Chapter 4 Daisy #4
He had reached into something nameless inside me. Something dark. Something that wanted him as much as it feared him. I hated myself for still being able to taste him. It was as if he had broken open a door I had fought to keep locked—and now I couldn’t shut it again.
Why did even the thought of him send a shiver down my spine?
I had kissed men before. Handsome men. Charming men. But with Damian, everything was different. What if I wasn’t strong enough to push him away next time? Worse—what if I didn’t even want to?
That was the most terrifying thought of all.
I forced myself back to the present, to the goddess waiting in her box. A soft chime at the front door cut through the silence. Instinctively, I lowered the statue into its padding just as the door opened.
“Miss Elfhorn,” Marlon said as he stepped inside. The bodyguard was followed by an older gentleman in a perfectly tailored suit. “Mr. Stanholder is here.”
The customer scanned the room with a sharp, appraising look before giving me a polite nod.
“Mr. Stanholder,” I greeted, moving forward to shake his hand.
“Thank you for receiving me, Miss Elfhorn.”
“I’ve prepared the statue for you,” I said, gesturing to my desk.
“Excellent. I’ll take a look, and if all is in order, I’ll be on my way.”
Mr. Stanholder adjusted his glasses and lifted the goddess from her box. He studied her carefully, turning her in the light, eyes narrowing as he examined every angle. At last, he nodded with quiet satisfaction. “Simply perfect,” he murmured. “The detail is extraordinary.”
“I’ve also prepared the transfer papers,” I said.
“Thank you. Please inform Mr. Miller that I am very pleased—with both the artifact and the swift handling.”
He replaced the statue gently, and I closed the box before handing him a pen for his signature.
“If you have any further questions, my email address is included with the documents,” I added.
“I will keep that in mind. Thank you.” Mr. Stanholder gave me one last courteous nod before turning to leave. “It’s been a pleasure.”
Marlon escorted him out, and when the door shut behind them, I finally exhaled. The room felt mine again, quiet and unobserved.
The rest of the afternoon blurred into digitizing old documents and deciphering fragile, handwritten notes. When fatigue finally pulled at me, I stretched my stiff hands above my head, stifling a yawn, and reached for the empty cup on my desk.
Moving slowly, I wandered into the small kitchen to make myself fresh tea.
The silence was soothing, almost deceptive.
I filled the kettle, lifted the lid of the tea box, and breathed in the earthy scent of dried leaves.
Out of the corner of my eye, something flickered—movement where there should have been none.
My breath caught, and I nearly dropped the box.
Damian Miller leaned casually against the doorway.
Damn it.
Dressed in black—like sin itself—he stood with his arms crossed over his chest. My pulse stumbled, skipped, then raced as if it had no choice.
I forced a half-steady smile. “Is this going to become a habit? Sneaking into the shop just to scare me half to death?”
He shrugged, equal parts amused and predatory. “If that’s the price for seeing you unguarded, I’d say it’s worth it.”
I turned back to the tea. Too quickly. I couldn’t bear to look at him—not after that kiss. Not with that body. Not when he carried the scent of something untamed, like the first breath of an unfamiliar forest—pure, but deep enough to lose yourself in.
“The handover to Mr. Stanholder went smoothly,” I murmured, pretending to steady the tea leaves.
“He told me. You did good work.”
His voice was warm. But not soft. More like dark coffee with a drop of poison. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him take two cups from the shelf.
Then suddenly he was at my side. “Do I get one too?”
I bit my lip. “Of course.”
“Not going to look at me today?”
I tried to answer, but fear pinned my tongue. So I focused on the tea as though my life depended on it. Damian opened a drawer and pulled out a spoon, and the thought jolted through me like a current: he knows. He knows exactly what his presence does to me.
I poured the hot water into the cup, forcing calm into every movement. Stay steady, Daisy. Don’t let him see. With deliberate steps, I crossed the space between us until there was only an arm’s length left. I handed him the cup, then slowly—too slowly—lifted my gaze.
His eyes hit me like fire and ice. Deep. Dark. Shamelessly intense. And the faintest smile curved his lips, as if this was the moment he’d been waiting for.
“Now you’re looking at me.” His whisper slid across my skin, sinking deep. And I hated how much I liked it. Damn him.
“Shall we go to the library?” he asked.
I nodded. What else could I do—say no? My legs moved on their own while my brain screamed at me to stop.
Upstairs, Damian claimed the armchair like a man born to own every room. I sat on the couch. Space stretched between us, but not the kind that offered safety. Not when his gaze held me as if I were the only story worth reading in a room full of books.
“What you said the other day about the Phoenix amulet has stayed with me,” he began. “I’ve thought a lot about it.”
“Haven’t you already sold it?”
“I stopped the sale. I looked into it, and your suspicion—that the amulet once belonged to Ramses III—could very well be right.”
“Really?”
He nodded, leaning forward. “That’s why I want you to come with me to Rome. Your knowledge—and your instincts—could be crucial.”
“To Rome?” My voice trembled. “With you?”
