Chapter Twenty-Six - Emery
The city is silent from up here, night pressing against the windows in thick, dark waves.
I stand in Damien’s kitchen, bare feet pressed to cool marble tile, my hands wrapped around a mug of tea I can’t remember making.
The steam curls upward and disappears. I watch it, willing my thoughts to slow, my heartbeat to settle, but nothing cooperates. I’m still trembling. A bone-deep tremor that started when they pulled me out of that hideout, one that hasn’t let go since.
Every surface in this penthouse feels sharper, more real than it ever has before. The soft velvet of the barstools, the brushed steel appliances, even the muted hum of the refrigerator—all reminders that I’m back, that the nightmare is over.
My nerves are too frayed for comfort. Every time I close my eyes, I see the bars on the windows, hear Igor’s voice curling around my fear. Every time I inhale, I taste dust and panic and the sharp sting of being powerless.
Damien finds me there, silent as always. He crosses the room quietly, but I feel him before I see him, the shift in the air, the weight of his attention.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask, just stands close enough that I could reach for him if I wanted. His presence steadies me and makes my skin tingle all at once.
For a long time, I say nothing. Then the words tumble out, thin and halting at first, then in a rush as if I have to get them out or drown.
“I didn’t know if you’d find me,” I whisper, eyes on my hands.
“I tried not to panic, but… Igor, he kept telling me I was nothing. That no one was coming. That I was only useful as a lesson.” My throat tightens, shame threading through my voice.
“For a moment, I almost believed him. I almost believed I had to choose between his side or disappearing. I thought—” My voice falters, the rest stuck somewhere deep in my chest.
Damien moves closer, one hand sliding firmly around my waist. His touch is warm and solid, his thumb stroking over my side with a gentleness that undoes me.
I glance up, bracing for anger or impatience, but his eyes are only sharp with attention, and—something else. Something softer, more dangerous.
“I doubted myself,” I confess, voice breaking.
“I doubted you too. I thought maybe I was just another piece to be moved. Maybe I never really mattered, not in the way I wanted to.” I set the mug down with a clatter, my hands shaking too badly to hold it.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I let him get in my head. ”
He says nothing for a moment, his silence dense with emotion.
I can see the anger flickering beneath his control—anger for Igor, for what I endured, for every second I was out of his reach.
There’s no anger for me, not even disappointment.
He steps even closer, the space between us shrinking to nothing, his body heat driving out the last of the cold from my bones.
His other hand rises, cupping my face, tilting it up until I have to meet his eyes. “You’re here,” he says quietly. “That’s all that matters now.” The words are simple, but they settle inside me, soothing and fierce all at once.
The silence is thick with things neither of us says. His grip tightens just enough to keep me anchored, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw. My breath hitches, caught between tears and something heavier—a longing I can’t name, a desperate need to believe him.
For a moment, I’m not sure if I want to cry or collapse into him, or both.
I press my forehead to his chest, letting him hold the weight of me. He lets me stay there for as long as I need, one hand stroking up and down my spine in slow, steady passes. His breathing slows, matching mine, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath my ear.
Then the tension shifts, the air changing between us. The line between comfort and possession blurs. Damien’s hand slides from my waist to my back, pulling me tight against him.
I feel his breath at my temple, warm and ragged. He tips my chin up again, and before I can second-guess myself, before I can retreat into fear, he kisses me. It’s sudden, fierce, as if he’s desperate to prove I’m real.
I gasp against his mouth, the shock of it sending a fresh wave of feeling through me—relief, need, the last dregs of terror burning away.
He kisses me hard, swallowing my cries, his hands roaming from my hips to my shoulders, everywhere at once. I respond instinctively, gripping his shirt, letting myself be pulled under.
It’s not gentle. It’s hungry and frantic, two survivors clutching at each other in the dark, both of us shaking with adrenaline and everything we almost lost. His teeth graze my lip, his hand fists in my hair.
I arch against him, wanting to feel all of him, needing to be claimed, to be reminded that I’m alive.
His breath is harsh at my ear, his words a low promise. “No one will ever touch you again. You’re mine.”
I answer with my mouth, my hands, the whole of my body pressing into his. I want to disappear into him, to let his need burn away the rest of my fear.
He lifts me to the counter, his mouth never leaving mine, and I wrap my legs around his waist, clinging as if he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this world.
We break apart only when we’re both breathless, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. His grip is bruising, my nails digging into his shoulders. Neither of us lets go.
For the first time since I was taken, I feel safe.
Not just protected, but chosen. Not just a pawn, but his.
Something deeper than comfort settles in my bones; it’s a dangerous, consuming certainty that we are in this together, that nothing will ever break the bond forged in fear and rescue and need.
The kiss deepens, growing less frantic but somehow more urgent, every breath a shared vow that the world outside these walls cannot reach us now.
Damien’s hands are everywhere—cradling my jaw, sliding down the column of my neck, splaying wide at my hips as he draws me closer, as if proximity alone can protect me from everything that threatened to tear me away.
My pulse pounds so loudly I can barely hear the soft sounds escaping my own lips.
