CHAPTER 269

**ZION**

Clap. 

Clap.  

Clap.

Slow.  

Deliberate.  

I know who it is before he even steps into view.

Damien Black strolls out like the library personally invited him to walk the runway, bomber jacket half-zipped, takeaway cup swinging from two lazy fingers, that razor-edged smirk already locked and loaded.

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice smooth as sin and twice as poisonous. 

“Look who just turned the quiet floor into his own private gladiator pit. Again.”

He stops just inside my reach (because the bastard has never met a line he didn’t want to dance on) and cocks his head.

“Tell me, Royal,” he says, grin widening, 

“Do you ever walk into a room without turning it into your personal fight club? Or is the rage dial superglued to ‘unhinged’ and someone threw away the remote?”

I let the silence answer first.

Then I smile.  

Slow.  

Cold.

“Careful, Black,” I murmur, voice low enough to crawl under his skin and set up camp. 

“Keep running that mouth and I’ll show you exactly where the remote went.”

I step forward.  

One.  

Single.  

Step.

Close enough that the heat rolling off me should scorch him.

“I swallowed it,” I whisper, letting every syllable land like a blade. 

“Along with the last guy who thought ‘unhinged’ was an insult instead of a fucking invitation.”

His pupils flare (just a flicker) before the smirk tries to slide back into place.

He doesn’t let it.

Instead, he exhales through his nose, bored, like I’m a rerun he’s seen too many times.

“Yeah,” he says, voice flat, almost sleepy. 

“Heard that one before, Royal. Same growl, same routine. You really need new material. It’s getting…” He tilts his head, pretends to search for the word. 

“…Boring.”

He takes a slow sip of his coffee, eyes half-lidded, like we’re discussing the weather.

“But keep barking if it makes you feel tall,” he murmurs, tone dripping with lazy disdain. 

“Just remember—”

His gaze flicks past me to Winter, deliberate, lingering half a second too long.

“Some dogs get muzzled for biting the wrong hand.”

He smiles, small and polite, the kind you give a child mid-tantrum.

“Careful which one you pick.”

The words hit the air and die.

I’m not listening anymore.

Everything narrows to a single red point: his left arm.

The sleeve is shoved up just enough to flash a strip of skin, but the inside of his forearm is still hidden beneath the folded cuff and shadow.

I’m not leaving a single fucking stone unturned.

Not with her sitting a foot behind me.

“Take the jacket off.”

He tilts his head, slow, like he’s savouring the moment.

“Hmm… no. I don’t think I will.” His voice is lazy amusement wrapped around a blade. 

“Last I checked, you’re not my dad, my dom, or campus security. So unless you’ve got a warrant tucked in that hoodie next to your fragile masculinity, I’m keeping my clothes on. Wouldn’t want to give the peasants a free show. Some of us have standards.”

He flexes his left arm deliberately, the sleeve shifting just enough to tease more skin, still hiding the one spot I need to see.

"Or maybe,” he continues, smile sharpening, 

“You’re just desperate to get me naked in public. Should I be flattered or should I call security?”

I close the distance again (slow, deliberate, until the air between us crackles).

“Security’s not coming, Black. And neither is your ego when I’m done with it. Now.
I’m not asking.”

My voice is quiet.  

The kind of quiet that comes right before bodies hit the floor.

“Jacket. Off. Now.”

The smirk freezes solid for half a heartbeat.

Then it melts into something slower, darker, more poisonous.

“Jesus, Royal,” he murmurs, eyes glittering with mockery, 

"What is it with you and wardrobe inspections today? Finally working through that control-freak kink in public? Should I be flattered, or should I start charging admission?”

He lifts the coffee cup in a lazy toast.

“Tell you what, big guy. You want a private show so bad? Drop to your knees and beg like a good boy. Maybe I’ll consider it.”

Every word is designed to make me swing.

I don’t.

I smile (cold, slow, lethal).

“Keep talking, Black,” I say, the words scraping out like a blade across stone, low enough that only he hears the promise in them.

“Every second you waste running that mouth is another second I tack onto the debt. And when I come to collect (because I will), I’m charging interest in blood and broken bones.”

I lean in until the heat rolling off me is the only thing he can feel.

“So take the fucking jacket off.  
Now.  Or I start the meter right here and let you pay the first instalment with your face.”

Damien just blinks, slow, theatrical, then exhales like I’m the most exhausting person on the planet.

“Why the hell would I take off my fucking jacket?” he asks, voice dripping lazy amusement. 

“Because the big bad wolf barked? Sorry, sweetheart, I’m all out of obedience treats. And last I checked, ‘because Zion said so’ isn’t legally binding.”

He takes a deliberate sip, pinky out, eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the cup.

“Run along and terrorise someone who still believes your growl means something. I’m busy being unimpressed.”

Another sip.

“Shoo.”

Something inside me goes very, very quiet.

I don’t move. 

I don’t speak. 

I just look at him.

Ten seconds of pure, dead silence while the whole library pretends it’s not watching.

Then I smile. 

It’s not big. 

It’s not loud. 

It’s the kind of smile that shows up right before someone stops breathing.

“Listen close, Black,” I say, voice so low it’s barely sound, just vibration and venom. 

“I’m not asking.”

I twist the fabric until the zipper bites into his throat.

“I’m not negotiating. Take. It. Off!”

He tilts his head, pretending to think.

But doesn't respond.

“You’ve got three seconds to get that jacket off, or I swear on every drop of blood in my body I will peel it off you myself, and I’ll use the sleeves to tie what’s left of your smart mouth shut.”

