.

Work stuff?

“Hana,” I growl, watching her walk to the door. “Where are you going?”

She turns, defensive. “Just…just something to take care of.”

“What?” I press, trying to make sense of the situation, the tension that suddenly fills the space between us.

She shrugs it off. “It’s nothing. I just…have to go out, okay?” She drops her gaze, like she can’t look at me.

She’s gone before I can question her more. And then I’m alone, wondering what the fuck just happened and what the hell is going on.

I scowl as I slump onto the couch in front of the TV, mindlessly scrolling movie options. I try to rationalize it: we’ve been cooped up inside for weeks, and it’s only been three days since we got our freedom with this ceasefire, at least for now.

I mean, I’d probably want to get away from me too if I’d spent three fucking weeks alone with me.

Facts.

But as the hours tick by, my mood darkens. I send Hana a text, but she doesn’t reply. I send another one, like a pathetic douchebag, which gets the same non-reply. Eventually, as it gets later, I try calling. No answer.

It’s one in the freaking morning when she finally gets home. My gaze jerks up from the couch, my brow furrowing when I see how disheveled she is—cheeks flushed, hair a little out of place. My heart twists as I approach her. “Where the hell were you?”

She barely meets my eyes. “Just…out.” She brushes past me, dropping her purse on the kitchen island. “I told you: it was nothing.”

She can’t even look at me when she says it. The ice in her voice, the closed-off look in her eyes—she might as well have put a twenty-foot wall up between us.

She showers as I stand in the bedroom. She even puts pajamas on in there before she comes out, still not looking at me as she crawls into bed.

Okay?

I change into sweats and a t-shirt and slide in next to her, reaching for her, needing some answers, some warmth from her. She pulls away, her voice cracking as she whispers, “Not tonight.”

I lie there, wide awake, sensing the distance growing between us. Her breathing evens out, but I’m too wired to sleep, suspicion gnawing at me.

You’re going crazy. Reaching for shit that isn’t there.

Just the same, I get out of bed, quietly moving to the kitchen. Her purse is still lying there, its contents spilled onto the counter. Instinctively, I start to push things back inside—makeup, her wallet, a stick of lip balm⁠—

Something odd catches my eye: a business card for a club. I pick it up, turning it in my hands. Then I freeze.

There’s a phone number scrawled on the back of it.

For a second, I’m stock-still, trying to process this. But then a flash of anger hits me. I feel crazy for even going there in my head, but I can’t shake the unease twisting in my gut. I grab my phone, tap the number, bring it to my ear.

Two rings later, someone picks up.

“Hai?” a deep male voice grunts on the other end.

My eyes narrow.

“Who is this?” I growl, my grip on the phone tightening.

The man laughs—smug, taunting.

Then he hangs up without a word.

My pulse pounds heavily in my ears as I shove the card back into her bag. Then, just as I go to zip it up, I catch sight of something else that makes my world collapse.

No.

I reach inside, my hand shaking as I pull the foil package into the low light of the kitchen.

It’s an open condom wrapper.

Empty.

My vision blurs at the edges as rage swells inside me, clawing up my throat. I storm back to the bedroom, where she’s fast asleep, blissfully ignorant of the inferno raging in me.

“Hana!” I shout, jerking her awake.

She bolts upright, her eyes wide and haggard as she looks at me—in the eyes, for the first time since she walked in.

I hold up the wrapper, my hands shaking with fury. “What the fuck is this?!”

She stares at me, silent, not a hint of guilt on her face.

“Answer me!!” I roar, my voice bouncing off the walls.

The silence hangs for a second. Then I watch her throat bob as she swallows.

“What did you expect?” Her voice is ice, clipped, emotionless. “This was never real, Damian.”

I have to get out. I stumble back, storming through the penthouse, then out the door, down the two flight of stairs to the street, my blood boiling, my thoughts churning.

I surge into the night air. The second I get outside, I hear her footsteps quick behind me.

“Damian,” she calls, her voice breaking a little. I stop, turning to face her, and her expression falters, a flicker of pain crossing her face. But she pushes it down, her mask slipping back into place.

I can’t hold back. “Is this what I think it is?” I growl, my voice low and dangerous.

Her lip quivers, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Is it?!” I shout, storming over to her until I’m looming over her in front of our building.

“Yes.” The word comes out almost like a confession.

My heart shatters, raw pain lancing through me like a blade. “Why?!” My voice is hollow, broken.

“Because…” she says, her voice shaking, “you’re not enough.”

I can’t think. I can’t breathe. My fist slams into the wall beside her head, the impact sending a jolt through my arm. She flinches, turning her head away, and it makes me hate myself even more.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see some asshole standing nearby, phone raised, filming us. My anger surges, a tidal wave of rage and humiliation crashing over me.

“Fuck off!” I roar.

The motherfucker doesn’t budge. He just keeps fucking recording.

“FUCK. OFF!” I yell.

He backs away a little, keeping his phone raised, and I snap. I storm over to him, slapping the phone from his hand.

“I said fuck off!!” I bellow, shoving him.

He backs away, snatching up his phone and scurrying off. I turn, looking back at Hana.

Her gaze meets mine, raw and broken. I can’t take it. Can’t handle what I see in her face.

Without another word, I turn and stalk away, letting the darkness swallow me whole.