Chapter 28
The shower does little to calm me. Hot water cascades down my skin while my mind replays every single moment from this morning in merciless detail—Damon’s rough voice against my ear, his long wavy hair falling over his face, and the way his hands felt sliding over my body.
And God… The way he’d looked at me.
It wasn’t just desire. It was possessive, but tender.
I stand under the spray far longer than necessary, trying—and failing—to steady the riot happening inside my chest. My body still aches pleasantly from last night, the dull soreness between my thighs making heat creep into my cheeks all over again every time I move the wrong way.
For some reason, I can’t stop smiling. Eventually, I force myself out of the shower before the water can cool, wrapping myself in one of the oversized towels from the marble counter. Steam curls through the massive bathroom as I brush out my damp hair and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but I don’t look different—other than the cheeky grin I can’t seem to lose. But I feel different. Not in a finally-lost-my-V-card kind of way, but like some missing piece inside me finally settled into place last night.
The realization should terrify me, considering who Damon is and the danger he’s surrounded in constantly.
Especially when I stop to admit the fact this entire arrangement started because my father hired him to protect me.
It might be one of the few decisions my father has made that I don’t actually resent him for.
I pull on a pair of fitted black jeans and Damon’s hoodie, which I stole yesterday, before padding barefoot toward the door. The sleeves swallow my hands entirely, and his cologne still clings to the fabric.
The embassy residence is quieter than usual this morning as I make my way downstairs, the private residential wing almost vacant. When I reach the foyer, I smell coffee and something sweet. My stomach growls instantly. I follow the scent into the kitchen and stop short in the doorway.
Damon stands at the stove, his back partially toward me, his broad shoulders stretching beneath the same black shirt I slept in.
The short sleeves reveal his tattooed skin while he works at the counter with his phone pressed against his ear.
Even from here, he looks intimidating and lethal—less the bowl of pancake batter sitting beside him.
He’s hot, protective, and he cooks. Could he be any more perfect?
“No, I want the eastern perimeter doubled tonight,” he barks into the phone, his voice clipped and focused. “I don’t care if it’s redundant. That’s what I’m asking for.”
He pauses, listening to whoever is on the other end. When he glances up and his eyes land on me, everything about him changes. The hard edge leaves his expression instantly, and his mouth softens. Nobody has ever looked at me the way Damon does—like seeing me is the best part of his day.
“Call me back in an hour,” he gruffs into the phone before hanging up without waiting for a response.
I lean lightly against the doorway, smiling despite myself. “You know,” I start, eyeing the pancakes, “I’m never going to get skinny for you if you keep cooking for me like this.”
Damon goes completely still, his eyes sharpening dangerously as he slowly sets his phone on the counter.
He turns to face me and stalks forward, every step deliberate.
His dark brown pools never leave mine, and heat crawls up my spine with every inch of distance he closes between us.
The seriousness of his approach should be intimidating, but it causes my pulse to flutter wildly instead.
He stops directly in front of me and plants a hand beside my head against the doorframe.
“Don’t talk like that,” he demands quietly.
The intensity in his voice wipes the teasing smile right off my face.
His gaze drags slowly over me, hungry and adoring.
“You are absolutely fucking beautiful the way you are.”
When his eyes reach mine again, he looks almost offended that I could think otherwise. His hands slide lower, over my hips, and drift around to the softness of my stomach. My breath catches when his knuckles brush lightly over the small roll there.
Every insecurity I’ve ever carried is ready for shame to follow, but it doesn’t come.
“You don’t need to change a thing about yourself for me,” he insists firmly.
Nobody has ever looked at me like this before, like my softness isn’t something I need to apologize for. To him, my body isn’t a problem to fix.
Before I can even think of a response, Damon suddenly dips lower, gripping beneath my thighs. I yelp softly as the floor disappears, my arms and legs instinctively wrapping around him as he lifts me effortlessly into him.
“Damon—”
“I’m not an insecure little boy,” he muses, carrying me across the kitchen like I weigh absolutely nothing. “I’m more than confident that I can handle you.”
My entire face burns, because somehow that sentence is both outrageously cocky and devastatingly sincere.
He sets me carefully on the marble counter beside the stove, stepping between my knees immediately after, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. Damon’s hands slide slowly up my thighs beneath the oversized hoodie while his gaze stays fixed on my face.
