Chapter 211: The Devil Is Not Inhuman

The fierce, bruising heat of his lips finally broke away.

?Damian pulled back by a fraction of an inch, his heavy chest rising and falling in harsh, uneven breaths against hers. The silence in the vast office rushed back in, thick with the intoxicating scent of sex, cedarwood, and the cool draft blowing from the rain-lashed glass.

?Beneath him, Anastasia lay sprawled across the edge of the mahogany desk, her eyes half-lidded and dazed, her skin flushed a deep, feverish rose. Her body felt weightless, hollowed out by the sheer violence of her release, her limbs trembling with aftershocks that left her entirely without defense.

?Slowly, methodically, the Devil returned to his skin.

?Damian straightened up, withdrawing from her body with clinical deliberation. The raw hunger that had burned in his eyes cooled into dark, impenetrable stone. He smoothed down his rumpled dress shirt, re-fastening his belt buckle with steady, unhurried clicks that sounded unnervingly loud in the quiet room.

?He didn’t immediately reach to cover her.

?Instead, he stood towering over the edge of the desk, looking down at her exposed, trembling form. His obsidian eyes slowly tracked every inch of her pale, bare skin, tracing the red marks his hands had left along her hips and the hollow of her collarbones.

?"Look at you," Damian said softly.

?His voice was a low, velvet purr, entirely devoid of anger now, but carrying that chilling, familiar authority that made her ribs tighten.

?"One phone call ignored. One childish sprint through a rainstorm to deliver useless papers for a marketing team." He reached out, his thumb slowly brushing away a damp strand of hair clinging to her burning cheek. "And here you are. Bare on my desk. Begging for my breath inside you."

?Ana’s lips parted, wanting to snap, wanting to muster some shred of the sharp venom she had thrown at him in the corridor. But her throat felt parched, and her body simply refused to obey.

?"Don’t delude yourself into thinking today changes anything, Anastasia," Damian murmured, his thumb trailing down the sensitive column of her neck, lightly resting over her racing pulse. "You are not an independent employee who can walk out whenever she pleases. You have no leverage here. You never did. Every breath you take in this city belongs to my name."

?He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he felt the intense, radiating heat pulsing beneath his fingers.

?The flush across her cheeks wasn’t just afterglow.

?As the adrenaline drained from her system, Ana’s eyelids fluttered heavily. A violent, sudden shiver racked through her frame, her teeth chattering as the bone-deep chill of the autumn storm finally caught up to her. Her muscles went completely limp, her head rolling back against the mahogany desk, too exhausted to keep her chin lifted.

?The venomous edge in Damian’s jaw hardened, but not with anger.

?He didn’t panic. He didn’t curse.

?With calm, quiet precision, he turned to the small closet near his private washroom, pulling out a thick, charcoal cashmere throw and a fresh, oversized silk dress shirt.

?He walked back to the desk, sliding her arms gently through the sleeves of the shirt before wrapping the heavy blanket around her trembling body like a cocoon. Without a word, he slid his arms beneath her knees and back, effortlessly lifting her off the desk.

?Ana let out a weak, breathy sigh, her forehead dropping against the hollow of his shoulder. Her skin was burning, but she felt terribly cold, instinctively seeking the searing heat radiating from his broad chest.

?Damian carried her across the dim office to the deep, plush leather sofa flanking the panoramic glass wall.

?He sat down, adjusting his posture against the armrest, and pulled her fully into his lap. He tucked the blanket securely around her bare legs, ensuring not a single draft could reach her damp skin, and gathered her close against his frame.

?Ana didn’t fight him. She didn’t have the strength to.

?Her ear pressed flat against his crisp white shirt, right above the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. One of her hands weakly curled into the fabric of his lapel, clinging to him simply to keep the room from spinning.

?Damian’s large, calloused hand rested on the small of her back, his long fingers moving in slow, rhythmic strokes beneath the cashmere throw, quietly warming the lingering chill from her spine.

?Neither of them spoke.

?Outside, the rain streaked in endless gray ribbons down the sixty-fourth-floor windows, muting the roar of the city into a distant, muffled hum.

?Ana’s heavy breathing gradually evened out, her forehead resting against his collarbone, lulled by his warmth and the steady thud in his chest into a deep, dreamless exhaustion.

?Damian leaned his head back against the leather cushion.

?He didn’t reach for his phone, nor did he look down at the woman sleeping against his ribs.

?He simply stared up at the high, coffered ceiling of his quiet office, his hand never stopping its slow, possessive stroke along her back—holding the only possession in the world he could completely conquer, yet never truly tame.

A gentle, rhythmic tug at her scalp pulled Anastasia from the heavy depths of sleep.

?She blinked against the dim amber light of the office, her eyelashes fluttering open. The harsh chill that had frozen her bones earlier was completely gone, replaced by a deep, enveloping warmth.

?She was still curled sideways on the leather sofa, her head pillowed against Damian’s solid thigh, wrapped snugly inside the charcoal cashmere blanket.

?Above her, Damian’s large hands were moving with uncharacteristic care. He held a thick, plush white towel, gently gathering sections of her damp hair and pressing the moisture out, his long fingers working through the tangled strands without snagging a single knot.

?A quiet chime broke the stillness as the heavy double doors clicked open.

?Henry stepped inside, carrying a large silver tray laden with fresh, warm pastries, sliced fruits, and two steaming porcelain cups of herbal tea.

?True to his decade of disciplined service, Henry kept his gaze glued strictly to the carpet. Not once did his eyes lift to take in the disheveled room, the rumpled cashmere throw, or the CEO drying his ex-wife’s hair on the office sofa. He set the tray down on the low marble coffee table with soundless precision, offered a slight, formal bow toward the floor, and backed out of the room, letting the heavy doors seal shut behind him.

?Ana watched the entire exit in mild disbelief.

?She shifted slightly beneath the blanket, turning her face upward to meet Damian’s hooded gaze. A tiny, teasing glimmer sparked in her hazel eyes—the first real trace of lightheartedness he had seen from her all day.

?"Drying my hair and ordering me pastries?" Ana murmured, her voice still rough and raspy from sleep. A faint, playful smirk curved her lips. "Careful, Mr. Sterling. People might start mistaking you for a gentleman."