His Eloise

What the hell was happening?

For a split second, his gaze locked onto mine, holding me still. Curious. Calculating. Interested.

No.

I forced myself to breathe, shoving away the ridiculous warmth creeping through my chest. What was wrong with me? He’s a LaCroix. One of them. A threat. Could be crueller and deadlier.

I mean, he looks it, I shouldn’t be drawn in by,

“Damien!” Shallow’s gruff voice shattered the moment.

His thick arm tightened around my waist, dragging me further into his side like he could feel the shift in the air and needed to remind me who I belonged to.

“My son, welcome home.”

Son?

I blinked. Damien isn’t his son.

That’s right. He’s Shallow’s nephew.

It’s been fifteen years since he’s been here. He didn’t return after his father, the former Don, died. And now, two months later, he was finally back.

To bury his father.

Damien said nothing.

No warmth, no grief, just ice.

Expressionless. Detached.

Like he had already buried more than just his father.

And somehow, that made him even more dangerous.

“How was your trip?”

“We’ve missed you,”

“You look even taller,”

Everyone had something to tell him except me also his gaze kept coming back to me.

Over and over, despite the greetings, the murmurs, the meaningless pleasantries exchanged between the LaCroix family.

And Shallow noticed.

With a disgusting chuckle, he seized the moment, yanking me even closer, his heavy, greasy hand sliding down my waist, over my hip. “This beauty right here, Damien, this is my wife.”

I stiffened as his fingers lingered too long, squeezing, claiming. His other hand dragged lazily up my arm, brushing the exposed skin of my shoulder in a way that sent bile creeping up my throat.

He laughed again, turning to his long-lost nephew. “Isn’t she something? Soft, warm, ” He smirked, voice dipping lower. “And untouched.”

Heat flamed in my cheeks. Disgust. Humiliation. Rage.

The others chuckled, their knowing smiles making me feel filthy in a way I couldn't escape.

But Damien…

He didn’t laugh.

He said nothing. Just watched.

Then, he closed the distance.

Slow, deliberate, controlled.

And when he stopped in front of me, too close, too intense, too overwhelming, he held my gaze for far too long, the weight of his eyes making my pulse race.

I forced myself to speak, dipping my head slightly. “Welcome, Damien.”

But instead of answering,

He lifted his hand. Palm up.

I frowned. What…?

For a split second, I thought he was asking for a dance. Was he?

A nervous tremor slid through me as I glanced at Shallow.

His smile was still there, but something had changed. His fingers twitched against my hip. His breathing deepened. Nervous? Shallow?

The realization sent a fresh wave of unease through me.

Slowly, I lifted my hand.

And placed it in Damien’s.

The moment our skin met, he inhaled sharply.

What?

His fingers tightened around mine, firm, warm, lingering. My body shuddered, not in fear, not in disgust, but in something else. Something I should not be feeling.

His gray eyes never left mine as he lifted my hand with purpose.

And then,

His lips brushed over my wrist.

A slow, deliberate kiss.

Oh mon Dieu.

I shuddered, goosebumps, my body.

Heat. Intensity.

A shift in the air so sudden, so electric, it stole my breath.

And as Damien pulled back, eyes dark, unreadable, I knew.

Whatever had just happened between us… it was dangerous.

“Let’s go inside,” Shallow announced, his voice thick with authority.

No one disobeyed him.

We all moved into the grand dining hall, where a long, extravagant table was set with fine china and overflowing dishes, a sickening contrast to the weight in my chest.

Shallow took the head seat, Damien on his right, and I was placed, as always, on his left.

Trapped. His two sons, sneering and cruel, sat beside Damien, and their equally wicked sister lounged with a smirk at the end of the table.

The conversation started, if one could call it that.

Shallow rambled on, speaking to Damien with forced familiarity, throwing out business updates, mafia politics, and crude jokes between sips of expensive wine.

He loved to hear his own voice.

Damien, however… was barely listening.

I could feel his eyes on me.

The weight of his stare was like a physical touch, dragging over my skin, unapologetic, intense, unwavering.

Why?

I was his aunt-in-law.

A married woman.

Yet, across the table, he wasn’t even trying to be subtle. His gray eyes burned into mine, sharp and assessing, like he was trying to figure me out.

I forced myself to eat. Pretend he wasn’t there.

But every bite felt wrong, the food suddenly tasteless, my appetite disappearing.

And Damien… kept watching.

Not speaking much, just giving curt, detached answers to Shallow’s rambling questions while taking slow, measured bites of his food, cocking his head slightly as if amused by my discomfort.

A chill slid down my spine.

Enough.

I gritted my teeth, shoving my plate slightly forward. I couldn’t do this.

Then,

Shallow’s thick fingers shot out, gripping my chin in an iron hold.

I gasped, flinching, but his grip tightened, forcing me to face him.

“Are you okay, Eloise baby?” His voice was sickly sweet, but his grip, his grip was punishment.

I struggled for composure, forcing a small, strained smile.

“I’m fine, Papi,” I murmured.

His lips curled up in satisfaction, and finally, mercifully, he released me.

I blinked rapidly, swallowing hard as the blood rushed back to my chin. Damn it. I had to leave before I suffocated.

I pushed my chair back, rising shakily to my feet.

Shallow’s head snapped toward me instantly. “Where do you think you’re going, baby?”

I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

“I just, need a moment, Papi. Fresh air.”

His eyes narrowed. The room went silent.

Then, finally,

He chuckled. A low, possessive, knowing chuckle.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long, Eloise.” His voice dropped, a silent warning. “You still have to make me proud tonight.”

A shudder wracked my body.

I nodded quickly, desperate to get away.

But as I turned, moving toward the exit, I made the mistake of looking up.

Straight into Damien’s eyes.

Oh mon Dieu.

His gaze, intense, dark, heated.

Like he had just figured something out.

I headed straight to the bathroom.

First, I peed. Simple, routine. Except even sitting on the edge of the toilet seat sent sharp pangs of pain through my thighs. Bruises. From him.

I cleaned up, washed, and stepped out without so much as glancing at the mirror. I didn’t want to see myself.

Not like this.

The air outside was cooler. I walked toward the deck balcony, my heels clicking softly against the floor. Breathe. I needed to breathe.

I stood there, staring into the night, emptying my mind.

Then,

A footstep.

I stiffened.

Shallow. It had to be one of his men, sent to drag me back. As always.

But then,

A sound.

A growl. Low, deep, cool.

And a voice.

"Bonne soirée, mon Éloise."

Good evening, my Eloise.

My breath caught.

My? His?

How?!