Chapter 46: Break the Ice

The following days at Countess Elizabeth’s mansion dragged on like a perverse cycle, a routine that seemed to exist solely to test Ester’s limits—as if every detail were designed to slowly erode her ironclad defenses.

Damon, now fully immersed in the household chores, moved through the hallways like an insolent shadow. In the mornings, he could be found in the courtyard, training in the pale sunlight, sweat dripping down his skin as his blades sliced ​​the air with the precise savagery of a predator. Other times, he would appear lazily in the library, reclining in antique chairs, surrounded by books he barely seemed to be reading—but always with that air of someone who dominated the space, as if the mansion were his too.

Still, it wasn’t the training or the discipline that brought her pleasure. What Damon enjoyed most, above all, was teasing her.

Whenever he met her, he’d get closer than necessary, leaning in too far as he passed, letting his fingers almost—almost—brush her skin. Other times, he’d simply give her that devilish smile, a half-smile that seemed to carry a silent confession: I know.

And when he wanted to see the fury flash in her red eyes, he made a point of greeting her loudly, insolently, drawing out each syllable like someone dragging a sharp blade, savoring every reaction.

Ester, for her part, struggled to keep her mask of coldness intact. She always responded with quick cuts—sharp, dry words, capable of silencing any other man. But not Damon. He never backed down. On the contrary: he seemed to feed off that hostility.

Every hateful look, every cutting sentence, every time she lifted her chin, trying to hide the blush on her skin… all of it only strengthened his hand.

Ester was beginning to realize, with growing fury, that Damon wasn’t just trying to provoke her. He was trying to extract something from her. A reaction that went beyond the ice.

At night, however, was when the real torment began.

The first time had been a shock. The second, an unbearable provocation. But as the days turned into weeks, listening to Aria and Damon have sex became a macabre routine—almost a planned torture for Ester.

She closed her eyes, wrapped in the cold sheets of her room, but there was no wall, no stone, no curtain that could muffle the sounds coming from the other side. They came through clear, sharp, pulsing with life and desire, as if the mansion itself were an accomplice to the spectacle.

Aria’s moans were never the same. There were nights when they began soft, sweet, melodic, like music spilling down the hallway.

“Ahh… Damon… slower…”

And then they turned into despair, breathless notes, almost sobs, like broken pleas of pleasure.

“D-don’t stop… please, don’t stop…!”

Other times they were loud, brazen, charged with such raw pleasure that it made the air in Ester’s room tremble.

“Harder! Ahhh, yes! Yes!”

Each change in tone sent an involuntary shiver through her.

Damon, for his part, was not silent. His heavy breathing filled the pauses between Aria’s moans. Sometimes it was a low, husky, almost animalistic laugh; Other times, whispered words, so close to Aria’s ear that even Ester could feel the vibration of those commands bouncing through the wall:

“Spread your legs wider…”

“Good girl…”

“Scream for me.”

And Aria obeyed. She always obeyed. Her moans grew, rising in waves, reaching a pitch so loud that Ester had to clutch the sheets tightly, as if that could silence the sound. But she couldn’t.

She buried her face in the pillow, trying to muffle it all… in vain.

The pleasure of others invaded her ears, burned in her mind, and pierced her body like poison.

At first, it was just anger. A hatred that burned in every fiber of her being. She hated Damon for being so insolent, for turning the Countess’s mansion into a stage for vile pleasures. She hated Aria for moaning with such devotion, as if she had given up her soul. She hated herself for not being able to block it out, for not being able to ignore it.

But as the nights went on, the anger began to merge with something far more dangerous.

Ester found herself paying too much attention. Without realizing it, she counted the rhythm of Aria’s moans, noted the pauses, recognized when Aria was about to lose her breath. She began to distinguish the nuances, as if studying a forbidden melody.

And there were nights—shameful, terrible—when her own body betrayed her mind. Her breathing quickened, her heartbeat matched, and the heat rose, cruel, as if with every moan from Aria, with every whispered command from Damon, something in her was being ripped away.

She hated it. But she couldn’t stop listening.

In the dark room, alone, Ester sat on the edge of the bed, her hands digging into her thighs. Her nails nearly ripped through the fabric of her dress, as if that alone kept her from exploding. Her red eyes glowed in the dim light like live coals, and her breath came in heavy waves, charged with rage and something more dangerous.

“Pathetic…” she whispered to herself, her voice hoarse and trembling. “I am pathetic…”

But the sounds continued. They always continued.

The walls vibrated with the intensity of it. Each of Aria’s moans was a knife piercing her flesh.

And the worst part wasn’t the screams of pleasure. It wasn’t the long, drawn-out moans, nor the desperate sobs. What destroyed her most were the words—words spoken shamelessly, without fear, like confessions wrung from her at the height of pleasure:

“I love you…”

“You complete me…”

“I can’t stop… I can’t…”

Ester squeezed her eyes shut, her teeth clenched until they hurt, but it was too late. The poison was already coursing through her veins.

During the day, the torture took on another form.

Aria crossed her path in the hallways, always flushed, always with that unmistakable sparkle in her eyes. It was impossible not to notice the details: her still-swollen lips, her slightly shaky gait, her skin that seemed to radiate a new freshness, as if she’d spent the night being celebrated and adored.

Ester stared at her as if she could rip out her soul with a look. Aria, ashamed, lowered her head in silence, unable to bear the weight of that silent fury.

But sometimes, it was worse. Because Damon appeared soon after.

The insolent smile always on his face, as if he carried a vivid memory of the night before. As if he insisted on displaying, without a word, what Ester already knew.

And when he spoke, his raspy, drawn-out voice was like a whisper against her skin:

“Did you sleep well, Ester?”

Cynical. Cruel.

Ester responded coldly, as always. But behind the mask, her voice trembled. Not from fear. From something she hated even more than the hatred she felt for him.

The weeks passed, and Ester’s body began to betray her.

In the mirror, she no longer saw the untouchable woman, with her impeccable posture and steely gaze. Now, her red eyes carried deep shadows of insomnia. Her skin seemed paler than usual, and her erect posture was no longer so perfect; there was a slump of weariness in her shoulders.

But worse than that were the nights.

Her dreams, once silent and cold, were now filled with images that tormented her. It wasn’t just Aria she saw with Damon. Sometimes it was herself. His weight on her body. The heat of his forbidden touch. The mocking smile curving against her mouth.

And when she woke, her body burned. Her heart raced, her breath ragged, and a shameful wetness between her legs betrayed how much her body no longer obeyed her mind.

Ester hated herself for it.

She hated herself even more for not being able to stop.

One night, after another string of moans that seemed endless, she couldn’t take it anymore.

She rose from the bed like a caged beast. She paced back and forth, barefoot, her feet sliding across the cold marble. The air in the room began to chill around her, and small ice crystals formed on the edges of the window, cracking like broken bones.

“Enough…” she murmured, her eyes flashing, her fangs bared. “I’m not a slave to this… I’m not…”

But then, as if the universe itself mocked her, a sound pierced the wall.

A long, desperate moan. Aria screamed his name as if it were the last thing in the world. And right after, Damon’s voice, hoarse, deep, saying her name, thick with pleasure.

Ester shuddered.

Her legs gave way. She fell to her knees on the floor, the cold enveloping her body like a glass cocoon.

Her hand rose to her chest, pressing hard against the place where her heart hammered like a drum. Each beat was an insult.

“Why…?” Her voice was weak, shattered. “Why am I… reacting like this…?”

The ice around her cracked, cracking, as if reflecting the chaos within her.

[Break the Ice by 70%]

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