Bound by Blood & Desire

The bass thrummed through Elena’s bones like a second heartbeat, the strobe lights flickering in time with the sharp, staccato rhythm of her thoughts. *Unemployed. Broke. Alone.* The words looped in her mind, each one a hammer strike against her pride.

She shouldn’t be here.

The Obsidian Lounge was all sharp edges and gilded sin, a place where the city’s elite came to play with fire. The kind of place she could never afford—*would* never afford, now that the gallery had let her go.

*"We’re downsizing,"* her manager had said, not meeting her eyes. *"Your work just doesn’t fit our vision anymore."*

Elena’s fingers tightened around her glass, the condensation slick against her skin. The vodka burned going down, but she welcomed it. Let it scorch away the humiliation, the helpless rage.

A man slid onto the stool beside her, his presence like a shadow falling over her. She didn’t look up.

"Rough night?"

His voice was smoke and velvet, the kind of sound that should come with a warning label.

Elena finally lifted her gaze—and froze.

Dark hair, tousled as if he’d already fought someone tonight. A jawline that could cut glass. Eyes like polished onyx, watching her with a predator’s patience. He wore his suit like armor, the black fabric stretching over shoulders that hinted at violence restrained.

She knew who he was.

Everyone did.

Damien Moretti wasn’t just a man; he was a *force*, the kind of danger people whispered about in locked rooms. The Moretti crime family didn’t just rule the underworld—they *were* the underworld.

And he was staring right at her.

Elena forced a laugh, swirling her drink. "What gave it away? The fact I’m on my fourth vodka, or the ‘please pity me’ aura?"

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. More like a wolf considering whether to play with its food. "The death grip on that glass," he said, nodding to her white-knuckled hand. "You’re either planning to throw it or stab someone with it."

She blinked. *Damn him for noticing.*

Before she could retort, the bartender materialized, bowing slightly. "Mr. Moretti. Your usual?"

Damien didn’t answer, his gaze never leaving Elena’s face. "Bring her another. And lose the cheap vodka—give her the Beluga."

Elena stiffened. "I don’t need your charity."

"It’s not charity." He leaned in, his cologne wrapping around her—bergamot and something darker, like gunmetal. "It’s curiosity. A woman like you doesn’t just *happen* into this place."

"A woman like me?"

"Beautiful. Angry." His thumb brushed the back of her wrist, and her pulse jumped like a live wire. "*Hungry.*"

The word landed between them like a challenge.

Elena should leave. Should run from this man who bled power, whose very presence made the air feel heavier. But the vodka was a fire in her veins, and his eyes—*God*, his eyes—promised oblivion.

She tilted her chin up. "You’re right. I didn’t come here to drink."

His fingers stilled against her skin. "Why did you come?"

"To forget."

Something flickered in his gaze—recognition, maybe. The kind that came from knowing exactly how much forgetting cost.

Damien lifted his glass, the ice clinking like a dare. "Then let’s forget together."

And just like that, Elena stepped off the edge.

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