HATE ME HARDER ( a dark revenge romance)

Raven Noir, stolen and sold at birth, a lethal assassin scarred by a decade-old rape, infiltrates billionaire Damien Blackwood's elite nightclub empire as stripper, her cover to get close enough to torture and kill the man who unknowingly fathered her daughter. Damien, captivated by her icy control and commanding presence, pulls her deeper with lucrative nights and charged intimacy. But when he encounters her identical twin, the buried memories flood back. Mistaking the twin for his victim, guilt drives him to propose marriage. Devastated, Raven faces an impossible choice: expose the truth, seize her revenge, or let obsession destroy them all in a dark, slow-burn thriller of betrayal and forbidden desire.

Chapters

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

DAMIEN'S POV:

The office feels smaller tonight, the air thicker, charged with the kind of humidity that clings to skin even before anyone touches.

Seventy second floor. Floor-to-ceiling glass framing Manhattan like a living painting cold blues and golds bleeding into black.

I keep the lights at thirty percent. Just enough glow to catch sweat, to trace the curve of a hip, to make shadows do half the work.

Shadows are honest. They don't lie about hunger.

Clarissa arrived at 9:47 p.m. sharp.

She always does when she's feeling neglected. Platinum hair already loose, blouse unbuttoned to the third pearl, skirt riding high enough that I could see the black lace thong when she crossed the room.

She didn't speak, just walked straight to the desk, planted both palms on the glass, bent at the waist, and looked back at me over her shoulder with that practiced pout she thinks is seductive.

I didn't smile, stepped behind her without a preamble.

My left hand gathered her hair into a loose fist at the nape, enough tension to arch her neck, not enough to hurt yet.

My right hand dragged the thong to the side, exposing her. She was already glistening, always is.

I slid two fingers in without warning, straight to the knuckle, hot, slick, eager.

She sucked in a sharp breath that turned into a long, throaty moan the second I curled them upward, hooking that swollen ridge inside her.

"Fuck... Damien..."

Her voice cracked on my name. I didn't answer.

I added a third finger, stretching her wider, pumping slowly at first, letting her feel every ridge of my knuckles sliding in and out, then faster, deeper.

The wet sounds were obscene, loud in the quiet room. She pushed back against my hand, hips rolling shamelessly, chasing the pressure.

I let her have it for a minute, let her moan louder, let the sounds bounce off the glass, then I pressed my thumb firmly against her clit and rubbed tight, merciless circles.

Her knees buckled.

She caught herself on her elbows, forehead dropping to the desk. "Oh God, yes, right there, don't stop"

I didn't. I fucked her with my fingers harder, faster, twisting my wrist so the pads dragged along her front wall on every withdrawal.

Her moans turned ragged, high pitched, almost sobs. Sweat darkened the silk between her shoulder blades. Her thighs trembled.

I could feel her pulsing around me close, so close.

I pulled out right at the edge.

She whined, actual frustration, raw and needy.

"Damien, please"

"Quiet." I hushed her.

I unzipped.

Shoved my trousers and briefs down just enough.

My cock was already thick, heavy, leaking at the tip.

I fisted the base once, twice, spreading the pre-cum, then lined up and thrust in, slow this time.

One long, deliberate slide until I was buried to the hilt. She screamed, high, broken, echoing.

Her walls clamped down like a fist.

I didn't move for three heartbeats. Let her feel the stretch, the fullness, the way I throbbed inside her. Then I started, hard, deep, controlled.

Each thrust drove her forward until her breasts flattened against the cold glass, nipples scraping with every snap of my hips.

The desk groaned under the force. Papers slid. A fountain pen rolled off the edge and clattered somewhere on the carpet. I didn't care.

Clarissa was loud, God! She was loud. Moaning my name like a prayer, begging for harder, faster, deeper.

"Like that,fuck yes, don't stop please" Her voice fractured every time I bottomed out, hitting that spot that made her whole body jerk.

I angled my hips deliberately, grinding against her cervix on the deepest strokes, then pulling back just enough to drag along her walls again.

She sobbed with pleasure, thighs shaking, slick running down the inside of her legs.

I leaned over her, chest to her back, one arm banding around her waist to keep her pinned.

My free hand slid between her thighs again, found her swollen clit and pinched it lightly between thumb and forefinger, rolling it in time with my thrusts.

