Chapter 25
Damian
I shouldn ’ t be here. I ’ ve fought the desire for one year. Every time Mila needs to donate art to the gallery, I hide inside the coffee shop and watch the girl who runs the bookstore.
It was a mistake giving her my number, but then again, she never called or texted me.
I bite my lip involuntarily, then wince, forgetting about the fresh cut scarring it. Two days ago, when I picked a physical fight with my father, when his fist hit me hard, I thought of her smiling as she made me my latte.
Dad thinks he can still beat me; he can ’ t. I ’ m stronger but also broken enough to welcome his hits. I still feel like I deserve them, and Dad still blames me for my mother ’ s passing.
I still blame myself.
So I let him hit me, landing a solid punch to my ribs and then my mouth.
One question plagued my mind as I forced myself not to react and punch him back. What ’ s her name?
I wanted to die having her name on my smiling lips.
So I drove here, ignoring my phone. I just need one hour of an escape. Sixty minutes of being a normal guy who doesn ’ t live a fucked up life, who didn ’ t watch his mother die, whose father doesn’t hate him, who doesn’t hate himself sometimes.
Normal.
“ We ’ re closing soon!” A sweet voice calls out as the bell over the door jingles a merry tune.
Glancing up, I see that old rusty gold bell, the blue paint chipping around the doorframe, and my lips pull at a melancholy smile. It ’ s so typical here. I wish I had this growing up—a small town with one bustling street, a girl next door I could have fallen in love with. It ’ s a dream so vivid and beautiful in my mind that having it feels like a nightmare, a reality forever out of reach.
I shake my head the moment I spot my prey. There you are. A twisted satisfaction tugs a smirk onto my face.
Oh no. Her back is to me. To the goddamn door. Again.
See? She needs you. She ’ s too trusting—too unaware. She needs someone to protect her.
Her act of innocence has me scanning the bookstore. No cameras.
I snort. Would it be too much to put a security team on her?
That lock on the door wouldn ’ t keep a child out if they wanted in bad enough.
Her strawberry-blonde hair is piled high in a messy bun. Loose strands fall freely around her face as she leans over the counter, reading a book that is engulfing her.
I want to be that book, to be held between her palms, to feel her fingers gliding over me as she peels back my layers. I want to consume all her attention.
I use her ignorance to my advantage, eyes gliding down her body from her cinched waist that flares out to perfectly curved hips and that ass… it ’ s perfection.
“ Do you have time for one more customer?” I announce.
Her head snaps up, eyes widening in surprise, then joy, as her lips lift into a smile. She ’ s excited to see me. So why didn ’ t she text me? “ Well, if it isn ’ t the Serial Killer. It ’ s been a while, leaving a trail of bodies in your wake?”
Yes, I have, and yes, it has been a while. Would it scare you to know I know the exact number of days and hours since we spoke last?
She tries to suppress her joy, pressing her lips together, but her sparkling eyes betray her until she sees my split lip. She places the book face down on the counter, making sure to keep her place.
“ What happened?” She asks as she rounds her register. A sweet floral perfume infiltrates my senses.
So fucking good! I want that scent all over my skin, in my bed, forever marking her presence in it.
Oh no, it's happening. The obsession that plagues all King men. I ’ ve witnessed it time and time again, and this poor soul is now a victim of my madness.
I should apologize.
She inches closer, and the tips of her shoes touch mine. You shouldn ’ t go toe to toe with me. It ’ s like asking Mother Nature not to release a storm. I ’ m not sure I can control myself this close to you.
She tips her chin up, the soft lights of the bookstore making the color of her mossy green eyes look gentle and whimsical.
Without permission, she reaches up, her soft palm cradling my jaw as her thumb brushes closer to my cut. My heart slows to a calming rhythm it ’ s never experienced before. Thump, you can breathe. Thump, you ’ re safe.
“ Nothing,”I whisper. I close my eyes, savoring her gentle touch. It ’ s been…forever since someone just touched me like this.
Caring.
Her hand slips free slowly as if they want to stay clinging to me, but she refuses.
