Chapter 7
Bridget stood by the stone railing of the balcony. Less than ten minutes had passed since she drank the champagne.
A sudden, unnatural heat bloomed in the pit of her stomach. It spread rapidly through her veins, making her skin feel like it was on fire. Her vision blurred. The lights of the city across the park smeared into long yellow streaks.
Her legs felt like water. She dropped her empty glass. It shattered on the stone floor. She grabbed the railing with both hands, trying to hold herself upright. Her breathing became shallow and fast.
Heavy footsteps sounded behind her.
David walked onto the balcony. He closed the heavy glass door behind him and locked it.
He walked up to Bridget, a disgusting smile on his face. He leaned in, smelling her neck.
"You are going to put on a great show for the cameras tonight, Bridget. Let's see how arrogant you are when the drugs kick in."
Bridget bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, trying to shock her brain awake. She opened her mouth to scream for help, but her throat was paralyzed. Only a weak gasp came out.
David reached out and grabbed the strap of her black dress. He pulled hard, trying to rip it to expose her chest.
Before the fabric could tear, a deafening explosion of sound shattered the night.
The locked glass door of the balcony exploded inward. Thousands of pieces of tempered glass rained down on the stone floor.
Damond stepped through the empty doorframe. He looked like a god of war. His gray eyes were entirely black with rage.
David spun around in terror. Before he could even register who it was, Damond moved.
Damond's leg swung in a brutal arc. His heavy leather shoe connected directly with David's stomach. The impact sounded like a car crash.
David flew backward. He hit the stone pillar of the balcony and collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, unable to scream.
Damond did not look at him again. He ripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it tightly around Bridget's trembling body. He scooped her up into his arms. She felt like a burning furnace against his chest.
He carried her through the shattered door, down the private staff staircase, bypassing the paparazzi entirely.
Ten minutes later, the black Maybach was tearing through the streets of Manhattan.
In the back seat, the drug completely stripped Bridget of her sanity. The heat was unbearable. She twisted in Damond's lap, her hands desperately tearing at the buttons of his shirt, seeking the cool skin underneath.
Damond's face was pale with restrained tension. He grabbed her wrists, holding them still.
"Drive faster," he barked at the driver.
The car pulled into the underground garage of his Billionaires' Row penthouse. Damond carried her straight into the private elevator.
He kicked his bedroom door open and dropped her onto the massive bed. He turned to walk toward the bathroom to turn on the cold shower.
Bridget lunged forward. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her burning face against his spine.
"Please," she whimpered, the sound raw and desperate. "Help me."
The last thread of Damond's control snapped. His left cufflink popped off and rolled across the floor as he turned around.
He pushed her back onto the mattress, his large body trapping hers. He grabbed her chin, forcing her hazy eyes to look at him.
"Look at me. Say my name. Know exactly who is doing this to you."
"Damond," she breathed, her hands pulling his head down.
Damond's mouth crashed onto hers. The kiss was violent, hungry, and entirely possessive. He tore the ruined remnants of her dress away.
The drug made every touch electric. Bridget arched her back, her nails digging deep into the muscles of his shoulders, leaving long red scratches. Damond took complete control, driving the drug out of her system through sheer physical exhaustion.
The city outside the window stayed dark. Inside, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and skin against skin.
It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that the drug finally burned out. Bridget collapsed into a deep, exhausted sleep.
Damond sat against the headboard. He lit a cigarette. He looked down at the red marks he had left on her pale skin. The storm in his eyes had not faded; it had only just begun.
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