Chapter 17
The moment I wake up, the memory of Damon hits me. His hands. His mouth. The rough scrape of his voice against my skin as I came apart and he held me together. As he flashes through my mind I can practically feel his warmth, and my stomach flips beneath the sheets.
Heat washes up my chest and over my face.
“Oh my God,” I whisper into the empty room, burying my face into the pillow, as if that will somehow erase the fact last night actually happened.
But it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse because his sweet woodsy scent lingers faintly in the fabric beneath my cheek.
I squeeze my eyes shut. This is crazy. How did we go from stolen glances in the hallway and casual flirting to last night? That’s not me… I don’t do that.
Hell, my firm stance on not doing that was the beginning of the end with Gabe.
But it’s different with Damon. He looks at me in a way Gabe never did, like I’m something precious instead of someone lacking. Somewhere between his words, soft eyes, and tender touch, I think I fell… Hard. My pulse stumbles unevenly at the realization.
I lift my head off the pillow to find the morning sunlight spilling through the curtains in pale streaks, illuminating the disaster zone of a room, a state that matches my emotional stability.
Groaning softly, I throw an arm over my face.
How am I supposed to look him in the eye today?
And how in the hell am I supposed to do it while my father and a slew of security detail are standing nearby?
A horrifying image flashes through my mind of accidentally making eye contact with Damon across breakfast and immediately combusting into flames.
I drag myself out of bed, because hiding in this room forever, unfortunately, isn’t an option.
He’d come get me. My feet hit the cold marble floors as nervous energy starts buzzing beneath my skin.
In the bathroom, I catch a deeply unhelpful glance of myself in the mirror.
My cheeks are so flushed, I’m quite certain I can forgo blush for the rest of my life.
“You need to get it together,” I mutter at my reflection, who appears very unconvinced.
Forty-five minutes later, my already messy room looks like I’ve lost a war with my closet.
Multiple outfits lie abandoned across my bed because, apparently, I’ve suddenly forgotten how to choose clothing.
The first sweater made me appear too eager.
The second outfit made me feel like a busted can of biscuits.
The third option looked more like it belonged to a twelve-year-old than a woman.
I stare at the growing pile of rejected clothes in frustration. What the hell is wrong with you, Kenz? He saw you with absolutely no clothes last night. Why in the hell are you panicking over a pair of jeans?
I finally settle on black leggings and an oversized cream shirt that hangs slightly off one shoulder.
It’s comfortable, casual, and not trying too hard…
even though I absolutely am. I brush my hair before giving up, pulling it into a tousled bun, and applying lip gloss and mascara.
The final swipe is followed by an immediate panic that I look like I put effort into getting ready, and I wipe off the lip gloss.
Jesus Christ.
By the time I finally force myself to leave the bedroom, my heart is pounding, and my stomach is twisting so violently it’s making me nauseous.
Seeing him again this morning makes it real.
Last night existed inside a bubble of dim lighting and stolen moments that almost felt detached from reality.
Now I have to face it in broad daylight, admitting what has changed between us.
Every step toward the staircase tightens the nervous knot in my stomach more. What if he regrets it? What if last night was a mistake? What if it didn’t mean anything to him? Oh God! What if I’m just a notch on his bedpost? And Daddy! Did I really call him Daddy?
The sound of voices drifts from downstairs, pulling me out of my spiral before I even reach the foyer. Male voices. Several of them. They sound professional and focused.
Great… just great.
I descend the staircase slowly, fingers tightened around the railing as the kitchen entry comes into view.
The entire foyer is alive with activity this morning.
Marines move in and out, carrying folders and tablets, while two men I vaguely recognize from the embassy security stand near the far counter, discussing something in low voices.
Hawk leans over the island, reviewing satellite images beside Gunnar, while Jagger sits perched on one of the stools, drinking coffee, oblivious to the commotion around him.
A Marine walks from the doorway, and my breath hitches painfully when I spot Damon.
He’s near the head of the island, in a dark Henley with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, his broad shoulders tensed beneath the fabric while he listens to one of the Marines.
His eyes lift instinctively, straight to me, as though he felt my presence.
The look that crosses his face lasts less than a second, but I feel it everywhere.
Warmth blooms low in my stomach instantly, intimate, dangerous, and reigniting the need between my thighs.
His gaze flicks briefly over me before returning to my eyes, and somehow that tiny restraint affects me more than if he’d openly stared.
I’m screwed…
I drop my gaze quickly and walk toward the coffee machine before anyone notices I’m internally disintegrating.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Jagger calls casually, drawing unwanted attention to me.
“Don’t call me that,” I grumble, focusing on pouring cream into my mug while trying not to notice Damon moving closer.
Trying and failing. His hand brushes lightly against the small of my back when he passes.
It’s so brief, it could have been accidental, but it still sends electricity coursing through my veins, the sudden jolt causing me to nearly spill my coffee everywhere.
Crushing it, Kenz. You’re maintaining that composure beautifully.
I grab a pastry and some fruit from the counter, mostly to give my hands something to do, while the conversation around the kitchen sharpens.
“…intercepted chatter around midnight,” one of the Marines reports grimly. “Cartel movement increased near the southern checkpoint.”
