I raise a brow. “You seem pretty passionate about this. Why?”
He lights up. “I love poker. There’s this game in Macau I go to sometimes. The stakes are ridiculous, but it’s not about the money. I go to watch men unravel.”
I fight a smile. Though the words are very Damian Cross, the tone is different. His unbridled enthusiasm is almost boyish. Open in a way I’ve never seen before.
Then, as if realizing it too, he straightens suddenly, his expression growing stern. “You haven’t had anything to drink in two hours. You’re dehydrated.”
I frown. “No, I’m not.”
“I’m getting you water.” He’s already on his feet, walking briskly toward the café.
I stare after him, trying to piece together my muddled thoughts.
I like this version of him. I like talking to him. He’s smart, and even though he hasn’t cracked a book since we’ve been here, I think he values intellect. Not the kind you flaunt, but the kind you use. Strategy, analysis, curiosity—he respects all of it.
And when he listens to me—really listens—it’s not performative. It feels like he wants to understand the way I think, the things I care about. Like ideas matter to him, not just power, and it stirs something within me against my will.
A guy drops into the seat beside me, and my skin heats.
Ah yes, this is the reminder I needed.
Because I know Damian won’t like this. And I’m about to see the side of him I loathe. The side of him that treats me like a possession. His little doll.
Right on cue, Damian appears. He sets the water bottle down with just a little too much force. His eyes are flat and unreadableas they land on the guy next to me. “You must be new to Ashford. Most people know not to get too close to things that belong to me.”
The guy jumps “What?”
“Ava.” Damian sets his hand on my head, his tone is conversational. “My pet.”
“I didn’t… I’m sorry.” The guy scrambles to close his laptop. He must recognize Damian, and he knows better than to challenge him, even when he says things that are completely psychotic.
Especially when he says psychotic things.
Damian watches him go and then slides into the seat beside me. “Smart man.”
When he smirks at me, I scowl, and as usual, he seems to like it. His expression warms. “What?”
“You’re not the master manipulator you think you are.”
A spark lights behind his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“If Thornecroft really is a cult, and you’re the leader?—”
“But you don’t believe that anymore.”
“I’m sayingifit is, then you’re not doing a good job grooming me.”
He drums his fingers against the table. “And how would I groom you, Ava? What would work?”
I lean toward him, lifting my chin. “I’ll tell you, because I have faith in myself. I know that even if I tell you the best way to groom me, it won’t work.”
Now he’s grinning. “Then go ahead.”
I lean back into my seat. “You’d stop using intimidation. It might be enough to get me under your control, but I’d never stop fighting. If you wanted me to really buy into your cult, you’d appeal to my ideals. Not my fear.”
His fingers stop. “And what are those?”
I scoff. “You should be able to figure that out, cult leader. Or wait…” I grin. “It’s not a cult, right? It’sbeyond my comprehension.”