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He had been warned about her.
Not by his father, not by society—but by his own instincts, sharpened from a lifetime of strategy, discipline, and control. Anya Forger.
She wasn’t a sin you could fight with reason, nor avoid with careful planning. She existed in a realm outside rules, outside morality, outside restraint—and every time she entered his mind, she left chaos in her wake.
Seven deadly sins were cataloged in dusty books and solemn sermons: pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, sloth.
She was the eighth, unspoken, unclassified. The one that didn’t belong in any ledger of morality because she made morality meaningless.
And tonight, in the glittering chaos of a diplomatic gala, Damian saw her again.
She stood by the balcony, pale arms resting lightly on the carved marble railing.
The low-cut black dress clung to her in a way that spoke of careful intention, soft fabric curving over sharp angles, shadows sliding over skin that begged to be touched and revered.
Her hair, the faint rose-gold hue catching the candlelight, fell around her face in waves that framed her eyes—the same impossible, knowing green eyes that had haunted him since childhood.
When she turned, and her gaze found him across the crowded room, Damian felt the world shrink. It wasn’t attraction—it was recognition. It was danger. It was sin.
“Mr. Desmond,” she purred, her voice a thread of silk and smoke. “You’ve grown… so finely.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And you… more dangerous than ever.”
“Dangerous?” Her lips quirked in that infuriatingly knowing way. “Oh, Damian… I think you mean irresistible.”
He took a slow step toward her, forcing the space between them to shrink. Every instinct screamed at him to maintain composure, but her proximity was a violation of his control, his every control and restrain he spent years honing hung by a thread in her presence.
He could feel the pull in his chest, the ache in his gut, the racing of his pulse like a drum summoning him forward.
“Yes,” he admitted quietly. “Irresistible enough to ruin me.”
She tilted her head, a strand of hair slipping across her shoulder in a deliberate,
torturous motion. “Ruined?” she whispered, stepping closer. Her perfume enveloped him—vanilla, cherry, warmth, danger, all at once. His hand itched to brush a strand of hair from her face, to feel the heat beneath her skin.
“Yes,” he breathed. “And I’d let you.”
She laughed softly, a low sound that slid into his chest like a caress. “I’ve already ruined you, Damian. Don’t you feel it?”
Her fingers brushed his chest lightly, just enough to ignite fire beneath his skin. It was teasing, maddening, and he knew she did it intentionally. Every glance, every word, every movement—calculated, tempting, lethal.
“I feel it,” he admitted, voice rough. “Every time I see you.”
She leaned closer, so close that he could see the faint rise and fall of her breathing, the shimmer of her lips in the candlelight. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I want you to.”
Damian swallowed, his hands trembling with a need he refused to acknowledge. Her proximity was a sin in itself, a test of his discipline. But he had no desire to resist. She had always been the eighth sin, and he had always been hers to tempt, whether she knew it or not.
“You’ve changed,” she said, her fingers now brushing the lapel of his jacket. “More… manly. Calculating. Powerful.”
“And you’ve stayed the same,” he countered, leaning in just enough to brush his lips against hers. A whisper of a kiss, teasing, deliberate. “Still impossible. Still… devastating.”
Her laugh was a soft hiss, her lips curving against his cheek, against the side of his mouth. “I’ve been waiting for you, Damian. For years. Watching you grow, knowing someday… you’d realise that I’m the only one who can make your heart race like this.”
He closed the space between them, lips brushing hers in a kiss that was more promise than confession.
His hands slid to her waist, holding her close without touching too much, savoring the restraint as much as the temptation.
She responded immediately, pressing herself against him with a slow, deliberate heat that left him burning.
“You unravel me utterly ,” he murmured into her hair. “You’ve always been… the very thing I shouldn’t want, and yet—”
“And yet?” she prompted, tilting her head to look at him, eyes glinting with mischief and something darker.
“And yet I want you. Every day. Every hour. Every second I can’t have you.”
She traced a finger along his jawline, letting her nails graze lightly, leaving sparks in their wake. “I’ve always known, Damian. You can’t resist me any more than I can resist you.”
He swallowed. “Then we’re both sinners.”
“And yet,” she said, lips dangerously close to his ear, her breath warm, teasing, “it feels like salvation.”
The crowd, the lights, the music—they ceased to exist. There was only them: two halves of a dangerous equation, perfectly balanced on desire, sin, and temptation. Every word, every touch, every stolen breath was an invitation to the abyss.
He kissed her then, fully, tasting her lips, the faint trace of wine she had sipped, the sweet hint of danger that clung to her. It was slow, deliberate, teasing at first, then deeper, urgent, as though every restraint he had built over the years was crumbling beneath her fingers, beneath the curve of her body against his.
“You’re mine,” he whispered against her lips, a confession, a vow, a surrender all at once.
“And you’re mine,” she said, a smile against his mouth, “my perfect sinner.”
Damian pressed his forehead to hers, breath mingling, hearts racing in the same forbidden rhythm. “Of all the sins, Anya… you’re the one I’d choose every time.”
“And you,” she said softly, trailing a finger down his chest, “are the only one I’d ever want to ruin me.”
The night held them in a suspended world of temptation, a place where glances were promises, touches were confessions, and every word dripped with danger. Damian knew, with chilling clarity, that Anya Forger—was his undoing.
And he didn’t care.
Because some sins were worth surrendering to.
Because some sins—her sins—were worth everything. Of all the seven sins, Anya forger was the eighth.