Chapter 8
The first thing I notice when I wake up is the deafening silence, nothing like the chaotic noises I awake to most mornings.
I lie motionless beneath cold linen sheets, staring at the ornate ceiling while pale morning light bleeds through the gauzy curtains in long silvery ribbons.
For one blissful second, I forget where I am.
But as I rub the sleep from my eyes, reality slams into me hard enough to make my stomach knot—my father dragging me back to the embassy compound like I’m a reckless child instead of a nineteen-year-old woman.
Suddenly, the silence is no longer peaceful or relaxing, because I’m literally waiting to hear footsteps, the crackle of radios, or the voices of men, who seemingly never sleep, to waft through the walls.
I exhale sharply into the empty room and drag both hands down my face. Today will be the same as every morning since my confinement started three days ago. No classes. No freedom. No life outside these walls.
I shove the blankets off aggressively and climb out of bed barefoot, irritation simmering beneath my skin before I’m fully awake. The marble floor is cool as I stalk toward the windows and yank one side of the curtains open harder than necessary, morning sunlight abruptly flooding the room.
The estate stretches below with magazine-perfection.
Dew glitters across the massive lawn like shattered glass, and white stone pathways curve through the perfectly landscaped gardens.
Beyond the towering black iron fence, the embassy gates loom like something pulled from a fortress instead of a home.
While there has always been security, now, they are everywhere I look: One guard stationed near the perimeter wall, another crossing the courtyard below, movement from one of the snipers on the west-wing roof.
My gaze drifts absently toward one of the winding stone paths cutting through the gardens below, and I freeze. “Good lord…” The words slip out before I can stop them. Damon traverses the grounds at a steady run, moving fast, a sheen of sweat covering his skin.
My throat tightens instantly, and I gulp, trying to pull in a breath.
He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black running shorts.
Sunlight glistens across his hard muscles and his tattooed, sweat-slicked skin as he moves up the path below.
Loose tendrils of dark hair have fallen free from the bun at the back of his head, sticking to his forehead and temples, while the rest shifts on every movement.
His broad shoulders flex rhythmically with every stride.
Ink coils over both his powerful arms, swarming across his chest, down his ribs, and along the sharp V of his hips before vanishing beneath the dark waistband of his shorts, riding low enough to make my entire brain short-circuit.
“Jesus…” I mutter weakly to myself, my mouth going dry as he runs toward the front door.
As if hearing me, Damon glances upward. Directly toward my window. My eyes blow wide.
“Oh shit—” I duck under the windowsill so fast, I nearly trip over my own feet, my cheeks burning violently as my heart launches into panic mode.
Shit.
Shit.
Why was I staring like that?
I press myself against the wall, swallowing hard while my pulse pounds wildly in my ears. After several painfully long seconds, I cautiously lean forward just enough to peek outside to find the path empty. And so is the front of the house.
Maybe he didn’t see me.
A sharp knock raps against my bedroom door, and I nearly jump out of my skin, every muscle in my body tensing instantly.
If I ignore it, maybe they’ll go away.
Another knock follows, a little harder, more deliberate.
“I know you’re up.” Damon’s voice carries through the door, low and rough, scraping along my nerves in a way that feels deeply irritating, considering the circumstances.
My stomach drops.
Shit. He did see me.
“I’m going to grab a shower,” he converses casually from the other side of the door. Against all reason, my brain betrays me with an image of exactly what that might look like. Damn it, Kenz. “Breakfast downstairs in ten minutes.”
“I’m not hungry,” I shout back immediately.
“You need to eat.”
“I said, I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry, trouble. I said you need to eat,” he states calmly before lowering his voice slightly. “You’ve got ten minutes before I drag you out of that room and throw you over my shoulder, no matter what you have on.”
I scowl at the door, as though he can see me. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“Yes.”
Annoyance flares hot in my chest, and I storm toward the door, wrenching it open hard enough to slam against the wall as I nearly collide with him.
Damon is standing just beyond the threshold to my room, his tattooed forearms folded across a broad, bare chest still damp with sweat from his run.
Up close, even all musky from exertion, he smells so good that it immediately scrambles my thoughts.
The hallway light catches the sharp planes of his face, carving shadows beneath his cheekbones and along the beard covering his jaw.
A few damp strands of dark hair still cling to his forehead, softening absolutely none of the danger in his expression.
His gaze drifts slowly over my body, causing goosebumps to erupt instantly across my skin. His Adam’s apple bobs once, and my pulse stutters hard. When his eyes pause briefly on my chest, I suddenly become hyperaware of the thin white tank top I slept in and the fact that I’m not wearing a bra.
When I glance down, I confirm that I’m not leaving much to the imagination.
Heat floods my face, and I quickly cross my arms over my chest to cover myself.
While it protects my modesty—all be it too late—it does nothing to eliminate the tension between us that is suddenly so thick it’s practically palpable.
We stand in silence for a moment, him staring at me as my heart races so fast, you’d think I was the one who just ran a lap of the grounds.
