SLICING THROUGH POWER

Damien

Stepping into Amelia’s office, I was hit with that sweet scent of lavender and vanilla—like some perfume made to mask the rot underneath. It was all too clean , too perfect , like she was pretending to be something she wasn’t. I didn’t care. I zeroed in on her immediately. Seated behind that polished desk, she was an angel in a cage, and that obsessive hunger flared inside me again.

She looked stunning— obviously —but today, something was different. There was this crack in her perfection, this edge to her that made my gut twist with delight. Her face was still flawless, but she had shadows beneath her eyes. She thought she hid them well, but I could see it all—her exhaustion. It made me smile. It turned me on .

“Morning, Amelia,” I drawled, my voice smooth like velvet, like I wasn’t standing in her office with the fucking urge to ruin her in every way possible. I saw her freeze, like she could feel the weight of my presence seeping into the room. The tension crackled, thick and choking, and I couldn’t get enough of it. “You look tired.”

She glanced up at me, those honey eyes meeting mine. For just a heartbeat, I saw it—fear? Defiance?—before she shoved it down like she always did, slapping that perfect mask back into place. “Just a long week,” she said, her smile a little too sharp, but not quite reaching her eyes.

That smile. God , it made my skin crawl, a pretty little fucking lie she used to hide the mess of emotions beneath. I leaned against her desk, close enough to invade her space. I wanted to see her squirm. “You shouldn’t overwork yourself, Millie,” I said, my voice low, casual, but it fucking drilled right into her. “It’s easy to lose track of what’s important.”

Her pulse, I could almost feel it. Watching her unravel, piece by piece, was the kind of power that made my blood burn .

“Damien?” Her voice snapped me back, but it didn’t stop the thrill crawling through my veins. She shifted in her seat, trying to take control, but I could see right through it. “We’re supposed to discuss your progress today, remember?”

I grinned. Progress? Fuck that. This wasn’t about progress. This was about breaking her down until I was the only thing left she could think of.

I leaned in, close enough to feel the heat of her breath. “Oh, I remember,” I murmured, my voice low, dragging the words like they were something I was savoring. “But progress can be subjective. What if I told you I feel more alive now than I ever have? What if I told you that my mind can’t stop racing, thinking about… certain things?”

Her gaze flickered for a moment, like she was trying to hold herself together, but I saw it—her uncertainty, her mind struggling to make sense of the mess I was laying out. “What things?” she asked, her voice a little too steady.

I feigned innocence, my lips curling into a smirk. “The shadows,” I whispered, letting the words slither from my lips. “ The darkness that wraps around us when we stop pretending. When we let our guards down. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

She frowned, brow furrowing like she was trying to put together a puzzle with missing pieces. “This isn’t a game, Damien.”

“Isn’t it?” I leaned even closer, feeling the heat radiating off her. I fucking loved that look in her eyes. She didn’t know whether to run or stay. “What if I told you some games are meant to be played in the dark? That the real exploration doesn’t begin until the lights go out?”

For just a second, I felt it—her fear , and fuck, it hit me like a drug. Amelia, this brilliant psychologist who thought she had it all figured out, was unraveling in front of me. My words were knives, cutting through the layers of control she so desperately clung to. “I want to help you,” she said, that professional tone of hers smooth as silk, but I could hear it—the tension, coiling like a snake, ready to strike.

I leaned in, my voice low, dark, a little too sweet. “And I want to help you too, Millie,” I said, my words dragging like a whisper in her ear, laced with all the fucked-up things I knew she didn’t want to admit. “But you gotta let me in. You have to stop hiding behind that perfect little mask. You have to face the truth of what’s crawling around inside you—those feelings you don’t wanna acknowledge, not just the facade you present to the world.”

She stiffened, and I could practically feel the panic creeping into her veins. That gave me a rush , a fucking high I couldn’t ignore. “I’m not afraid of the truth,” she snapped back, but the tremble in her voice told me everything I needed to know. She wasn’t just afraid of the truth—she was terrified of me exposing it.

I chuckled low, the sound thick with something dark, something dangerous. “Are you sure? Because I think you are. I think you’re terrified of what’s really hiding under that polished exterior of yours. You have no idea how tangled our worlds are, do you? You think you’re standing on the safe side, but you and I? We’re both walking the same razor-thin line between light and darkness.”

Her eyes narrowed, and I could almost hear her mind working, trying to process the poison I was feeding her. “This is therapy, Damien. I’m here to help you, not engage in some twisted philosophical debate.”

