His Coming

TRIGGER WARNING

THIS STORY CONTAINS EXPLICIT R18+ CONTENT INCLUDING DETAILED SEXUAL SCENES, BULLYING, EMOTIONAL AND TOUCHES OF PHYSICAL ABUSE, VIOLENCE, COERCION, AND A POSSESSIVE, DOTING LOVE INTEREST. READERS SENSITIVE TO DARK THEMES, TOXIC RELATIONSHIPS, OR EXCESSIVE DOMINATION SHOULD PROCEED WITH CAUTION. THIS IS A DARK ROMANCE INTENDED FOR MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY.

Eloise’s POV

^^^^^^^^

Damian LaCroix.

I've heard that name more times than my own in the past two months since I got married off to this LaCroix mafia family.

That name has haunted me, whispered like a legend, a threat, a promise of something I can’t quite grasp.

You’d think he was my husband, that I’ve murmured his name in the dead of night, longing for his presence. But no.

My husband is Shallow LaCroix—a man thirty-one years older than me, a sadistic, twisted psychopath who thrives on control.

A man that my family—

No, the people who should have protected me—sold me to. Like a freaking cattle.

I should stop calling them my family. I should burn their memory from my mind like they burned my freedom, my dreams. But blood is a cruel tether, and betrayal cuts deeper when it comes from those who should have loved you.

Today, Damian LaCroix is coming back.

And I don’t know why, but Shallow wants me to be perfect for him.

This morning, the house turned into a goddamn beauty salon, with facialists, pedicurists, stylists, hair and makeup artists swarming me like vultures preparing a corpse for display. I’m being packaged, wrapped up like a present for something or someone.

And I don’t want to know why.

My stomach churns as they brush my hair, paint my lips, lace me up in silk and diamonds like I’m some fragile, expensive doll.

Shallow hasn’t told me what’s coming. And that’s what scares me the most.

He’s playing with my life.

And I have a feeling that by the end of today, everything will change.

For better or for worse.

Evening drew nearer, and at last, I was ready.

The corset was too tight, the silk dress too delicate, like wrapping poison in a pretty bottle. My hair was perfect, my lips painted red, my skin smooth from hours of scrubbing and polishing. I looked like someone else. Someone expensive.

Then the door slammed open.

Shallow didn’t knock. He never did.

The artists, the stylists, and everyone who had been working on me scattered like frightened mice, leaving their tools behind, as if his presence alone was a plague.

I swallowed hard but didn’t move. I knew better than to move.

He loomed over me, broad and bloated, the stench of sweat and stale cigars clinging to him like a second skin. His shirt stretched over his stomach, damp in places from the heat of his own body. He was repulsive.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured.

His thick fingers settled on my thigh, sinking in too hard, too possessively. I stiffened.

“I know you’ll be on your best behaviour tonight.” Squeeze. My flesh throbbed beneath his grip, but I didn’t flinch. “You’ll sit pretty. You’ll make me proud.” Squeeze. My breath hitched.

“And maybe,” his voice dipped lower, sick with the promise of something I dreaded, “I’ll finally fuck you.”

A shudder rippled through me.

I wasn’t looking forward to it. I wanted to throw up at the thought of his body anywhere near mine.

But I couldn’t say that. He would kill me.

So I smiled. Perfect. Practiced. Fake.

“Yes, Papi,” I whispered, because he liked it when I called him that.

His ugly grin widened, yellowed teeth flashing. Sweaty, greasy, disgusting. The kind of man who collected whores and sons the way others collected art scattered them all over the house, their laughter and filth polluting every corner.

His hand traced slow, deliberate patterns over my thigh before he finally, finally, stood up.

“I can’t wait to feel all of you later,” he said, like it was a gift.

I held my breath.

Then he left.

And I exhaled like I’d been drowning.

I hated my life.

And there’s no way to get out.

Annie walked in without knocking.

I wasn’t surprised. Privacy didn’t exist here.

She wore a silk robe, Shallow’s gift to the women he kept around, and I knew without asking that she’d been in one of their beds. Maybe one of Shallow’s sons. Maybe Shallow himself. Probably both.

“Follow me,” she said, her tone clipped. “He’s here.”

Damien LaCroix.

The name sent a strange shiver through me, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I stood, wincing as the sharp bite of my heels shot up my legs. Too tight. Too high. Too painful. But I didn’t have the luxury of comfort.

We walked through the halls, Annie in a hurry, her pace impatient. Every few steps, she threw a glare over her shoulder, like my slowness offended her. Wow.

“You can go ahead. I’ll come out,” I told her.

She scoffed. “You think I’m stupid?”

No, I thought. I think you’re terrified. Just like everyone else here.

No one defied Shallow. He wasn’t just the head of this house; he was the Don of the entire organisation.

Finally, we reached the grand foyer.

A long line of bodies stood at attention; the entire LaCroix family gathered for one man.

Damien LaCroix.

I barely had time to wonder before Shallow’s thick, oily voice cut through my thoughts.

“Come here, Eloise, baby. Stand next to me.”

I forced my feet forward, swallowing the pain. The shoes weren’t my size. Nothing ever was. Shallow picked whatever pleased him, never caring how it looked or felt on me.

Oh mon Dieu, I’m exhausted.

His fat arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me close, his clammy hand pressing into my hip. I held my breath.

We waited.

Then, headlights swept across the entrance.

A sleek, black SUV rolled to a stop. The doors unlocked.

Let’s see who Damien LaCroix is.

And then he stepped out.

Damien LaCroix.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Sharp-jawed. The kind of man that only existed in books, crafted with impossible perfection. He moved like he owned the air around him, effortlessly powerful, dangerously calm.

A tailored black suit hugged his body, expensive and unforgiving, hinting at the raw strength beneath. His dark hair was neatly styled, yet effortlessly tousled, and when he turned—

Oh mon Dieu.

His eyes.

A cold, stormy grey. Piercing. Intense. Unforgiving.

I felt it. A pull. A tether. Something unnatural.

What the hell was happening?