My stomach flops at the update.
“They’re preparing something,” Hawk states.
My father rubs his temple, tired. “Do we know when?”
“Not yet.”
The atmosphere in the room shifts immediately; everyone suddenly appears more serious.
I hover uncertainly near the edge of the island while trying not to feel twelve different kinds of anxious at once.
“Mackenzi,” my father starts sharply, finally noticing I’ve entered the room, “you really shouldn’t be here for this.”
I stiffen immediately, annoyance flashing hot beneath my ribs.
Apparently, being old enough to have your life threatened by a cartel doesn’t mean you aren’t too delicate to hear the adults discuss it.
Without responding, I set my untouched plate down harder than necessary and turn toward the doorway.
I barely make it two steps before Damon gently catches me, the contact causing me to stop in my tracks.
His fingers slide down the inside of my wrist, brushing against my palm in a touch subtle enough that nobody else seems to notice, but intimate enough to completely derail my heart.
I swallow hard as my eyes dart toward him.
“Actually,” Damon states calmly behind me, “she should stay. This affects her, too.” The kitchen quiets slightly, and I squeeze at the fingers still lingering against my palm, because no one ever stands up for me like that.
My father studies Damon for a long moment before exhaling, “Fine.”
Victory flickers briefly through Damon’s eyes before he guides me gently toward the island.
His fingers slide from my wrist into my hand fully this time, beneath the edge of the countertop where no one else can see as I take a seat beside him.
The hidden intimacy of it nearly destroys me as the meeting resumes, the room completely oblivious around us.
“…ambassador’s political summit was moved forward,” Hawk explains. “Three-day minimum attendance. Now looking more like five.”
My father nods once grimly. “I’ll leave the day after tomorrow to keep it as short as possible.”
“And Mackenzi?” Gunnar asks, silence settling briefly on the group as all eyes drift toward me.
“We could move her with the ambassador’s team,” one of the Marines offers. “Secure hotel floor. Additional detail?—”
“No,” Damon declares, interrupting, his tone firm and absolute, and I’m thankful when every eye in the room shifts from me to him.
“With our current staffing?” Damon continues evenly, his jaw tightening slightly.
“Protecting her off-site creates more vulnerabilities than her staying here. Hotels mean public exposure, multiple access points, and unpredictable civilians. She’s not the primary asset.
There is no reason for her to attend the summit. She’ll be safer at the residence.”
I’m the only one who hears what he’s actually saying: She’s safer here, alone with me.
Hawk lifts his chin slowly after a moment. “He’s right.”
My father looks irritated and unconvinced, leaving me surprised when he says, “Fine… She stays.”
I stop breathing for a second when I realize that means my father will be gone and I’ll be here with Damon.
Not alone, exactly. With a whole Marine detachment on the grounds and staff working in the residence, no one is ever actually alone here.
Beneath the counter, Damon’s fingers stroke slowly along my thigh, as though he can read my thoughts, and I nearly choke on my coffee.
The meeting drones onward around us—routes, threat assessments, and travel plans—but I’d be surprised if I absorbed more than ten percent of it.
My thoughts are completely derailed by Damon’s fingers dusting over my skin.
The tiny, secret touches go unnoticed to everyone else, but every single one wrecks me a little.
By the time the morning briefing finally ends, my nerves are stretched thin.
Chairs scrape across the tile as everyone starts filtering from the kitchen in small groups, the Marines retreating to their posts, and Hawk and Gunnar to the command center.
Jagger lingers, looking at Damon standing suspiciously close to me, before a grin spreads slowly across his face.
He points between us vaguely. “So… this is a thing now?”
“Leave,” Damon states flatly.
Jagger grins wider. “Oh, he’s protective.”
“Jagger.”
“I’m going!” He laughs, backing toward the hallway. “But for the record, this is the best thing that’s happened to me all month.”
His departure leaves just me and Damon in the kitchen, and the sudden privacy makes me anxious. I stare into my coffee cup as nervous energy buzzes beneath my skin. “I…” My voice catches embarrassingly. “I don’t really know how to do this.”
Damon leans lightly against the counter beside me. “Do what?”
“This.” I gesture vaguely between us. “Whatever this is now.” His expression softens almost immediately. God, that look is going to ruin my life. “I’ve never…” I exhale shakily.
“You had a boyfriend, didn’t you?”
“But we never…” I stammer, for the first time in my life, trying to find the right words. “I don’t know what to do now. After last night… I’m bad at this.”
“You’re not bad at anything.”
A weak laugh slips out of me. “That’s objectively untrue.”
One corner of his mouth twitches upward as he eases closer. “I’ve got you, trouble.” I look up at him slowly, and his gaze stays steady on mine. His eyes are dark, but calm and certain. It’s like he already knows exactly what I need, even when I don’t. “Just be you.”
I fidget, pulling the baggy sleeves of my shirt over my hands, because in some weird way, his request feels more intimate than half the things that happened between us last night.
There are no expectations or the need to perform for him.
I don’t need to pretend to be less or convince myself I’m prettier so I’m easier to love.
I merely need to be me.