I leaned closer, my voice dropping into a dangerous whisper, just enough for her to feel the heat of it. “But what if the therapy itself is the debate?” I pressed, my words dragging like a slow burn. “What if every session pulls you deeper into the dark? The very place you think you’ve been running from. The very place you’re so desperate to avoid?”

I leaned back, letting my eyes trace every inch of her—her flushed neck, her breath hitching, the way her body tightened under the weight of this conversation. The air between us was thick , and I savored every goddamn second of it, knowing I had her on the edge, her mind hanging by a thread.

“Let’s explore that darkness together, shall we?” I drawled, noticing the way her eyes flickered, a flash of fear that made my blood sing. “Because, Millie, I think you’re starting to understand the power of what’s buried under the surface.”

The tension in the room was electric, and I watched her expression shift—something like defiance sparking in her eyes. She wasn’t going to back down. No, she was gonna play my game, step into the shadows, and it made me fucking dizzy . The idea of her, of this woman who thought she had control, willingly walking deeper into my hell… It was intoxicating.

She shifted in her seat, her posture snapping to attention, her eyes locking with mine without a flinch. “Alright, Damien,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Let’s start where all games begin—with understanding. You told me once that power comes from unraveling someone’s layers. But who unraveled yours?”

The shift caught me off guard. For a split second, I felt my grip slip, the control I so carefully maintained slipping through my fingers. I felt my jaw tighten, and I forced myself to stay still, hiding the reflexive response that surged through me.

She held my gaze—she fucking knew . The tension was thick, suffocating, and I could see the way she was feeding off it. “Childhood is where we first learn about power—who’s got it and who doesn’t. Who taught you that lesson, Damien?”

I fought the urge to look away. The thrill I’d felt moments earlier dulled as she pressed on, delving into territory I had long since buried .

“Seems you’ve done your homework, Dr. Harper,” I sneered, masking the tightness in my chest with a smirk. But even I could hear the sharpness in my voice.

“It’s not about homework. It’s about understanding what made you who you are,” she countered, her voice soft yet unrelenting. “What shaped the man sitting across from me?”

Her question cut through my defenses like a fucking razor, and for a split second, I felt something I wasn’t used to— vulnerability . It hit like a gut punch, raw and fucking unwanted. I was the one who made people squirm, the one who pushed them until they bled, but now she was digging into memories I’d buried so deep they barely had time to rot. Memories of when I was weak , of when I couldn’t control shit, and that made me want to fucking break something.

“Some things don’t need understanding,” I muttered, my tone sharp. “Not everything is worth dissecting, Amelia.”

Her eyes were all calm, too calm, like she was studying me. And that was more unnerving than any question. “Maybe not,” she said, her voice smooth like she was daring me to do something about it. “But it’s the things we avoid that usually need the most attention. And if you think about it, Damien, isn’t that why you’re here?”

I felt the familiar rage simmer beneath the surface. She was chipping away at the very foundation I’d built. This was supposed to be my game— my rules. But here she was, turning the tables.

I leaned back, forcing a smirk I didn’t quite feel. “Careful, Millie,” I warned, voice low. “Curiosity can lead you down dangerous paths.”

But she only offered a slight smile in return, unshaken. “I think we both know I’m not easily frightened.”

I settled back, watching her. The way she pushed, like she really thought she could break through. There was almost something endearing about it. She wanted answers? Fine . I’d give her what she asked for, but not in the way she expected.

I let the corner of my mouth curve into a smirk, my gaze steady on hers. “You want to know about my childhood, Doc? Alright,” I drawled, each word slow, calculated. “Picture this: a cramped house, four walls that felt like they were closing in, and a man who decided he was God in that little kingdom. Everything was his to control. Especially us.”

Her face softened, just a flicker, and I almost laughed. Perfect. The moment she showed a trace of sympathy, I knew I’d hit exactly where I wanted.

“He liked to remind us of that every night,” I continued, my voice staying smooth, detached. “Sometimes, it was a slap, a shove. Other times…” I paused, watching her reaction, leaning in just slightly. “He got more creative. You get used to pain when it’s served in portions every day.”

I shrugged, acting as if it were nothing more than a mildly annoying memory. “People say trauma makes you who you are. That it’s something to heal from.” I let out a soft laugh. “But it’s not about healing, not really. You take it, use it, and mold it into something useful.”

She didn’t look away. Her face remained calm, but I could see the small changes, the flickers of something I couldn’t quite place. Sympathy, maybe, or a desire to understand. But it was too late for that .

“I learned one thing,” I continued, voice dropping to a murmur, just loud enough for her to catch. “There’s power in suffering—if you’re willing to turn it around.”