“Get dressed,” he commands, finally breaking the silence. Something dangerously close to amusement flickers across his face as he steps back and walks down the hallway. After a few steps, he calls over his shoulder, “Ten minutes.”
“Whatever,” I grumble, slamming the door shut a little too hard. The second the latch clicks into place, I lean against it and stare at the ceiling.
What the hell, Kenz?
You have a boyfriend…
He’s probably the almost same age as your father…
But… he’s so hot.
After the world’s fastest shower—and absolutely no time spent thinking about tattooed men under running water—I barely manage to throw on an outfit before there’s another knock at the door.
“Breakfast.”
I yank it open immediately and storm into the hallway, intentionally clipping his shoulder when I pass. It’s petty and childish, but also very satisfying. Even if it barely garners a reaction from him.
He follows me down the staircase, into the massive foyer below, and sunlight pours through towering windows in brilliant golden sheets.
My father is already gone by the time I reach the dining room.
A half-finished espresso sits abandoned beside his plate, proof he was here at some point before disappearing into embassy business and diplomatic emergencies.
Jagger and Gunnar are both pushing away from the table when we enter the kitchen. “Morning, sleepyhead,” Jagger greets me with that permanent cocky grin, as he places his dirty dishes into the sink.
Glaring at him, I take the seat farthest away from everyone at the island.
When the others leave, Damon moves around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, plating the remaining scrambled eggs and toast onto two dishes before sliding one in front of me.
Instead of sitting, he leans against the counter and eats, while I stab halfheartedly at the eggs with my fork, pushing them around the plate without eating.
“You have to actually put food in your mouth for it to count as eating,” Damon states dryly.
I don’t look up. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”
“You skipped lunch and ate three bites of dinner yesterday.” My fork pauses in midair as talks, realizing just how closely he is watching me. “You need to eat.”
I slowly place my fork on the plate and purse my lips, staring at him in open challenge. “I see we’re choosing violence this morning.”
Damon holds my stare as one corner of his mouth twitches upward as he threatens, “You’re not leaving this kitchen until you eat.”
I narrow my eyes and try to stare him down, but he doesn’t budge. In fact, he doesn’t look remotely concerned about winning this argument. My resolve cracks when I realize I’ve already lost, and I mutter, “I don’t like eggs.”
Damon pushes off the counter, takes my plate without complaint, and turns toward the sink. I shove the stool back, the feet scraping lightly against the tile floor. “Where are you going?” he asks without facing me.
I pause halfway off the stool. “Umm…”
“Sit down,” he instructs, his tone deep but still maddeningly calm. “I’ll make you something else.”
He moves around the kitchen with startling ease, riffling through the refrigerator and cabinets with the kind of familiarity that suggests he’s spent more time in here than I realize.
His broad shoulders flex beneath the black T-shirt he put on after his run, tattoos shifting across his forearms every time he reaches for something.
It’s annoyingly distracting.
“What do you usually eat?” he asks.
“Yogurt.”
“That’s not a meal.”
“Cereal?”
“That’s worse.” He shakes his head.
He grabs the eggs from the refrigerator and then a bowl from beneath the counter as the skillet warms. “I said I don’t like eg?—”
“Shhh.” A low huff of amusement leaves him as he starts cooking.
My stomach betrays me immediately with a small growl when the aroma of butter and cinnamon rises from the hot pan.
“I thought you weren’t hungry.” He chuckles without turning around, continuing to work on my replacement breakfast.
A few minutes later, Damon slides a plate in front of me. “Oh my God.” I stare at French toast, dusted lightly with powdered sugar, and fresh-cut strawberries. My eyes flit between the plate and him. “You made me French toast?”
“You need to eat.”
He leans against the counter again, arms folding over his chest, while I cautiously take a bite. I immediately regret every ounce of attitude I’ve given him this morning. “This is really good,” I groan around the food in my mouth.
“I know.”
I glare at him while taking another bite, and then another, his eyes not once leaving me through every lift of the fork. After finishing my last bite, I set my fork on the now-empty plate.
“That’s a good girl,” Damon praises, pushing off the counter as I reach for my coffee. His words hit me like a physical blow, and my hand freezes before I manage to wrap my fingers around the mug. Heat flashes violently through my entire body.
My entire body.
Damon reaches for my plate, and I catch the faintest flicker in his eyes, like he noticed exactly what that did to me.
That realization somehow makes the heat spread even faster and wider, curling low in my stomach and igniting an unfamiliar ache between my thighs.
I focus very hard on keeping both hands around my coffee mug and lifting it to my lips.
Oh, this is bad.
Not catastrophic bad. Definitely stare-at-the-coffee-and-avoid-eye-contact-before-you-ruin-your-own-life bad.
Even with my eyes fixed on my creamy coffee, I know his attention lingers on me as he carries my plate to the sink, entirely too calm for someone who just detonated my nervous system with two little words.
My cheeks burn harder. God, this is humiliating. The worst part isn’t what he said. The worst part is some traitorous part of me can’t contain my reaction, and he had a front row seat as it happened.