Reborn as their wife

Elise Nelson sucked in a breath so sharp it felt like swallowing a knife.

Her eyes snapped open. Her body coiled tight, muscles locking in anticipation of the impact. The screech of tires, the crunch of metal, the searing heat of the explosion-she waited for the end.

It didn't come.

Instead, her spine slammed against something cold and unforgiving. Marble. Hard, polished marble.

Crash.

The sound of shattering glass exploded right next to her ear. Shards rained down, stinging her bare arms.

Elise flinched, throwing her hands up to protect her head. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, bruising rhythm. She wasn't dead. She was breathing. The air smelled of ozone and expensive cedarwood, not gasoline and blood.

"Do you hate me that much?"

The voice was a low growl, vibrating with a rage so palpable it thickened the air in the room.

Elise lowered her arms slowly. Her vision blurred, then sharpened.

A hand was pressed against the wall, inches from her face. The knuckles were white, the veins prominent and throbbing. A trickle of blood ran down the wall where the skin had split.

She looked up.

Damian Vincent loomed over her.

His gray eyes were usually the color of a calm ocean, but tonight they were a turbulent storm, rimmed with red. His chest heaved, straining the buttons of his white dress shirt. He looked like a man on the edge of murder. Or madness.

"Answer me!" he roared.

Elise pressed herself flatter against the wall. The cold seeped into her skin, grounding her. She looked around the room. The overturned luggage. The shredded plane tickets scattered on the Persian rug like confetti. The rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.

Three years.

She had gone back three years.

This was the night she tried to run away with Eddie. The night Damian dragged her back from the airport, kicking and screaming. In her past life, she had spat in his face. She had told him she would rather die than be his wife.

And eventually, she had died. Miserable, used, and alone.

Damian's hand moved. He gripped her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw with bruising force. He forced her to look at him.

"You want to go to him?" His voice dropped to a whisper, more terrifying than his shout. "You want to run to that piece of trash?"

Pain shot through her jaw. Her instinct-the old instinct-screamed at her to fight. To claw at his eyes. To scream that he was a monster.

But the memory of her death was too fresh. The memory of Damian, years later, standing by her grave when everyone else had abandoned her.

Elise didn't fight.

She lifted her hand. Her fingers trembled uncontrollably.

Damian flinched as her hand approached his face, as if he expected a blow. His eyes narrowed, fixating on her smudged, dark lipstick, a flicker of disgust warring with the rage in his expression. His entire body went rigid, a man bracing not for a slap, but for filth.

She didn't strike him. She laid her palm against his cheek. His skin was burning hot. His stubble grazed her sensitive fingertips.

"Dami," she whispered.

The nickname hung in the silence between them. A ghost from a childhood they had both buried.

Damian froze. The contact seemed to short-circuit his fury. The pupils of his eyes dilated, swallowing the gray. His grip on her jaw loosened, just a fraction.

"What did you call me?" he rasped.