I leaned back, letting the silence stretch, daring her to break it, to say something. To her credit, she didn’t immediately. She just sat there, processing. I saw the war in her eyes—the urge to dig deeper , to see if she could reach whatever I kept hidden. But she wouldn’t get that close. No one did .

Finally, she cleared her throat, her professional mask sliding back into place. “Thank you for sharing that, Damien,” she said, carefully measured. “You’re right; trauma can mold us. But turning it around doesn’t mean losing yourself to it.”

Her words were steady, calm, and I could see she was trying to draw me back into her rhythm. But this was my story, my control.

I leaned forward, lowering my voice to a murmur. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, Amelia. I didn’t lose myself.” I smiled, a dark edge slipping into my tone. “I found exactly who I was meant to be. ”

Her question lingered in the air, pressing in, a little too close for comfort. “And your mother?” she asked, voice soft but probing, threading through the air with a gentleness that felt like an intrusion.

I kept my expression steady, allowing only the faintest hint of a smirk to touch my lips. She was good —better than I’d expected. But I wouldn’t let her see that she’d hit a nerve. Instead, I leaned back, casually crossing my arms, a mask of detachment settling over me like a second skin.

“My mother,” I drawled, keeping my tone light, almost conversational. “She was… unfortunate .”

Amelia’s face remained neutral, but I saw the way her fingers tightened around her pen, a subtle shift that gave away her interest. She was invested, waiting for me to slip , to reveal something raw.

I let my eyes drift off, like I was lost in some distant fucking memory, something blurry and half-finished. “She got fed up and tried to leave once. Thought she could just walk the away from him. From it all.” I let out a soft laugh, cold and empty. “Guess he had other plans. ”

Her eyes flickered, and there it was— sympathy . That pathetic, fucking sympathy. It irked the hell out of me, but I couldn’t help but feel this twisted intrigue at the same time. She thought she could understand. Thought she could untangle the mess of it all. But it was too far gone for her, way beyond her reach.

“He didn’t take too kindly to her little act of defiance,” I said, my voice smooth, like I was telling a story. “One night, he decided to make it clear. Showed me exactly what happens when someone dares to defy him.” I let the smile creep onto my lips. “And he did. Right in front of me.”

I took a moment to glance at her, watching the way her jaw tensed, the slight softening of her eyes like she was trying to shield herself from what I was saying. She was absorbing it all—every fucking detail, her brain trying to process the horror I’d just painted.

“He made sure I saw everything,” I continued, voice a low murmur. “Every last second of it. He thought it’d teach me something. Thought it’d show me what happens when someone forgets their place. ”

Amelia didn’t look away, and for a split second, I felt something simmering beneath the surface, an old, buried rage . But I forced it down, clamping down on it as I always did.

After a moment, she spoke, her voice steady. “That must have been… incredibly painful.”

I laughed, the sound harsh. “ Painful ?” I echoed, arching an eyebrow. “Maybe for her. For me, it was… enlightening.” I let the word hang there, twisting her pity into something darker.

But her gaze remained unshaken, determined. “Damien,” she said, her tone softer, “no one should have to witness something like that.”

I shrugged, unaffected. “I didn’t have a choice. And I learned early that choices don’t matter as much as people think.” I leaned in, dropping my voice to a whisper. “People like to pretend they’re in control, that they can steer their own lives. But we’re all just following paths that were laid out for us, aren’t we?”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t try to change the subject. Her silence told me she was listening, really listening. And even though she’d hit that nerve, even though the memory felt like acid beneath my skin, I wouldn’t let her see a single crack. Not now, not ever .

I stepped out of Amelia’s office, and the air around me felt thick, like her presence was still clinging to my skin. Her voice, those questions, the way she looked at me like she thought she could get inside my head— fuck , it made my blood boil, and I wanted more. I needed more.

I got into my car, the cold leather seat familiar beneath me, grounding me, pulling me back from the fucking edge. But I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

Barely a second passed before my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen—Claire.

Perfect timing.

“What?” I answered, the edge in my voice unmistakable .

Claire didn’t waste a second. “We’ve got a new job. Client wants it done today. You’re the only one who can handle it with… the level of finesse they’re asking for.”

I leaned back in the seat, a twisted smirk curling on my lips. “Details?”

She gave a soft, low chuckle. “Let’s just say, it’s someone who’s in a place of comfort. Someone untouchable, in theory. But our client wants to send a very clear message.”

Ah, I got it. This wasn’t just a job—it was an art . They didn’t want clean. They wanted something that’d fucking linger.

