Eyes that speak

Damien Thorne didn’t believe in softness.

Not in life.

Not in people.

And definitely not in women.

Softness, he’d learned, was a liability. It cracked open places that should have remained sealed—inviting pain, distraction, and the kind of vulnerability that could get a man killed in his world.

But the moment she stepped into it—barefoot silence and unreadable eyes—Aurora Quinn unraveled him with a single glance.

He didn’t even hear her footsteps anymore. She moved like smoke—graceful, silent, untouchable. That night, he watched her from the shadows of the upper hallway, arms folded over the railing. The dim sconces flickered against the long lines of her body as she bent to lift Ivy from the drawing-room rug, holding his daughter against her chest as though the world outside didn’t exist. Her lips brushed the child’s hair. No words. No voice. Just a stillness so deep it bordered on sacred.

He’d hired her because no one else could handle Ivy.

And because something about her application—too clean, too blank—had pissed him off.

Now he was watching her again.

And he hated how hard he was.

She looked up suddenly. Their eyes locked. She didn’t flinch. Neither did he.

It was only a moment—five seconds at most—but it hit him like a sin slipping through the bloodstream. Her lips parted. Her chest lifted on a slow, full breath. Not in innocence. Not in fear.

She knew he was watching. And she let him.

Damien turned abruptly, stalking away from the railing, heart hammering like fists in his chest. He slammed the office door behind him, jaw clenched, hands trembling as he poured a drink. Bourbon burned all the way down, but it didn’t cool the heat gathering low in his body.

This was a mistake.

She was a mistake.

He sat heavily at his desk and pushed aside ledgers and contracts to reveal a panel tucked behind a false bookshelf. His fingers hovered over the switch before flipping it open. One by one, security feeds flickered across the screen—every room in the house, every corner under quiet surveillance. She didn’t know that. He hadn’t told her.

He found her again.

She was in Ivy’s room now, brushing the child’s hair beneath the soft golden glow of a lamp. She’d changed—into something simpler. An oversized white tee, worn cotton sleep shorts. Her legs were bare. Her skin glowed against the linen. Her curves—subtle, soft, and fucking illegal—were a siren’s whisper through the screen.

He stared. Drank. Swore under his breath.

Then her eyes turned.

Right into the lens.

His hand froze.

She knows.

The screen went black.

The next morning, a single note waited for her on the kitchen counter. The handwriting was clean, deliberate. Masculine.

Your room has been reassigned.

You now reside in the east wing, second floor.

Guest suite adjacent to mine.

– D.T.

Aurora’s fingers trembled as she folded the note. The east wing had been sealed off. Staff called it the dead side. Ivy had never been allowed there. It was cold. Untouched. Still wearing the perfume of a woman who’d vanished years ago.

She looked toward the hallway.

And walked.

Her new suite was a cathedral of luxury—marble floors that echoed, velvet drapes whispering secrets. The bed was massive, dressed in silk. A box waited on the nightstand, tied with black satin ribbon.

Another note rested on top.

Wear this tonight.

Inside: a black silk slip. Lace edges. No lining. No underwear.

She touched the fabric with reverence. And trembled.

Dinner was quiet.

Ivy had gone to sleep. Aurora sat alone at one end of the long mahogany table, candlelight dancing across her skin. The slip clung to her like second skin—low at the chest, high at the thigh, every movement whispering sin. She could feel his eyes on her from across the table. Watching. Measuring. Consuming.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

She lifted her glass with silent grace, lips wrapping around the rim. Her fingers were delicate. Her thighs crossed beneath the table, the silk riding higher. Every small motion was a loaded gun.

He stood slowly. Walked around the table.

Pulled her chair back with a single word.

“Come.”

She rose.

The hallway stretched before them like a shadowed dream, each footstep loud in her mind, though she made no sound. He didn’t take her to his bedroom.

He took her to the library.

The walls pulsed with stories and sins. The scent of aged paper, whiskey, and fire clung to the air. She paused at the threshold. He stepped behind her.

Close.

So close she could feel the heat from his chest at her back. His breath ghosted along her neck.

“You don’t speak,” he murmured. “But your eyes scream.”

She turned, slowly.

“You know what they say about me?” he asked, voice rough. “They say I’m cold. Dangerous. Unreachable.”

She tilted her head, questioning.

“And I am,” he whispered. “But you… you see through me. And I can’t decide if I want to fuck you or kill the part of me that’s starting to feel.”

Her breath caught.

He brushed a thumb along her jaw, down the hollow of her throat.

“You’re like a mirror, Aurora. Quiet. Beautiful. And if I stare too long, I’ll shatter.”

Her hands trembled.

But she didn’t pull away.

“Tell me to stop,” he said. “Sign it. Shake your head. Anything.”

She looked at him.

And didn’t.

Then he kissed her.

Fierce. Possessive. A kiss that claimed, bruised, devoured. His hands grabbed her hips, lifting her onto the desk, scattering old books to the floor. Her back arched. Her mouth opened against his, a moan stuck in silence.

He dragged the slip down her shoulders. Her breasts bared, nipples tightening in the cool air. His mouth latched to her skin—hot, hungry. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, silently begging.

“You’re ruining me,” he groaned against her breast.

He kissed lower. Then lower still.

She gasped silently as he spread her thighs. The silk between her legs soaked through. He stared, eyes dark with hunger.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “So fucking quiet. So wet.”

Her blush bloomed, but she didn’t shy away.

He pulled the fabric aside and buried his mouth between her thighs.

She shook. Hands gripping the desk. Silent cries. Her body convulsed in waves, soundless and raw. He didn’t stop. Not until she came—violently, beautifully.

He rose, lips wet with her pleasure.

Kissed her again. Possessively. Greedily.

Then stepped back.

Breathing hard. Jaw clenched.

“This doesn’t happen again,” he said, voice rough and brittle. “You’re Ivy’s nanny. That’s all.”

She looked at him. Eyes steady. Calm.

And nodded.

But her smile said, Liar.

Hours later, Damien sat alone in his bedroom, shirt open, chest rising and falling with each uneven breath. He stared at the security feed again. Watched her sleep—lips parted, tangled in sheets, skin marked by the night.

He reached to power it off.

Then the screen flickered.

Static.

And then—

An image.

Not Aurora.

Not alone.

A shadow stood at the foot of her bed. Watching her. Unmoving.

Damien’s blood iced over.

He lunged for the drawer, pulled the Glock free, thumbed the safety off.

Someone was in her room.

And it wasn’t him.