"What are you doing here?"
He didn't scream like a frightened child—he roared like a lion. The sound was so primal, so fierce, that fear bled into her bones and, for the first time, fear showed in her eyes.
Her gaze locked with his, pinned by the sheer intensity of his glare. Still, she couldn't stop the trembling that betrayed her.
"Start talking," he barked. "Why did you choose to stalk me? Why this place, of all places?"
Alina hadn't meant to stalk him. But she had—from the moment she found out, far too late, what her father had done. An innocent man had been thrown into prison. Damien Cole. And from that moment, she'd been obsessed with making it right.
He had spent seven years behind bars. Seven years of silence. And when she began digging into his past, it wasn't just curiosity—it was guilt, and something deeper. She wanted to undo every piece of her father's cruelty.
Then she found out about his mother.
Quiet. Fragile. Alone. Alina had paid off the woman's bills, never telling anyone except Victor. But the visits didn't stop there. Over time, she'd come to enjoy the woman's company. There was peace in her presence. Maybe because Alina never had that kind of warmth growing up. Not since her own mother walked out and never looked back.
She and Lucas had been left behind with their father—a man they once idolized. Until the truth unraveled. Until they saw the monster he truly was.
Sometimes, Alina wondered if she had the right to resent her mother for running.
But Damien's mother—she had stayed and prayed for his release. She loved her son without conditions. Even when the world condemned him, she never gave up.
Two years ago, after their father died, Alina reached out to her mother. One last attempt. One last thread to hold onto.
But her mother never showed up.
"I… I…" What was she supposed to say? That she'd been the one paying the hospital bills? How would that land? He wouldn't take it well, but she hadn't had a choice—not after getting caught.
"Damien, I… I thought it was the right thing to do," she said, rising to her feet.
She didn't deserve to sit next to his mother. Not after what her father had done. She didn't deserve this compassion. He wouldn't accept it anyway.
Mrs. Cole caught her hand before she could move away. A frown tugged at the older woman's face.
"Have you met my son?" she asked, smiling when Alina stiffened. "Sit, child. He's just throwing a tantrum. Don't let that face scare you."
"No," Damien snapped. "She must leave, Mother. I don't want to see her face."
Alina froze. She had grown to love the elderly woman—never planned to, it just happened. Now she was torn. She wanted to stay, but Damien's presence only fed the fear coiling inside her.
"Don't be ungrateful," his mother said sharply, frowning at him. She waved a hand and urged Alina to sit.
Alina obeyed, awkwardly lowering herself into the seat. Her eyes kept flicking toward Damien's piercing gaze.
"You should be thankful," Mrs. Cole continued. "This lady has taken good care of me for the past three years. Stop sulking and thank her properly."
Alina's gaze snapped to him.
At first, his gaze was blank. He just stared at her—unblinking. Alina held her breath, counting the seconds until the explosion.
One…
Two…
Thr—
"What?" he roared, eyes blazing as he threw a deadly glare at her.
Mrs. Cole flinched at her son's outburst, ready to scold him. But before she could speak, he crossed the room in two long strides and grabbed Alina's wrist.
"You're coming with me," he said, breathless, dragging her out despite his mother's sharp call for him to stop.
Damn the devil for sending the Graves into his path.
Last night, he'd dreamed of her—her voice echoing in his head, repeating those damn words about marriage. It left him rattled. For the first time, revenge didn't feel simple.
He didn't know how to face her without thinking about how badly he wanted her. And at the back of his mind, the thought of marriage—of owning her—sparked something dangerous. It thrilled him.
But then she'd said he would never have her heart. Not like he wanted to.
Damn it, but the thought of having her body excited him.
Maybe she'd charmed him. That had to be the reason he was still drawn to her—despite knowing exactly who she was. Whose daughter she was.
And damn her for taking care of his mother.
He wanted to scream at her, shake the confusion out of his head, but he held it in.
He led her to a quiet receiving area with a long window that overlooked the hospital garden. A few visitors sat nearby. Some patients watched the flowers sway in the breeze, soaking in the stillness. He brought her here for that very reason—so he could stay calm, even when all he wanted was to yell.
He stared at her face. The fear he'd seen earlier was gone.
Today, she wore a simple white floral dress and white sneakers. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Everything about her looked plain—ordinary, even—except for her eyes. They held something fierce.