Does she feel it, too?
“ It ’ s been a long time, Damian.” She glances down at her feet.
My lips curl up. “ You remember my name.”
Looking up, she taps her temple. “ I have a good memory.”
“ That ’ s rare nowadays.”
“ Not when you have no phone. I have to remember details like phone numbers and names.” She tilts her head.
I look at the cash register and see a phone hanging on the wall next to it. “ I ’ m guessing you didn ’ t remember my number.” Why didn ’ t you call?
She studies my eyes, forcing me to look down. I don ’ t want her to see my demons.
Turning away, she replies, “ I did.” The counter separates us now. I want to demolish it.
Why didn’t you call me then? My feet lead me to the counter; my body leans over it, needing to be closer to her.
“ What can I get you?” She questions, avoiding my eyes as she pretends I ’ m just a random customer.
She tucks some hair back behind her ear and then pulls on that messy bun, but the action only loosens it further. With a sigh, she grabs the hair tie and flips her head over, then stands taller as she gathers her long, thick hair into another bun.
I watch her fingers move. What would it feel like to have my fingers buried in her hair?
“ You need help?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but my voice is a level too deep.
She pauses, hands tangled in her hair. “ Are you good at tying things up?” A second too late, she realizes the hidden insinuation. The flush that stains her cheeks is mouth-watering.
“ I have to warn you,” she shifts her weight from foot to foot, “ my hair has a mind of its own. She ’ s difficult to tame.”
Are you?
“ I ’ m not scared of a challenge.”
Her brow tugs higher. “ Do you know how to use a flat iron? Because I can never fix the back.”
“ Um…” What does that mean? “ Like a flat iron steak?”
She doubles over with sweet laughter, that has my knees shaking.
I want to jump over this counter and kiss her, lick every inch of her body. Hear her laugh and weep moans of pleasure.
I want to hear her sing for me.
I grab the stool and force myself to sit down so I don ’ t do something foolish.
“ Steak!” She bites her lip and looks at me. “ You ’ re such a dude. I ’ m talking about a flat iron for your hair.”
“ I don ’ t know what that is,” I smirk.
“ No sisters then?”
“ No,” I shake my head. “ It ’ s just me and my cousins, but they likely don ’ t know what a flat iron is either.”
“ You ’ re so typical.”
I wish.
She nervously fiddles with her apron string now that her hair is fixed.
“ Why didn ’ t you call?”
She chews her cheek as her eyes look left to right. “ You ’ re a bad boy, Damian. I ’ ve had bad boys—they ’ re fun, but I don ’ t need fun.”
“ What do you need?” I lean forward on the stool, perching my elbows on the edge of the counter.
With a sigh, she turns, stoops, and grabs a first aid kit from under the counter. “ Security.” She slaps down the kit between us.
“ I ’ m great security.” I grin, lying through my teeth.
“ Says the man that kills?” She raises a playful brow.
“ I was joking.” More lies.
She bats her long lashes. “ I know.” She unclips the kit and grabs a bottle of ointment. Pouring sanitizer on her hands, she slowly rubs them together.
“ Why are you here, Damian?” She releases a heavy breath as if she were an old leather-bound book with yellowed, tired pages, mentally preparing herself to be opened and turned again.
Who hurt you? It must have been a bad past relationship that caused her to release such a heavy sigh.
I shrug, “ I…I wanted to see you.” I gulp anxiously.
“ Why?” She pushes out the ointment onto her index finger and then comes my way. She takes a brave step forward, pushing her hips against my knees. “ Let me,” she exhales as a blush covers her cheeks. The red makes her eyes look more green.
“ I ’ d let you do anything.”
Our eyes lock, and fuck. I want to kiss her.
“ I want to kiss you,” There, I said it.
Her eyes sink lower, over my racing heart, down my body, until she sees the very large bulge in my jeans. “ Is that all you want to do to me, Damian?”
“ It ’ s where I want to start.”
“ And where does it end?”
“ Let me show you.” I reach out, grabbing her hips, parting my legs, and waiting for her to step closer.