She shattered.

Her scream was primal, back arching violently, inner muscles spasming so hard I nearly lost control.

I fucked her through it, relentless, drawing out every aftershock until she was whimpering, oversensitive, trembling.

Only then did I let myself go.

I buried deep, hips flush against her ass, and came with a low, guttural groan, hot, thick pulses that made her whimper again.

I stayed seated inside her for long seconds, breathing hard, letting the last ripples move through both of us.

Then I pulled out slowly.

She slumped forward, panting, thighs slick and trembling.

I tucked myself away, zipped up, adjusted my cufflinks. Business as usual.

That was when I saw her.

Raven Noir had been standing in the open doorway the entire time.

Arms loosely crossed, expression blank, no widened eyes, no parted lips, no flush creeping up her neck.

Just those storm eyes watching, cool, unreadable, clinical like she was observing a medical procedure instead of a man fucking his employee across a $40,000 desk.

The rage hit first, sharp, irrational. How long? How much did she see?

Then came the heat, darker, hungrier.

She hadn't left.

She hadn't averted her gaze.

She had simply... watched.

Clarissa finally noticed her. She startled upright, yanking her skirt down, clutching the torn edges of her blouse over her breasts. "Who the hell is.."

"Out," I said. Voice flat. Final.

Clarissa blinked, dazed, mascara smudged at the corners.

She shot Raven a venomous look, pure female territoriality, then stumbled toward the private elevator on unsteady heels.

The doors closed with a soft hiss.

Silence.

Thick enough to choke on.

I walked toward Raven slowly, deliberate steps stopping when there was barely a foot between us.

Close enough to catch the faint scent of leather from her jacket, the clean bite of soap on her skin, no perfume, no artifice.

"You're early," I said. My voice still carried the roughness of sex.

"Apparently." One word, no inflection.

"You watched."

"Yes."

A long beat.

"Did it bother you?"

Her gaze flicked down once to the obvious outline still pressing against my trousers then lifted again. "It was... educational."

I almost smiled. Almost.

Instead I stepped closer. "You didn't flinch."

"I don't flinch."

Another beat.

I tilted my head. "You always cover part of your face?"

Her eyes narrowed, just a fraction.

I shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Half mask, full mask, hood, whatever.

As long as the body fetches money for both of us, I don't give a damn what you hide."

She let the silence stretch. Measured it. Weighed it.

Then, quietly, "Why me?"

I let my eyes drag over her, slow, deliberate. From the combat boots up the dark jeans hugging long legs, past the leather jacket zipped just high enough to hint at the curve beneath, to that severe ponytail and those unreadable eyes.

"I'm a businessman, Raven. I venture into anything that turns a profit. And you..." I paused, letting the words settle. "...you look like you could turn a very large profit."

She didn't react, not a blink, not a shift in weight.

I continued.

"Velvet Reservoir. My highest end club, private rooms only, Invite list clientele.

The kind of men who drop six figures without blinking for the right performance.

I need dancers who command attention, not just bodies on poles. Presence. Control. You walk like you already own the room before you step into it."

Still nothing.

"Pay starts at fifty thousand a night. Cash. No paper trail unless you want one.

Tips can double it, triple it, on a good weekend.

You keep eighty percent.

I take twenty for the venue, security, and discretion. No questions asked.

No strings beyond showing up, performing, and leaving with your cut."

Her head tilted slightly, the first real movement since I started talking.

"And if I say no?"

"Then you walk out that door and I never see you again." I leaned in a fraction. "But you won't say no."

"Why not?"

"Because you watched me fuck her for fifteen straight minutes without blinking.

Most women would have left. Or screamed. Or cried. You just... observed. Like you were a tiny little whore."

Her lips curved, just the barest hint of something that wasn't quite a smile. "Maybe I am."

I studied her. The way she held herself, relaxed but coiled.

The way her eyes never wavered.

The way she smelled faintly of rain and leather and something sharper underneath, maybe adrenaline, restraint, hunger, or anger.

I didn't care which.

"When do I start?" she asked.

"Friday. Ten p.m. I'll have a car sent to wherever you want picked up. Black SUV. No markings. You'll be escorted straight to the private entrance."