He laughs, actually laughs, low and mocking.

“God, you’re predictable. Same threatening words, same murder eyes. It’s adorable, really. Like a toddler who only learned the word ‘mine’.”

He leans in, just enough to make the space between us electric.

“Tell you what,” he murmurs, eyes glittering. 

“Give me one good reason that isn’t ‘because I’m Zion and I said so,’ and maybe, maybe, I’ll consider it. Otherwise…” He shrugs, 

“I’m already moving.

One heartbeat he’s smirking.

The next my fist is knotted in the front of his jacket, yanking him forward so hard his boots skid half a foot.

“Reason?” I growl against his ear. 

“Because I’m two seconds from ripping it off you and using it to gag that smart mouth. That reason enough?”

His pulse jumps under my grip (just once) before the smirk crawls back twice as wide.

“Still waiting for a real reason, caveman,” he whispers, breath warm against my jaw. 

“Try harder.”

I twist the fabric tighter, feel the zipper bite into his chest.

"Black!"

“Fine,” he sighs, like I’m the one wasting his time. 

“Let’s play your little game"  he mutters, voice still laced with mockery but thinner now, edged. 

“Have your little tantrum.”

He lifts both hands in mock surrender, but the grin is pure venom.

“If whatever you’re hunting for isn’t under this jacket,” he says, voice silk and steel, 

“I want your Lamborghini,” Damien says, voice velvet and venom, eyes glittering like he’s already burning rubber in it. 

“Keys, title, the whole overcompensating package. Signed in blood for the aesthetic.”

The library is so quiet I can hear someone’s heartbeat three tables away.

I don’t blink.

“Deal.”

A collective inhale ripples through the room (sharp, stunned, like the entire floor just realised we’re betting a six-figure car on a hunch). A girl in the front row actually gasps out loud. Phones that had been half-raised freeze mid-air.

From behind me, Winter’s voice (small, worried, cutting straight through the noise in my skull).

“Zion—”

I lift one finger without turning around, the universal sign for shut up and trust me. She stops mid-word. 

The silence that follows is absolute.

Damien’s grin widens, slow and vicious.

“Music to my ears.”

He sets the coffee down like he’s sealing a contract, rolls his shoulders once, then hooks a finger under the zipper.

Every eye in the room is locked on that metal tab.

On him.

On me.

On the car that’s about to change hands.

And on the girl sitting one foot behind me, who just became the only reason I’m willing to risk it all.

He hooks one finger under the zipper tab, pauses, lets the silence stretch until it screams, then drags it down tooth by tooth. 

Tsssssssssssk.

Metal teeth part like a countdown.

The jacket opens.

The jacket hangs open. 

Black shirt underneath. 

Sleeve still hiding the one patch of skin I need to see.

I don’t blink.

“Shirt too,” I hiss, low enough that only he hears the razor in it.

Damien’s head snaps up, the smirk faltering for the first time.

“Shirt?” He laughs, but it’s thinner now, edged. 

“You want the full fucking striptease, Royal? Should I spin for the crowd, give them their money’s worth?”

His fingers drift to the top button of that black shirt, pop it open with deliberate, infuriating slowness. 

One inch of collarbone appears. 

Then another.

The room sucks in a collective breath so sharp it could cut glass.

Winter’s voice was behind me, small and trembling. 

“Zion—”

I flick one finger up without turning (sharp, absolute). She stops mid-syllable.

The second button slips free. 

Third.

Damien’s eyes stay locked on mine, daring me, taunting me, that smirk widening with every inch of skin he reveals.

“Tick-tock, caveman,” he murmurs, voice velvet and venom. 

“Lambo’s practically warming up in my garage already.”

My phone detonates against my thigh (angry, relentless).

Once. Twice. Again.

I rip the phone out, thumb the answer, eyes still locked on him.

“Talk.”

Harry’s voice, ragged and urgent: 

“Zion. Level three, chem garage. I’ve got him. Hood up, mask, same build. Tried to rabbit. Zip-tied to a pillar. Move your ass.”

.

Everything tunnels.

I hang up.

I turn to Winter first, eyes locking on hers, voice low but unbreakable.

“You stay right here. Do not move from this chair until I’m back. You understand me?”

She nods, small, fast, terrified but trusting.

Then I spin to the room (slow, deliberate) and let my gaze drag across every face like a blade across throats.

My voice drops into that dead-calm register that makes grown men piss themselves.

“You listen to me, and you listen well.  
She is under your protection now. Every single one of you.  

You do not take your eyes off her. You do not let anyone near her. You do not let her stand up, sit down, or breathe wrong without knowing exactly who’s watching. 

If a fly lands on her and she doesn’t like it, you kill the fly.  

If anyone (student, professor, janitor, security) tries to talk to her, approach her, or even look at her too long, you stop them. You surround her. You become a fucking wall.  

You fail, you hesitate, you look away for one second…  

I will come back here and I will find out who blinked first.  
And I will end them. Slowly. Publicly. Permanently.  

Then I’ll work my way down the list until this entire floor is ash and apologies.”

I let that settle, let them drown in it.

Dead. Silence.  

Not a single phone moves. 

Not a single chair creaks.

I turn to Damien one last time.

He’s still half-undressed, jacket dangling, shirt open, that victorious smirk now cracked and bleeding uncertainty.

I step in so close my shadow swallows him.

“This isn’t over,” I whisper, just for him.

“Count on it.”

Then I’m gone.

Boots pounding carpet, then tile, then the heavy doors crash open under my palms.

I don’t look back.

The real monster just showed his face.

And I’m coming for him.