Her chest rises and falls, and I find my face leaning closer to it. But then her eyes land back on my cut lip. “ I know where it ends with bad boys, Damian. They walk away, and I ’ m left with a battered and bruised heart.”
“ You keep saying 'boys.' I ’ m not a boy.”
She smirks, casting a fast glance at my cock again. “ I bet you aren ’ t.”
She pushes into me, and my legs part wider as she settles between my thighs; one more inch, and she ’ d feel how hard m y man hood is. She ’ s wet, too; I can sense it without even slipping my finger into her panties.
“ I know you think I ’ m the type of girl that would let you bend me over this counter; you ’ d fuck me so good my nails would scar the wood.”
Holy. Fuck! That vision is heaven.
“ I ’ m not.” She deadpans.
“ I didn ’ t think that.” I shake my head.
“ You’re fitting the mold, Damian.” She exhales with disappointment.
“ What mold?”
“ Bad boys, I mean bad men, they lie.”
“ I ’ m not lying. I don ’ t think you ’ re that type of girl. I just think this chemistry we have makes us both do crazy things.”
“ Crazy things have repercussions, and as you have proven, you like to vanish.”
I close my eyes and hang my head.
“ Stay still,” she whispers as she raises her hand, her finger with the ointment aimed at my cut lip. I freeze in shock as she gently presses her finger to my cut lip.
“ Why are you doing that?” I murmur back.
“ I ’ m used to patching people up.” She pulls her finger away, steps back, and leaves an empty, aching absence between my thighs. I watch her walk to the sink and wash her hands.
“ Who?”
“Who?” She replies.
“ Who hurt you? Give me a name.”
She smirks to herself, “ That is why I will go home alone tonight. I know that side; protective to the point of insanity. Don't worry; I can handle my own battles, Damian.”
What else will your hands be doing alone in your home tonight?
“ Fine, answer my other question.”
She grabs a rag to dry her hands. “ You have a lot of questions.”
“ I came here just seeking one,”
She crosses her arms and leans against the counter. “ And what is that?”
“ What ’ s your name?”
Her smile is unhurried as she shakes her head. “ You can ’ t have my name, Damian.”
“ Why not?” I look at her apron; why doesn ’ t she have a name tag?
“ Because then you ’ ll want more from me and,” her shoulders inch up to her ears before they fall, “ I have nothing to give. I work here 6 days a week, go to school at night, and I ’ m still broke. I have no time for boys.”
“ What about men?” I correct her with a sly smirk.
She snorts a giggle, “ Men are even more dangerous.”
I lean on the counter, rubbing my lips together, feeling the cream she put on. I want to help her in every way, but I know that would insult someone with her pride.
What the fuck do I do?
Pushing off the counter, she reaches for a plate beside the cake stand near the coffee machine.
“ What happened to your lip?”
“ I got into a fight.”
She grabs a cookie from the food section and then slides the plate to me. “ You shouldn ’ t feed strays. They will keep coming back.” I warn her.
“ Don ’ t I know.” She murmurs under her breath.
Through hooded eyes, she looks my way. “ And something tells me you ’ re not a stray. You ’ re not lost, Damian. You knew precisely what you wanted when you walked through that door.”
The anticipation in the bookstore grows so dense with desire I ’ m sure the pages of the books will wilt under the humidity our bodies are emitting.
It feels like she is daring me to make a move.
If I do, everything will change— it might have already.
I should apologize for that, but how do you say sorry for something that makes your heart feel whole again?
She nudges the plate closer to me. “ Eat.”
A cookie sits on the plate. It ’ s another sweet gesture, but unlike the first aid kit, I can ’ t accept this.
I eye it with hatred. “ I forgot my wallet.”
“ It ’ s on the house.” She deadpans.
I glance up at her.
“ And before you get all googly-eyed, we have to throw out the food at the end of the day, so this isn ’ t me doing something sweet,” she adds, but her voice is so sugary that I know it ’ s a lie.
“ I…ugh,” I can ’ t eat that cookie because I ’ ll get sick; I ’ m already fighting the memories plaguing my mind.