I inhaled sharply, clutched my cup, and took a long sip of tea. “When would we leave?”
“As soon as tomorrow,” Damian said with that determined half-smile. “Everything’s arranged. You only need to pack.”
I set the cup down. “Mr. Miller, I’m not sure I can on such short notice…”
“It’s part of your work,” he cut in, gentle but edged with steel. “Your expertise is essential. Of course, you’ll be paid for the week. And there’s nothing to worry about. We’ll be staying at a hotel I know well.”
“I don’t know…”
Rome. The city I both loved and despised. In my mind’s eye, its ruins rose like ghosts: the Colosseum, the narrow alleys, the vaulted depths of the Vatican Library.
But Rome was also where my father lived. The man who had cast my childhood into the shadows of the Mafia. Not just the deals and whispered meetings. The nights, after visitors left, when certain smiles turned cruel—and I was left with memories I had spent years trying to bury.
The thought of returning filled me with a dangerous cocktail of excitement, nerves, and unease. Should I tell my father I’d be there? The question pressed heavy, but another voice warned me to stay silent.
And then there was Damian. How the hell was I supposed to endure days at his side?
The tension between us was unbearable, electric.
From the first time I walked into his office, when he closed the distance, he had unsettled me.
After that kiss—after his words—I knew it was reckless to let it happen again.
But the idea of working in the Vatican Library, of being part of such a discovery, lit me with pure euphoria.
Would I be able to endure that constant, dangerous pull between us?
Probably not. The way he looked at me, the way he spoke—as if he knew truths I had never dared say—was both fascinating and frightening.
“Miss Elfhorn?” His voice cut through my thoughts. “Are you even listening to me?”
I lifted my head and met his gaze. “All right. I’ll come.”
“Very good,” Damian said, taking a slow, satisfied sip of tea. Then he set the cup aside and rose. “I want to bring a book with me. An old text on Egyptian amulets. I checked the catalog earlier—the number is A157.”
I followed him toward the shelves. My fingers drifted across the spines as though I were searching for something, but my mind was blank. The numbers blurred, meaningless. I moved with purpose only on the outside. Inside, everything was facade.
A storm was raging in me. Every step, every breath a tightrope between running and staying frozen. Just to feel how close he was. Perfect. Off to a great start.
Even before he touched me, I felt him. His presence rolled in like a soundless storm. I was reaching for a book when heat spread across my hand.
He placed his hand on mine, gentle but firm, stopping me before I could pull the volume free. His fingers pressed lightly—a grip that didn’t ask; it took.
My chest jumped. Every nerve screamed. I stayed. Held by something I couldn’t name. Something I wanted anyway.
“Miss Elfhorn,” he breathed, lips close to my hair. Barely more than a breath, but it scorched every wall I’d built. Between the shelves at my front and his body at my back, there was no air left. No escape.
“You’re costing me my sleep. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
My chest tightened. I had to force breath into my lungs. Thought thinned until there was nothing left. I turned toward him. “Mr. Miller,” I started, but words shattered when his fingers slid to the buttons of my pants. They died on my lips like embers. Heat flooded me—shame, fear, something darker.
“I have to restrain myself around you. And I hate it.” His voice dropped, intimate and too near. He took my hand and guided it—first across my stomach, then lower. My legs trembled.
“Because I’m not used to holding back.” Quiet. Almost tender. More dangerous for it.
Our fingers found the edge of my panties, sliding beneath—slow, unbearably slow—until they brushed the place that made me lose myself. I wanted to say no. My body burned under that touch.
“And because you keep me up at night… I should really punish you.”
When he pushed into me with his finger, I gasped. My body tensed—against will, not against want. He withdrew, and my knees nearly folded. I almost clung. Instead, he pulled my hand free.
“I at least need to taste you once.”
He lifted my finger to his mouth. His tongue closed around it—warm, wet—and the sensation spread through me. His stare was indecent, hungry. He savored every tremor, every betrayed reaction.
I could have looked away. I could have pulled back. I didn’t. Couldn’t. Desire made it impossible.
When he drew my finger from his mouth, his eyes pinned me. “You taste like heaven,” he whispered to my skin. “I wonder how you’ll taste when you come in my mouth. How you’ll look when I make you beg for my name.”
The image seared. I shut my eyes—and in that dark there was only him. I was a spark on dry ground, ready to burn. I hated myself for it.
“But I can’t. Not now.” His voice fell to a murmur as he pulled a book from the shelf and crossed to the couch.
I stood rooted. Damian Miller took one last sip of tea, then headed for the stairs. “Tomorrow morning at seven, my driver will be outside to take you to my plane.”
I nodded, speechless, lungs tight. He descended and left the shop.
I cursed myself for letting him that close, for letting him touch me. And I was honest with myself: in that moment, the only thing I wanted was more of him.
What did he mean he couldn’t? Some rule about employees? A boundary I should have known? I wasn’t normal around him. Or was there something else?
His touch and words had lit a fire I couldn’t snuff. Dangerous. Irrational. He knew it. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.