Not at all like the woman he'd met at the conference.
Is this what his mother saw?
A casual, innocent girl.
"What the hell are you doing here? What the hell do you think you're planning?" His voice was low, but it made her legs tremble.
"I told you," she said, arms crossing over her chest. "I'm doing everything right that my father ever did wrong."
He snorted. "And you think I'll believe that?"
"It's not for you to believe," she shot back, hitting him straight in the gut with her defiance. "It's what you need to accept. The sooner you understand that I'm not my father, the easier this will be for you."
His lips curved into a cold smile. Alina Graves really didn't know who she was challenging.
"I was twenty-three when your sick excuse of a father locked me in a cell. Seven years. Seven years without rain on my skin," he said, voice flat, eyes narrowing. "Walter might be dead, but he sure as hell didn't hide his family."
"He didn't know I was seeing your mother," Alina said, matching his glare without flinching. "I kept her hidden from him the moment he started digging around."
A flicker passed through Damien's eyes, but his pride refused to accept Alina's kindness. It hit him like a punch to the gut, and he growled inwardly.
"If it wasn't for what I did, your mother would've been his next target," she said firmly.
Damien shifted his stance. He hated what she'd done. He hated that she'd been kind. Even with all the anger boiling in him—hatred for who she was—he couldn't deny what he'd seen: the pure joy on his mother's face when he walked in.
But all of that had vanished the second he saw Alina.
"Damien," she said softly. "I want you to know I have no intention of hurting you or your mother."
"And how the hell am I supposed to believe that?" he asked, stepping toward her.
Damn her. That sweet, floral scent of hers hit him again. All he wanted was to pin her to the wall and do every wicked thing he'd fantasized about. Those eyes—those strange, unreadable eyes—had been the first thing to pull him in. And they'd be the first place his lips would touch. He wouldn't stop at just kissing them. No, he needed to unravel the mystery she carried behind that stare.
Damn him.
Why was he so drawn to her?
But he didn't stop himself from reaching for her. When he did, his fingers tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.
Her glare hit him like a wave. Something in his chest stirred—sharp, unfamiliar.
"You're going to stop seeing my mother," he said, voice low.
"Of course," she replied. "Now that you're out of prison, it's your responsibility. But don't forget my request—once I become your wife, I'll likely see her again."
Damien cursed under his breath. His eyes dropped to her lips, and he wondered how the hell he was supposed to stay away from them if—by some cruel twist—he ever married her. Because he did not plan to do what she wants, taking her body was a stain to his revenge, he should keep away.
Whatever this was—this pull—would fade. Once he had his revenge, once he was done with her, he'd make damn sure to never see her face again.
"I never agreed to your request," he murmured against her lips, ignoring the curious glances from passersby.
"But you will," she said with quiet conviction, not as if she hoped for it—but as if it were fact. "I see a good man in you, Damien. I know you don't want revenge."
His grip on her chin tightened. "Are you daring me, Alina? Do you want to see how far I can take this? A good man, huh?"
"Yes," she said, not flinching even though his hold stung. "You'll see it soon enough."
Damien Cole jerked away from her, his hands trembling. He stared, confusion and fury flashing in his eyes. Why did she stay every time he grabbed her too hard? Why didn't she flinch, cry out, recoil?
Why was she so calm, so silent, so damned mysterious?
And worst of all—
Why was he so drawn to her?
"It was you," he said, head tilting slightly. He needed to bury this feeling, whatever it was, if he wanted to win. "You're the one who paid my mother's hospital bills… and had a hand in my release."
A small smile curved her lips. "I told you—I'm trying to right all the wrongs."
"Damn you," he growled. "Damn you if you think that changes anything."
She said nothing, just watched him.
He began to pace, running a hand over his closely trimmed hair. "Damn you," he whispered again.
"I'll keep apologizing for what my father did to you," she said gently. "You didn't deserve it, Damien."
He froze, then glanced at her like he'd seen a ghost. But her eyes—steady, piercing—were too real. And that terrified him more than he cared to admit.
His lips parted, ready to say more than his heart could carry. He wanted to tell her what she was doing to him, to beg her to stop.
Instead, he growled softly, "Leave."
She nodded, gave him one last lingering look, then turned and walked away.
The second she disappeared from sight, his knees buckled. He reached for the wall, gripping it for support.