She nodded once, small, decisive.

Then she turned toward the elevator.

I spoke before the doors could open.

"Raven."

She paused. Didn't turn.

"Next time you watch," I said, voice low, "I'll make sure it's worth your time."

She didn't answer.

The doors slid closed behind her.

I stood there for a long moment, still hard, still buzzing with unfinished heat, staring at my own reflection in the glass.

She hadn't flinched.

She hadn't run.

And that, more than anything, made me want to break her open just to see what was really underneath

Continue to next part

My entire family was slaughtered three years ago by Alistair Kirkland, the usurper who stole the underworld throne. I was the only survivor. Smuggled out of New York as a child, I was trained in the shadows to become a flawless weapon. Now, at sixteen, I returned to the city that was supposed to be my graveyard. But the New York I returned to was a suffocating cage. Kirkland didn't just wipe out the Valenzuela bloodline; he branded my few surviving loyalists as traitors. He paraded my men down the streets in heavy iron chains, letting the very people we once protected hurl rocks at them. He bought the doctors, ensuring my wounded soldiers would bleed out in the dark. Even worse, the mother of my only ally—Julian Morgan—secretly sold us out to a Chicago warlord just to keep her archaic grip on power. I stood in the shadows, watching an eleven-year-old boy get his head smashed with a jagged stone just for defending his father's honor. How could the city my grandfather built cheer for our extermination? Why did the old guard prefer to cower and die in the dark rather than fight the monster who stole our home? "Ghosts don't knock on my door, Athena. What do you want?" Julian asked me. I tossed a blood-stained ledger of Kirkland's deepest secrets onto his desk. "I'm here to help you take back what's yours, and burn Alistair Kirkland's empire to the ground."

Action Mafia Modern

9.0

Jilted Bride's Revenge: The Valkyrie Awakens

9.0

I had been a wife for exactly six hours when I woke up to the sound of my husband’s heavy breathing. In the dim moonlight of our bridal suite, I watched Hardin, the man I had adored for years, intertwined with my sister Carissa on the chaise lounge. The betrayal didn't come with an apology. Hardin stood up, unashamed, and sneered at me. "You're awake? Get out, you frumpy mute." Carissa huddled under a throw, her fake tears already welling up as she played the victim. They didn't just want me gone; they wanted me erased to protect their reputations. When I refused to move, my world collapsed. My father didn't offer a shoulder to cry on; he threatened to have me committed to a mental asylum to save his business merger. "You're a disgrace," he bellowed, while the guards stood ready to drag me away. They had spent my life treating me like a stuttering, submissive pawn, and now they were done with me. I felt a blinding pain in my skull, a fracture that should have broken me. But instead of tears, something dormant and lethal flickered to life. The terrified girl who walked down the aisle earlier that day simply ceased to exist. In her place, a clinical system—the Valkyrie Protocol—booted up. My racing heart plummeted to a steady sixty beats per minute. I didn't scream. I stood up, my spine straightening for the first time in twenty years, and looked at Hardin with the detachment of a surgeon looking at a tumor. "Correction," I said, my voice stripped of its stutter. "You're in my light." By dawn, I had drained my father's accounts, vanished into a storm, and found a bleeding Crown Prince in a hidden safehouse. They thought they had broken a mute girl. They didn't realize they had just activated their own destruction.

Action Modern Romance

9.7

Mafia's Captive Desire

9.7

He leaned in, inhaling her sweet scent as his hands traveled from her back to her waist, and then down to her thigh. She felt her breath hitch as she let out a small gasp. "We shouldn't be doing this." She said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Then tell me to stop." His voice was low, daring, as his fingers traced slow circles on her skin. *** Lucy had always lived life on her own terms, until the night everything changed. One moment, she was free; the next, she was bound to Barry Cooper, a cold, dangerous man who ruled the underworld with an iron fist. She never expected to be trapped in a world of power struggles, deceit, and unspoken desires. But as the lines between captor and captive blur, Lucy realizes she's caught in a deadly game, one where trust is a luxury and survival is not guaranteed. Will she escape the ruthless mobster who owns her... or will she become his greatest obsession?

