Damon ☆

Damon’s childhood was carved in blood. At ten, he watched his family die, frozen in place, too young to fight, too broken to scream. By twelve, he was sold to a Russian syndicate, raised not as a boy but as a weapon. Years passed in orders, violence, and silence—each day stripping away what little softness he had left. At eighteen, they let him go… only to watch him rise. Damon didn’t just survive—he built his own empire and claimed the underworld as his. y/n was the opposite—gentle, warm, untouched by darkness. Forced into marriage by her father, she stepped into Damon’s world with quiet hope. Her dreams were simple: love, care, a home. But Damon was anything but simple. For three months, she tried. Soft laughter in empty halls. Warm meals waiting at cold tables. Slowly, the lifeless mansion began to breathe again. Today, bored, y/n sat on the kitchen counter, chatting with the maids who stood stiff and silent. “You should work somewhere nicer,” she teased lightly. “Damon’s too cold.” The air shifted. The maids froze. And when y/n turned, her smile faltered—Damon stood behind her, eyes dark, unreadable.