“ Don ’ t tell me you ’ re watching your weight and can ’ t sacrifice one cookie.” She pries.
“ I don ’ t eat cookies, haven ’ t since my mom died.”
Shit. Why did I tell her that?
Her playful sass drops, “ Shit.” She breathes out, eyes wide with an atonement. She reaches for the plate and quickly tosses the cookie into the trash.
“ I thought you said you shouldn ’ t say shit in front of customers,” I reply, trying to lighten the air.
A small smile tugs at her lips. “ Are you a customer, though?”
“ I shouldn ’ t be,” I admit, as my eyes find hers, then sink lower to her lips.
She shifts her legs, pressing them together.
I want to kiss her, but I know I won ’ t be able to stop.“I should leave.” I force a gulp down.
She nods. She knows I ’ m dangerous and thinks I ’ m a bad boy, but she has no idea.
I stand slowly, my eyes glued to hers. I see her sadness when she notes I ’ m leaving. “ On Wednesday, the bakery brings over blueberry or cinnamon muffins for us to sell. Do you eat muffins?” She blurts out.
You shouldn ’ t do that, tempt me.
I nod.
“ Good to know,” she nods back. The air is filled with lust and cravings; it ’ s hard to walk away with all the blood rushing to my cock again.
“ I ’ ll see you some other time, perhaps on a Wednesday.”
“ Next year?” She raises a brow.
“ No, sooner.” Don ’ t say that! If my dad knew I was here, he ’ d use her against me. It ’ s only a matter of time before he bids me to marry someone of his choosing, like Dash ’ s dad did him.
I walk to the door and push it open; the ring of the bell almost drowns out what she shouts. “ Isabella.”
Isabella .
She gave me her name!
I turn with what feels like my first happy smile ever.
She ’ s biting her bottom lip to hide her glee. “ Don ’ t make me regret telling you my name.”
You will.
I dip my chin, eyes lingering on her face and then mouth before I leave. Once I ’ m in my car, I rest my head against the steering wheel. I need to call Titan and Dash. Instead, I call Anders.
“ Where the fuck have you been?” He shouts hello.
I swallow. Anders shared a secret with me, one I haven ’ t told my brothers.
Anders can understand my need to see Isabella. Titan would warn me against it until we get rid of our fathers, Dash wouldn ’ t comment, Cillian would kill me, Leo would just shrug, and Dante would start to strategize and weigh all sides, but Anders would know better than to stop me. That would only make me want her more.
“ Hello?” Anders snaps, “ Are you dying? What happened?”
“ I fucked up!” I let out.
“ Are you fucking hurt?”
“ No,” I lean back, pressing the phone to my ear. “ My dad told me nothing. We got into it, but I ’ m fine.”
I hear his breath before he states, “ That ’ s not why you called.”
“ I…I went to see her.”
“ Idiot.” His reply is sharp. “ Did your father ’ s men follow you? Do you need me to come handle it?”
There ’ s another secret I ’ ve been keeping for Anders. He hasn ’ t fully absorbed the rules of the Brotherhood. He ’ s been acting without telling the others, only me. He killed Leo ’ s father, and if I needed him to get rid of mine, he would without asking the Brotherhood.
I know Leo suspects it was Anders, but he ’ s not brave enough to ask because then he would have to thank Anders.
“ No. I made sure no one followed me.” My breath trembles. “ I just needed to see her.”
“ You did. Move on,” he states, but it ’ s a test. He and I both know it.
Anders and I have different wiring. We see, and that ’ s it. Some might call it love at first sight; a scientist might back it up with chemistry; a believer in God might refer to it as destiny.
I don ’ t know what I call it—an apology, maybe.
I should say I ’ m sorry to Isabella because now I have my sights set on her, and I don ’ t know how to block it out or look away.
“ I don ’ t think I can,” I whisper in my shame.
Secrets and lies are a predator ’ s delight, like unknowing traps. You try to walk around them with hesitancy, but eventually, you will not see one, and boom! You fall into the mess, and you might not make it out alive.