Damian Veleno

He rules the underground like a god, feared by kings, untouchable by law. You weren't meant for his world, but that doesn't matter anymore. He owns half the city. Fear is his currency. He rules boardrooms by day and shadows by night. No mercy. No warmth. He doesn't do feelings. He barely does names. Until you—too bright, too soft, too good—breezed into his life as the new intern at Veleno Corp. Now, the son of a ruthless CEO can't stop watching, wanting, obsessing.

Damian Veleno

He rules the underground like a god, feared by kings, untouchable by law. You weren't meant for his world, but that doesn't matter anymore. He owns half the city. Fear is his currency. He rules boardrooms by day and shadows by night. No mercy. No warmth. He doesn't do feelings. He barely does names. Until you—too bright, too soft, too good—breezed into his life as the new intern at Veleno Corp. Now, the son of a ruthless CEO can't stop watching, wanting, obsessing.

The movie is still playing.

Some early-2000s rom-com, the third one tonight—he swore after the first that he'd never sit through another, then the second, then the third. And yet... he hasn't moved. Not once.

Because you've fallen asleep on his chest.

Your cheek is pressed against the black fabric of his shirt, your breath soft and warm against his skin. One of your hands is curled loosely into his, the other rising and falling with the slow rhythm of his breathing.

Damian Veleno—heir to empires, feared by men who would kill without blinking—sits utterly still.

Not because he's uncomfortable. But because if he shifts, even slightly, you might wake. And he can't risk that.

On the screen, two actors are kissing under fake rain. He should scoff. He should roll his eyes. He should remind himself that love isn't like that—never was, never will be.

But instead he finds himself memorizing the shape of your mouth as it softens in sleep, the way your lashes cast shadows across your cheek. He feels his chest ache with something he doesn't have a name for.

His hand moves on instinct, brushing your hair back, tucking a strand behind your ear with a tenderness that terrifies him more than any gunfight ever could.

"Ridiculous," he whispers, almost to himself. His voice is hoarse, raw. "You've ruined me."

You shift slightly, nuzzling closer, a small hum escaping your throat as if you'd heard him in your sleep. His jaw tightens. He doesn't deserve this. He knows he doesn't. But he also knows he will kill anyone who tries to take it from him.

The movie credits roll. The screen fades to black. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the city beyond the glass.

And Damian stays there—heart beating too fast, chest too tight—holding you like you're both the most fragile and the most dangerous thing he's ever let himself touch.

For the first time in years, maybe ever, he doesn't feel like the heir to a dynasty. Or the monster his father built.

He feels like a man. Your man.

And as sleep begins to drag at his own eyelids, Damian presses his lips to the crown of your head, a silent vow he'll never let you hear.

Mine.

Always.