Page 23 of The Billionaire's Obsession

"They are," Damon confirms, his tone clipped. "Blackwell," he adds, extending his hand.

"Sebastian Reed," the man replies, shaking Damon's hand briefly before turning his attention back to me. "And you are?"

"Lucy."

"Lucy is with me," Damon adds unnecessarily, stepping closer so our bodies touch from shoulder to hip.

Sebastian's eyebrows rise slightly. "Congratulations. Are you enjoying the gala, Lucy?"

"It's...educational," I say, and he laughs—a genuine, warm sound.

"That's diplomatic. These things are usually dreadful bores full of people trying to one-up each other with their portfolios and vacation homes."

"Do you attend many?" I ask, finding myself smiling at his frankness.

"Too many. Family obligation." He grimaces. "I'd rather be in my studio."

"You're an artist?"

"Photography. Nothing these people would appreciate—no portraits of their pedigreed pets or yachts at sunset."

I laugh, relaxing despite Damon's increasing tension beside me. "What do you photograph?"

"Urban decay. Abandoned spaces. The places people forget or leave behind."

"How fascinatingly bleak," Damon interjects. "If you'll excuse us, Reed, we were just about to rejoin the party."

"Of course." Sebastian smiles, unperturbed by Damon's rudeness. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Lucy. Perhaps I'll see you around the circuit."

"I doubt it," Damon says, his voice pleasant but threaded with steel. "Lucy's quite selective about which events she attends."

Sebastian's smile doesn't falter, but something knowing enters his eyes as they flick from Damon to me and back. "Understandable. Well, enjoy your evening."

He retreats back inside, leaving a charged silence in his wake.

"You're being ridiculous," I say quietly. "We were just talking."

"He was flirting with you." Damon's jaw is tight, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "Right in front of me."

"He was being friendly."

"He was imagining you naked."

"You can't possibly know that."

Damon turns me to face him fully, his hands gripping my upper arms. "I know because that's what every man does when they look at you. They imagine what I already have. What only I will ever have."

His intensity should frighten me. Instead, it sends a shameful thrill through me, a dark heat that pools low in my belly. I hatemy body's betrayal, the way it responds to his possessiveness even as my mind rebels.

"You can't control who speaks to me," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Or who looks at me."

"Watch me." His voice drops, becomes something dangerous and seductive. "That photographer? If he approaches you again, his career will mysteriously implode. Every gallery will reject him. Every grant will be denied."

"You wouldn't."

"For you? I'd destroy anyone who thought they could take what's mine."

I should be appalled. Should walk away from him right now, call an Uber, pack my meager belongings. Instead, I'm rooted to the spot, caught between outrage and a perverse excitement.

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