Page 14 of Damon

I can't believe I'm standing here in my pajamas, challenging a man who could probably kill me with his bare hands, asking him to show me what bad looks like.

But I can't seem to stop myself. There's something about being here, about being cut off from my old life and everything I thought I knew about myself, that's making me reckless.

Damon stares at me for a long moment, a war playing out behind his eyes. Then he shakes his head.

"Go upstairs, Viviana."

"Make me."

It's a stupid thing to say. Childish and bratty and exactly the kind of thing that would make him think I really am a spoiled princess playing games.

But instead of getting angry, he laughs. It's a low, rough sound that makes my stomach flip in the best possible way.

"You're big trouble," he says. “And trouble is the last thing either of us needs right now."

He's right, and I know he's right, but I don't care. I feel like myself again. Not the terrified girl who found out her bodyguard was dead, not the sheltered princess who didn't know her family was in the mafia, but the girl who climbs out windows and sneaks into clubs and makes her own decisions about what she wants.

And right now, what I want is standing in front of me, shirtless and sweaty and looking at me like he shouldn't touch me but desperately wants to.

"I'm already in trouble," I point out. "Might as well make it worth it."

"Viviana." My name sounds like a warning.

"What?"

"You need to go upstairs. Now."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll do something we'll both regret."

The threat should scare me. Instead, it sends heat coursing through my veins.

"I’m not scared of you."

For a second, I think he's going to give in. I can see it in his eyes, the moment when his control wavers. Then he turns away from me, picking up his shirt from where he dropped it on a weight bench.

"Trust me, you should be, little girl."

He pulls the shirt over his head, covering all that beautiful, dangerous skin, and just like that, the spell is broken.

"Leave," he says again, not looking at me. "I'll be up in a few minutes to make breakfast."

I want to argue. I want to push him further, see what happens when his control finally snaps. But his tone tells me I've already pushed as far as I safely can.

"Fine," I say, trying to sound like I don't care.

I turn and walk back up the stairs, feeling his eyes on me the whole way. My skin is still tingling from where he touched me, and I know I should be ashamed of myself for wanting him.

But I'm not.

I'm trapped in this house with the enemy, and I have no idea what's going to happen next.

But I feel alive.

Back in my room, I close the door behind me and lean against it. What happened down there? What was I thinking, practically throwing myself at him?

I wasn't thinking.