Strongest Incubus System-Chapter 153: The Type of Man No One Can Stop

Her heart was still racing—not just from the argument, but from how easily Damon had reversed the roles, as if he were simply reminding her that nothing she did would truly surprise him.

She took a deep breath, looked away for a second... and then looked back at him firmly.

"Damon..." Her voice came out lower than she intended, almost a whisper. "I need to know."

He stopped smiling.

Not because he was bothered, but because he finally realized that, despite all the anger, all the tension, there was something genuinely vulnerable there. She needed a real answer.

And Damon rarely denied her anything.

He leaned his shoulder against the wall, relaxing his posture, but his eyes remained fixed on her, sharp.

"I didn’t hurt him," he began, directly, without beating around the bush.

Morgana raised an eyebrow, suspicious.

Damon gave a half-smile, as if amused by her disbelief.

"Not physically," he corrected. "You needed him to back off. To let you go. To stop treating you like a possession. And... I took care of that. In the way he understands best."

Morgana felt a shiver run down her spine.

Not from fear—from recognition.

She knew Damon never did anything halfway.

She knew that, for him, solving a problem meant destroying it to its root cause.

"So you went in there... just to scare him?" she asked softly, almost without realizing she was taking a step closer.

Damon followed her with his eyes. He didn’t move.

"I went in to make sure he would never again try to use you as a political bargaining chip," he explained, his voice deep. "He needed to feel that continuing with you was... too dangerous. That any wrong move would make the world crumble around him."

Morgana crossed her arms, but it was more of a defensive gesture against herself than against him.

"That was cruel."

Damon tilted his head to the side.

"It was necessary," he replied, without blinking.

Another step from her.

Another thick silence between them.

Until she finally spoke:

"You shouldn’t have interfered, Damon."

He took a step forward this time, the proximity increasing almost calculatedly.

"Your fiancé wasn’t going to protect you," he said. "He would never fight for you. I just removed someone who didn’t deserve to touch you... from the way."

The air left her lungs with a discreet startle.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

"Damon..." she murmured, trying to find the right words.

But he smiled, that slow, provocative smile, full of intention.

"Did you really want me to stand there?" he asked, moving closer, but without touching. "That you should just watch someone play with your destiny while you suffered in silence?"

Morgana opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

The heat in her chest was a dangerous mix of irritation and something she didn’t want to name.

"I don’t..." she began.

Damon moved a little closer, until his voice touched her skin.

"It’s like I said," he murmured. "What’s mine... I don’t let anyone touch."

She felt her stomach churn.

"You’re exaggerating. I’m not yours," she repeated, but the firmness didn’t fully return.

"Not yet," he replied, the same as before, the same as always—but this time more serious.

Morgana gasped for air for a moment.

Then Damon took a half-step back—just half—just enough to give her some space, but not relief.

As if he were leaving the decision in her hands.

"So?" he asked, his voice low, his gaze fixed. "What do you want to know? How far do you actually want me to go?"

She swallowed hard.

Her fingers trembled slightly.

The hallway was empty, silent... and Damon, almost imperceptibly, tilted his head, watching her with predatory patience.

Morgana inhaled deeply.

"I want to know..." she began, each word heavy, sincere. "If you would do it again."

Damon’s eyes gleamed.

"For you?" he answered without hesitation. "As many times as necessary."

Morgana looked away for a second—not because she was embarrassed, but because his intensity surpassed anything she was used to.

"Damon... this is going to get me in trouble," she murmured.

He gave a slight smile.

"I don’t care about trouble," he said. "I care about you."

She froze.

For long seconds, neither of them moved.

Then, unexpectedly, it was Damon who took another step back—slowly, almost against his will—and straightened his posture.

"Now that you know what you want to know..." he said, his voice returning to its usual provocative tone. "What are you going to do with that?"

Morgana parted her lips to reply...

But she couldn’t.

Because, for the first time in a long time... she really didn’t know.

Morgana opened her mouth to try to answer, but Damon had already picked up on everything. Her hesitation, the doubt, the conflict... and the way her heart seemed to beat faster whenever he approached.

He only tilted his head slightly—an almost polite, almost respectful gesture, but full of that irritating confidence of his.

"Think about what I said," he murmured. "And what you felt."