“Location?” I asked, tapping my fingers against the wheel, already running through possible plans in my mind.

“I’ll send you the coordinates. Tonight would be ideal. And Damien?” Her voice dropped, a tone of caution seeping through. “Make sure this one doesn’t come back to bite us.”

I let out a low, amused laugh. “When have I ever let that happen? ”

“Touché,” she shot back, her voice smooth but strained. “Good luck. And remember… discretion.”

The line clicked dead, and I sat in the silence, my fingers still against the wheel, feeling the familiar thrill rise within me. Today’s job would be a challenge—a reminder of the control I wielded, of the power I held over life and death.

But Millie’s face lingered in my mind, an uninvited guest that hadn’t left since our session. Her questions, the way she’d looked at me with that quiet determination, as if she thought she understood something about me.

The thrill of tonight’s job tugged me back, but so did the memory of her— my sweet obsession .

As night settled over the city, I prepped for the job. All black, head to toe—a uniform of shadows. I pulled on a leather jacket, gloves, boots that could silence my steps. My reflection in the mirror stared back, the man who lived in the spaces most people avoided: the dark, the ruthless, the unspoken .

Tonight’s job was more intricate than most. Claire had sent over details, a file that I’d memorized down to the smallest nuance. A powerful figure in his world, wrapped in the comfort of his wealth and security, too arrogant to think he could ever be touched. That kind of arrogance needed a fucking lesson. And I was more than happy to deliver it.

I grabbed my helmet and headed to the garage, where my bike waited. Sleek, black, built for speed and silence. As I swung a leg over and started the engine, I felt the hum of it beneath me, a steady, low growl that promised power with every twist of the throttle. This was the part that I liked best—the anticipation, the control .

The city lights blurred as I maneuvered through the streets, weaving between cars, taking shortcuts only I knew. I was a ghost, a shadow that no one noticed, invisible until it was too late. With each block, the thrill grew, that edge of adrenaline and focus sharp as a knife.

I parked a block away from the mark’s building, slipping off the bike and scanning the scene. Security was tight, but not airtight. I’d studied the rotations, knew when they were at their weakest. All it would take was timing and patience. Two things I excelled at.

Moving through the shadows, I slipped past cameras, each step calculated, methodical. The window I needed was up ahead, slightly ajar. He probably thought no one would dare come this close. But in this city, there was always someone willing to push boundaries, to test limits.

Once inside, I navigated the darkened hallways like they were made for me, until I reached his study. He was there, reading, completely oblivious to the presence now lingering just a breath away.

I stepped forward, the floor creaking just enough for him to notice. His eyes widened, fear taking root as he finally saw me. And in that moment, he knew.

“Who—” he stammered, voice barely a whisper.

I stepped closer, watching him. “A message,” I murmured, almost conversational. I watched the shift in his expression as he registered that his control, his power, meant nothing in this moment .

He tried to back away, stumbling over his chair as he pressed himself against the wall. I took my time, savoring the fear that twisted his features, that silent plea in his eyes. It was always the same—when they realized they’d lost control, that their power was just an illusion. They all looked the same .

I knelt down beside him, my movements slow and deliberate, letting the weight of the moment sink in. “You thought you were untouchable,” I whispered, leaning close enough that he could feel my breath against his ear. “But even kings have their reckoning.”

He flinched, choking on words he couldn’t force out. I drew my knife—a simple tool, but it held a language of its own. I pressed the flat of the blade against his cheek, feeling his pulse hammer through the metal as his breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. His hands trembled as they hovered in the air, unsure whether to push me away or plead.

“Please…” he whispered, finally managing to find his voice. But it wasn’t the voice of the powerful man I’d seen in the file. This was the voice of someone stripped bare, someone with nothing left .

I leaned back, giving him a moment to think he might have a chance. He tried to compose himself, to muster a shred of dignity, but I could see it slipping through his fingers.

“You’re going to make this easy,” I said softly, drawing the blade just enough to scratch the skin, leaving a thin, barely noticeable line. He jolted, the shock of it snapping him back into silence. “You’re going to remember this. You’re going to remember what fear tastes like.”

With a single, swift motion, I let the blade graze his neck, just enough to draw a line of crimson— enough to mark him. Enough for him to remember. I stood, slipping the knife back into my pocket as he crumpled to the floor, clutching his neck, his eyes wide with terror.

“Deliver the message,” I said coldly, my voice slicing through the silence.

Without another word, I turned and walked away, leaving him with his dignity shattered, his power broken. The fear would stay with him, haunt him long after I was gone. And that, I thought with a dark satisfaction, was the real punishment.