The words landed low in her stomach, and before she could stop it, her thighs pressed together beneath the thin robe.
Heat crawled up her neck.
She dropped her gaze to the floor.
“If… if you want to.”
Damon stepped over the threshold, pulling the door shut behind him, and the quiet click sealed them both inside.
Only then did he close the space between them, unhurried, until she had to lift her chin to hold his stare.
“If I want to,” he echoed, something dark and amused surfacing in his eyes.
“Don’t you?”
Ava’s breath snagged in her throat.
Under that steady gaze, every nerve in her body seemed to wake at once—a slow, prickling warmth spreading all the way to her fingertips.
She couldn’t have hidden it if she tried, and something told her he already knew.
“…Yes,” she admitted, the word small and honest.
Damon’s mouth curved.
“Good.
I like a girl who tells the truth.”
He crossed to the bar cart by the window, lifted the decanter, and poured two glasses of red, holding one out so it caught the light.
“Have a drink first.
It’ll take the edge off.”
Ava took the glass with a hand that wasn’t quite steady.
The wine was supposed to settle her—but sitting under his gaze, waiting for him to make the first move, only wound her tighter.
So she made a reckless decision: if she was going to get through tonight, she’d rather not do it flinching.
Better to steal back a scrap of control than sit there trembling.
She raised the glass, held a mouthful of wine on her tongue, and before her nerve could fail her, closed the distance between them, curled a hand around the back of his neck, and kissed him.
The wine passed between them, dark and warm.
Damon went still for half a second—surprised—then his hand came up to cradle her jaw, and he took his time with it.
When she finally drew back, breathless, she licked the taste from her lips.
“Dry,” she murmured, cheeks flushed.
“A little bitter.”
Something shifted in his expression, the amusement burning down into something far more focused.
He took the glass from her hand and set both aside on the cart.
“You,” he said roughly, “are playing a dangerous game.”
His arm circled her waist, and he drew her flush against him, close enough that she could feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric.
For a moment neither of them moved—just the sound of their breathing, and the warmth of the wine humming through her.
“Better?” he asked, low against her hair.
“A little.”
His hand pressed at the small of her back, and Ava’s pulse spiked again, her body going rigid despite the wine.
“Can I ask you something?” she said quickly.
Damon paused, his thumb tracing slow circles against her hip.
“Go ahead.”
“Next time… could you give me some warning?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Warning?”
“Yes.” Her voice came out smaller than she’d intended.
“If you just show up like this, I don’t have time to prepare myself.
I get nervous.”
Damon’s lips curved, just slightly.
He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.
“Fair enough.
Though if I told you in the morning, you’d spend the whole day nervous instead.”
Ava opened her mouth to argue, then realized he might be right.
“We can try it,” he murmured, his hand sliding up her spine.
“But you’ll have to tell me which you prefer.”
“I’ll… I’ll let you know.”
His mouth was on hers before she could say anything else, and the nerves—the whole conversation—melted away.
Ava’s hands found his shoulders, gripping tight as he walked her back the last few steps and eased her down onto the bed.
His weight settled over her, solid and grounding, and despite herself, she felt her body begin to relax.
Damon pulled back just enough to tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside.
Her gaze flickered over the hard lines of his chest before she could stop it.
He caught her looking and smirked.
“See something you like?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she muttered, her face flaming.
He laughed—low and rough—and kissed her again.
His hands moved with practiced ease, untying her robe and slipping it from her shoulders.
Ava shivered as the cool air met her skin, but his warmth chased it away almost at once.
His mouth trailed down her throat, and her breath hitched.
“Wait,” she said suddenly.
Damon froze and pulled back to look at her.
“What’s wrong?”
Ava hesitated, then forced the words out.
“Don’t… don’t mark me.”
His expression shifted, confusion flickering across his face.
“What?”
“The contract didn’t say anything about marking.” Her voice held firm even as her heart hammered.
“We’re not real mates.
We’re not even chosen mates.
This is just… part of the arrangement.”
Damon stared at her for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes.
She was right, of course.
Even among wolves who chose their mates rather than waiting for a fated bond, marking was sacred—the final step, the one that bound two wolves together permanently, legally, spiritually.
Without it, a marriage was nothing but a formality.
And Ava was making it very clear that this marriage was exactly that.
A formality.
A contract.
Nothing more.
She was playing her role perfectly.
His fake mate.
His Luna Queen in name only.
Damon felt something twist in his chest—sharp, and unwelcome.
He’d known this was how it would be.
He’d agreed to it.
But hearing her say it out loud, hearing her draw that line so carefully between them, stung more than he cared to admit.
“All right,” he said finally, his voice rougher than he’d meant it to be.
“I’ll be careful.”
Ava relaxed a fraction and nodded.
“Thank you.”
Damon kissed her again, slower this time, and let his hands wander lower.
He would be careful.
He wouldn’t mark her.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t make her forget—just for tonight—that this was supposed to be nothing more than a transaction.
His mouth moved down her body, and Ava gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair.
“Damon…”
“Relax,” he murmured against her skin.
“I’ve got you.”
The next morning, Damon was gone before Ava woke.
She lay in bed a while, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the night before.
It was easier when he wasn’t there—easier to tell herself it had been just another obligation fulfilled, another box ticked.
But her body hadn’t forgotten.
The weight of him.
The heat of his hands.
The way he’d looked at her, in the dark, like she was something worth keeping.
Like she was something precious.
That was the part she couldn’t afford to believe.
Precious things got kept.
She was leased.
Ava groaned and dragged the pillow over her face.
She really, really hoped he’d be gone every morning after this—because if she had to sit across a breakfast table from him and pretend none of it had happened, she’d die of embarrassment long before the coffee cooled.
But she couldn’t afford to lie there stewing in it.
Last night was over, and the morning after was the least of her worries—there was something far more daunting waiting for her that afternoon.
Meeting the Queen Mother.
Ava threw off the covers and forced herself up.
Compared to standing before the woman who’d raised an Alpha King, one awkward night suddenly felt like nothing at all.