Before she could react, he turned—calmly, as if the conversation hadn’t shaken him at all—and began to walk down the hallway, firm, calm steps.

As if he were the one controlling the pace.

Morgana’s breath caught fire.

"Hey...!" she called, irritated, without even realizing she had raised her voice.

Damon only raised one hand in a lazy wave, without looking back.

"See you later, Morgana."

See you later.

As if she were going to stay there, planted, thinking about him.

As if he had decided when the conversation ended.

As if...

Morgana clenched her teeth.

The heat in her chest rose—not the good kind; the other kind, the one laden with wounded pride, frustration, and that unpleasant feeling of not having been the one to end the argument.

She slammed her fist against the wall, but not hard enough to hurt herself—just enough to release some of her anger.

"Tsk... idiot," she muttered, her face hot. "Arrogant, conceited, manipulative...!"

But, even with all the anger, she couldn’t get the way he had looked at her moments before out of her head.

The firmness.

The certainty.

The feeling that if she took half a step, Damon would take two.

Morgana huffed, crossing her arms.

Why did he always manage to turn the situation around? Why was she, who had always been in control, always kept her distance, always dominated any conversation... acting like that just because of a look from him?

It was humiliating.

It was irritating.

And it was dangerous.

She turned in the opposite direction from where he had gone, trying to ignore the heat rising up her neck.

"Does he think he can just... turn his back and walk away?" she murmured, echoing her own indignation. "Who does he think he is?"

The answer came to her mind on its own, bitter and inevitable:

The only one who looks you in the eye without fear... and who makes you tremble more than any duel.

Morgana closed her eyes for a second, trying to breathe.

It was impossible.

He always had to have the last word, the last step, the last smile.

And the worst part?

She had let him.

Morgana ran her hands through her hair, angry with herself, with the situation... and especially with him.

"I’ll show him..." she said through gritted teeth, not realizing she was smiling slightly. "That I’m not someone he can provoke and then walk away with."

But deep down, beneath the anger—there was something else.

A small, almost imperceptible... expectation.

Because Damon had left.

But it certainly wasn’t over.

And neither was she.

...

Damon’s house was silent... or at least it should have been.

Aria didn’t seem the least bit worried about it.

She was in his lap, legs crossed around his waist, her arms tightly around his neck as she kissed him with an almost desperate urgency, as if she had waited all day for that moment. Damon held her waist firmly, guiding the rhythm—but it was Aria who pulled him closer with more hunger, more need.

Her kisses were hot, quick, intense... and he responded with his usual controlled calm, as if he had all the time in the world while Aria tried to devour him.

That’s when a third voice cut through the air:

"Can you remember I EXIST?" Ester complained from the doorway, arms crossed, her face red with both irritation and embarrassment. "You’re making too much noise!"

Aria didn’t even look back—she just grunted against Damon’s mouth, still pressed against him.

He tightened his grip on her waist with one hand, slowing the kiss as if he had complete control over the rhythm, the moment... everything. Aria gasped, frustrated, still leaning against his chest.

Damon looked up at Ester, displaying a lazy half-smile.

"Relax, Ester," he said, his voice hoarse from the kisses. "Your turn is later."

Ester froze.

Her face turned even redder—impossible, but it happened.

"I-it’s not my turn at all!" she retorted, stumbling over her own words as she looked away. "I don’t want a ’turn’! I came to tell you something!"

Aria finally lifted her face from Damon’s neck, sighing in irritation at the interruption.

"What is it now?" she muttered.

Ester squeezed the envelope she was holding, almost crumpling it.

"A letter arrived," she said, trying to maintain her composure. "From Elizabeth."

Damon’s smile vanished immediately.

Not out of concern.

But out of interest.

Aria noticed—and narrowed her eyes, jealousy burning beneath her skin.

Ester noticed too—and swallowed hard, feeling the atmosphere shift.

Damon touched Aria’s chin, gently tilting her face upward.

"We’ll continue later," he murmured, his tone making it clear it was a promise.

Aria bit her lip, frustrated, but slowly got off his lap, as if each movement were a silent complaint.

Ester held out the letter.

"She said it’s urgent."

Damon took the envelope, his eyes sharp, his posture shifting. He recognized when something big was about to move.

"Great," he said, almost to himself. "I was expecting this."