Action Adventure Mafia

8.6

Marrying His Rival: The Jilted Wife's Sweet Revenge

8.6

"Her blood type is a match. It’s the only option." I froze outside the conference room door, the quarterly reports digging into my ribs. I knew that voice. It was Ben, my husband’s best friend and doctor. But the next voice, cold and devoid of warmth, shattered my world. "Then we do it," my husband Ethan said. "Chloe cannot wait any longer. If Ava is the match, then Ava is the solution." For the past month, Ethan had been obsessed with my health, insisting on daily "vitamins" and endless checkups. He called it love. Standing in that hallway, I realized he was actually shopping for spare parts. "She is your wife, Ethan," Ben argued weakly. "You can't just harvest her like a crop." "She became my wife because she was useful," Ethan replied, his indifference cutting deeper than any scalpel. "Now, she can be useful for this." The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The nausea I’d been feeling wasn't stress. I was pregnant. And those "vitamins" he fed me every morning? They weren't supplements. They were poisons designed to ensure I remained a viable donor. He was killing his own child to save his mistress. To him, I wasn't a partner. I was livestock. An asset to be liquidated for parts. I didn't burst into the room. I didn't scream. I walked away in silence, my hand hovering over my stomach. He wanted my kidney? He wanted to carve me up? I decided right then. I wouldn't just leave. I would terminate the pregnancy, fake my death, and burn his entire world to the ground.

Action Modern Romance

8.9

Pregnant With The Ruthless Billionaire's Secret

8.9

Aubree Hamilton was the top-tier executive assistant to Wall Street's most ruthless titan, Beck Franco. A month ago, she made a catastrophic mistake and spent the night in his bed. Thinking she had erased the mistake with a morning-after pill, she panicked upon his return and lied about being engaged to push him away. But Beck, a man who despised disloyalty above all else, immediately suspended her and ordered her escorted out of the building. Her nightmare only escalated when her toxic ex-boyfriend attacked her on the street, tearing her purse open and exposing the empty morning-after pill box to the public—and to Beck, who was watching from his penthouse. After having his security rescue her, Beck trapped her in his car, ruthlessly tearing apart her fake engagement. Later in her apartment, the suffocating tension between them almost ignited into a kiss, but a violent wave of nausea suddenly hit Aubree. She shoved him away with all her strength and violently threw up in the bathroom. Beck took it as the ultimate physical disgust. He walked out, deeply humiliated and dangerously obsessed, unleashing his resources to investigate her every move. Left alone and trembling, Aubree finally checked the crushed white box. The pill she took had expired a month ago. Staring at the two bright pink lines on the pregnancy test, she made a desperate vow: Beck Franco could never know she was carrying his child, and she had to disappear before he found out.

Action Billionaire Mystery

9.4

Taming The Sinner: The Doctor’s Cold Game

9.4

I stood before the double doors of the master suite, my hand hovering inches from the polished brass. As a surgeon, I was trained to steady my heart before a cut, but the silence in the Alexander estate felt like the heavy, oppressive pause that always preceded a scream. I pushed the mahogany door open to find my fiancé, Authur, tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets with a woman named Jasmine. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and a floral perfume that wasn't mine—a brutal reality check just twenty-four hours before the merger meant to save my family from total ruin. Authur didn't look guilty; he looked amused, coldly telling me to close the door because I was letting in a draft. When his parents unexpectedly arrived, I was forced to hide his mistress and pretend our "intensity" had ruined the room, donning his discarded shirt to look disheveled just to protect the Lawrence family stock price. The humiliation only deepened on our wedding morning when Authur issued a sadistic ultimatum over the phone. "Wear your scrubs to the altar—the ones covered in blood—or I'll watch your father's company go belly up by lunch." He wanted to turn our wedding at St. Patrick’s Cathedral into a public execution of my dignity. I walked down the aisle in shapeless navy cotton and crimson stains, enduring the horrified gasps of the elite who labeled me an "insane gold digger." Authur stood at the altar, reeking of whiskey and malice, certain he had finally broken me and turned my professional oath into a circus act. But as the priest began the vows, I looked at the man who thought he owned me and realized I wasn't his victim—I was his surgeon. I had the footage of his debauchery ready to play for the world, and as we shared a punishing, hateful kiss for the cameras, I knew the real war had only just begun.

Action Modern Romance

HATE ME HARDER ( a dark revenge romance)

Chapter 4

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