19. Angel
The room is bathed in orange and gold, the Pacific Ocean a vast, shimmering mirror outside our window. The sound of the waves is a steady rhythm, a pulse that matches the way Damien’s heart beats against my ear.
He’s lying back against the pillows, his massive frame taking up most of the bed, and I am tucked securely into his side.
His arm is a heavy, warm weight around my shoulders, anchoring me.
I can feel the tension slowly bleeding out of him, replaced by a quiet, fierce satisfaction.
I know what he’s thinking. He doesn’t have to say it.
The way his fingers trace patterns on my arm, the way he keeps pressing his face into my hair—he’s realizing I’m finally his.
I know the storm is coming. We’ll have to face the club.
We’ll have to face my father, who is going to see the bruises on my neck and the ringless finger of a girl who left his house a daughter and came back as someone’s wife.
He is going to blow blood vessels. The Halos are going to talk.
But as I lie here in Damien’s arms, none of it feels real.
The only thing that matters is the heat of his skin and the fact that I can finally, truly, let go.
Damien reaches down, his large, calloused hand cupping my jaw. He tilts my chin up, his grey-blue eyes searching mine for a long, quiet moment before he leans in. The kiss is soft at first, a gentle question, but it tastes like a promise.
I don’t want gentle. Not entirely. I want to feel the power of him. I want to be reminded that I am alive, that my body belongs to me and to the man I chose—not the monster who tried to take it. I reach down, my palm sliding over the rough denim of his jeans, finding the hard, heavy length of him.
Damien hitches a breath, a low, guttural sound vibrating in his chest. He could burst out of his skin; I can feel the way his muscles coil, the sheer, raw desire burning through his skin. But he stops. He catches my wrist, his grip firm but careful.
“Angel,” he rasps, his voice thick with a desire he’s trying to leash. “Stop. Look at me.”
I meet his gaze, my breath coming in short, shallow puffs.
“I need to know you’re okay,” he says, his eyes dark with a protective intensity that makes my toes curl. “I don’t want to rush this. Not after... not after everything.”
“I want you, Damien,” I whisper, my voice steadier than I expected. “I need to feel you. Please.”
He rolls over, pinning me into the mattress with the delicious weight of his body. He’s careful of my neck, his hands framing my face as he devours my mouth. It’s raw. Every touch is a claim.
He strips us both with a frantic, focused energy.
When he’s finally over me, skin to skin, he looks like a god of leather and ink.
His tattoos shift as he moves, the snakes and daggers on his arms flexing.
He’s gentle in his movements, but there is an underlying dominance in the way he handles me—the way he hooks my thighs over his hips, the way he commands my attention with every look.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice a dark honey against my skin. “My wife. My perfect, brave girl. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure no one ever makes you feel small again. You’re mine. Every inch of this skin, every breath you take... it belongs to me.”
He enters me slowly, a low moan escaping his throat as he sinks into my heat.
It’s perfect. It’s the reclamation I needed.
He moves with a steady, rhythmic power, his hands gripping the headboard, his eyes never leaving mine.
He talks to me the whole time, a low-frequency stream of possessive, dirty praise that makes my head swim.
“That’s it, Angel. Take it for me. You were made for this. You were made for me.”
He leans down, kissing the sensitive skin behind my ear, before gently guiding me to turn over.
“On your stomach, baby,” he whispers, his breath hot. “I want to feel how well you fit under me.”
I nod, the haze of pleasure making me compliant. I flip over, burying my face in the cool white pillow. I feel him move behind me, his heavy weight settling over my hips.
Then, he enters me.
The sensation of being entered from behind, of being pinned down without seeing his face, triggers a silent, violent explosion in my brain.
Suddenly, I’m not in a hotel in California.
I’m back in the red room. I’m gagged. I’m crying out for a safe word that no one is listening to.
I can feel the phantom pressure of the ball gag, the bite of the leather on my wrists.
I freeze. My breath hitches into a sharp, jagged sob, and a cry of pure, unadulterated terror escapes my lips.
“No! Please!”
Damien stops instantly. He doesn’t just stop; he recoils as if I’d struck him. He’s out of me in a second, his hands flying off my body as he scrambles back.
“Angel! Angel, look at me!”
I’m shaking so hard the bed is vibrating. I roll onto my side, curling into a ball, my hands flying to my throat. The tears are hot and fast, blurring my vision as I gasp for air that feels like it’s being cut off by invisible hands.
“I’m sorry,” I sob, the words barely intelligible. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I just—”
“Shh, shh.” Damien is there, but he’s not touching me yet. He’s kneeling on the bed, his face a mask of absolute horror and self-loathing. He looks like he’s just stepped on a landmine. “Don’t you dare apologize. Look at me, baby. It’s me. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
He waits until my eyes focus on him, until the panic starts to recede just enough for me to breathe. Then, he reaches out, so slowly, and gathers me into his arms. He pulls me into his lap, wrapping his massive arms around me, shielding me from the room, from the memory, from everything.
I can feel the rage radiating off him. It’s a physical heat, a dark, pulsing aura.
He’s not mad at me—I know that—but the fury he feels for Brian is a living thing in the room.
He wants to go back. He wants to kill him again.
He wants to find a way to reach into my brain and scrub the memory of that night out with his bare hands.
“I completely fucked up,” he mutters into my hair, his voice cracking. “I should have known. I should have thought... I’m so sorry, Angel. God, I’m so fucking sorry.”
“No,” I sob into his chest, clutching at his shoulders. “It’s not you. I wanted to... I thought I could... but it just felt like—”
“I know what it felt like,” he says, his voice dropping into a register of pure, lethal protective. “And I would rather never touch you again than make you feel that way for one second.”
I cry in his arms for a long time, the adrenaline and the trauma finally leaking out of me in a messy, painful wave. Damien doesn’t move. He just holds me, rocking me slightly, his lips pressed to the top of my head.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “We have all the time in the world, baby. If we spend the next fifty years just holding each other like this, that’s enough for me. I’ll wait as long as you need. And if it never happens, if there are things we can’t do... that’s okay too. You’re my wife. You’re my heart.
That’s more than enough.”
I pull back, looking at him through swollen, tear-streaked eyes. He means it. He truly means it. The man who just hours ago was so desperate to claim me is now perfectly willing to set his own needs on fire if it means I can feel safe.
“I love you, Damien,” I whisper.
“I love you, Angel,” he says, his eyes fierce. “And I’m never letting the world touch you like that again.”
He lays us back down, pulling the covers up over our naked bodies. He doesn’t try to start again. He just holds me, his hand resting protectively over my heart, as the sun finally disappears beneath the waves and leaves us in the quiet, healing dark.