“And maybe you didn’t notice last night,” he whispers roughly, “but I’m obsessed with every inch of you.”
My heart genuinely stutters. There’s no teasing in his voice. It’s raw and honest.
“Damon…”
He kisses me before I can say anything else.
His lips move against mine with enough intensity to leave me dizzy almost instantly, one hand sliding into my damp hair while the other roams possessively over my waist and hips. I melt into him without resistance, my fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
Kissing him feels so dangerously addictive, because Damon doesn’t kiss casually. He kisses like he means every second of it, and he’s trying to consume me whole.
His mouth drifts briefly from mine to my jaw, then lower toward my neck, and I tilt my head back with a soft breath.
“Jesus Christ,” a voice mutters behind us, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Damon doesn’t even flinch.
I, unfortunately, do.
Mortification slams into me as I realize Gunnar is standing near the kitchen entrance, holding a mug of coffee and looking deeply exhausted by our public display of affection.
“Oh my God,” he deadpans. “It wasn’t enough pulling you off her this morning? Give the girl a break.”
I make a horrified squeak and immediately bury my burning face against Damon’s chest, his body shaking with silent laughter.
One of his arms wraps around my waist protectively while the other flips a pancake with infuriating calmness. “You’re a fucking asshole,” Damon informs Gunnar. “No wonder Jag calls you ‘Dad.’”
Gunnar points at him immediately. “Don’t start with that shit.”
I can hear the grin in Damon’s voice now. “You literally carry ibuprofen in your pocket and complain about your back.”
“That’s called surviving past forty.”
“That’s called being elderly.”
“Watch your mouth before I tell your girl about your cage-fighting phase.”
I lift my head instantly. “His what?”
Damon groans. “Don’t encourage him.”
Gunnar looks delighted now. “Oh, sweetheart, your scary bodyguard used to?—”
“Finish that sentence,” Damon warns darkly, “and I’ll bury you under the embassy.”
“—spend Friday nights getting punched in underground basements for grocery money.”
“You had a Fight Club phase?”
“It was not a phase.”
Gunnar gestures triumphantly. “That’s exactly what someone with a Fight Club phase says.”
“You’re breaking the first rule,” Damon grumbles under his breath while I laugh helplessly against his shoulder.
And suddenly the kitchen feels strange in the best possible way, like we’re three people having breakfast together. The realization hits me unexpectedly hard, because I can’t remember the last time something felt this safe or natural.
Damon slides a plate in front of me, stacked with pancakes and fruit, while Gunnar steals coffee and continues making smug comments from across the island.
“You know,” Gunnar says casually while cutting into his food, “the two of you are going to need to work on being a little quieter when everyone returns.”
“Drop it,” Damon exhales.
Gunnar gives him a flat look. “I’m just saying, I heard enough through that bedroom door this morning to qualify for compensation.”
I choke on my orange juice while Damon looks entirely unapologetic. “That sounds like a personal problem.”
“You know damned well, it’s going to be a you problem.”
“Maybe. But, right now, it sounds like a lonely old man problem.”
Gunnar grumbles something under his breath and keeps eating.
I glance between them, smiling despite myself. Their dynamic is oddly comforting beneath all the insults. The two of them clearly trust each other with their lives—with everything. There’s definitely history there.
After breakfast, Damon leans back slightly in his chair, finally draining the last of his coffee while his attention settles on me again.
His eyes immediately soften, like they do every single time he looks at me.
“As much as I love the smell of you on me,” he pauses to inhale his shirt, “I need to take a shower and do a little work.”
Heat instantly floods my cheeks because Gunnar is still sitting right there.
“Damon,” I hiss. He looks back at me, entirely unrepentant, as he pushes to his feet and leans down, brushing a quick kiss against my forehead before heading toward the doorway.
Halfway out, he pauses and glances back at Gunnar, then at me. “Stay out of trouble for Gunnar.”
Gunnar snorts. “Why do I suddenly feel like the babysitter?”
Damon’s mouth curves slightly. “Because you basically are.”
I laugh softly as Damon disappears down the hallway. And for the first time in a very long time, the thought of staying here doesn’t feel like captivity at all.