He lifts me higher onto the counter, his body pressing between my knees. There’s no gentleness left in either of us. Only hunger, relief, and a bone-deep need to prove that we survived, that we belong to each other now more than ever.
His cock is hard now, pressed against the insides of my thighs. I shudder, hands trailing down to grasp him through his jeans.
Damien hisses, and I arch into him, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist, my fingers finding the hard line of his shoulders, his hair, the edge of his jaw.
He feels so real, so solid beneath my hands, that I almost sob with the force of it.
Damien’s mouth is demanding—claiming me, marking me, kissing away every last tremor of fear.
“Mine,” he growls against my throat, punctuating the word with a trail of open-mouthed kisses that leave my skin burning. “No one takes you from me. No one touches you but me.”
Every word vibrates through my bones, possessive and reassuring at once, winding around my heart and squeezing until I can barely breathe for wanting him.
I answer with my hands, sliding beneath his shirt, needing to feel his skin, the warmth and tension thrumming through him.
My fingers trace scars and lines I’ve memorized in darkness, marveling at the power in his body, the restraint barely held in check.
When I tug at the fabric, he yanks the shirt off in a single, impatient motion, baring his chest to the city lights that spill across the marble floor.
His hands slip under my shirt, pushing it up and over my head, exposing me to his gaze.
I shiver—not with cold, but with anticipation, with the relief of being seen, of being wanted.
He cups my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple until my breath stutters and my back bows.
His mouth finds my skin again, lips and teeth and tongue blazing a trail from my collarbone to my stomach, every touch a silent promise: you are here, you are safe, you are mine.
He pauses just long enough to look at me, eyes dark and searching, checking for any hint of fear.
I shake my head, threading my fingers into his hair, urging him on. “Don’t stop. Please.”
The plea breaks something in him. He pulls me to the edge of the counter, his hands gripping my hips with an authority that sends another shiver through me.
He murmurs words I can’t quite make out—Russian, maybe, or just the language of relief and desire—as he tugs my pants down, then his own, not caring where the fabric lands.
For a heartbeat, we just look at each other—breathing hard, undone, the distance that once existed between us erased in the heat of survival and longing. He lines our bodies up, the contact electric, making me gasp.
His hand slides between my thighs, testing, coaxing, making sure I am ready. I am. More than ready.
I reach for him, guiding him closer, and the look in his eyes—pure possession, pure devotion—makes me feel both cherished and owned.
When he enters me, the world goes white. I cling to him, holding on as if the world might shake us loose. Every movement is slow at first, a gradual giving over to each other, bodies slotting together in a rhythm that feels inevitable.
“Fuck, Damien…”
He fucks me there on the counter top, stretching me wide with his thick cock. Our pace builds, urgent and desperate, months of longing and fear and love exploding in a crescendo that leaves us both gasping, clutching, calling each other’s names in the dark.
Damien’s hands never stop moving, exploring, claiming, relearning every inch of me, as if he needs proof that I’m really here.
His mouth trails hot, open kisses down my throat, across my chest, lingering at every sensitive spot until my whole body is humming with anticipation. He murmurs my name into my skin, the sound possessive and reverent all at once, sending shivers straight to my core.
He slows down, just enough to draw out the tension. When he rolls his hips against mine, teasing, it coaxes fresh waves of pleasure until I’m gasping, clutching at his shoulders, unable to do anything but move with him.
The power in his body is barely leashed, but he holds me as if I’m breakable, his control now a gift, not a cage. His fingers lace through mine, pinning my hands above my head, and the way he looks at me makes me feel worshipped and ruined.
His cock fills me with a rhythm that is both relentless and achingly patient, building me up, letting me fall, again and again.
My doubts are gone. There is only sensation—his weight pressing me down, the scrape of stubble against my cheek, the whispered words in Russian that spill from him when he thinks I can’t understand.
“Mine,” he growls again, his lips brushing my ear. “Always mine.” His voice cracks, the promise edged with desperation, and I answer with a broken moan, lifting my hips to meet him, surrendering all over again.
When I arch into him, everything sharpens. He holds my gaze, one hand cupping my jaw, the other gripping my thigh. He thrusts deeper, slower, letting the pleasure build until it’s almost too much until I’m begging for more, for all of him, for this moment to never end.
We lose ourselves in each other, moving from the counter to the floor, to the sofa, caught in a storm of touch and taste and whispered promises.
He takes his time, exploring me as if discovering something new each time his hands map my curves, as if the act itself is an act of worship, of reclaiming.
He presses kisses to every scar, every bruise, his mouth gentle where the world has been cruel.
When I shudder beneath him, he slows, brushing hair from my face, holding me steady until I can breathe again.
Then, without warning, the pace picks up. A fresh wave of hunger crashing through us both.
I dig my nails into his shoulders, needing to mark him, to claim him just as fiercely as he claims me. We move together, chasing the edge, until finally, with a shared cry, I come so hard I swear I see stars.
He comes a second later, flooding me with the warmth of him.
He gathers me into his arms, his body still shaking with the aftermath. I press my face to his neck, breathing him in, grounding myself in the solid, unyielding presence that saved me.
For a long time, we don’t move. I trace circles over his shoulder, feeling both exhilarated and unsettled—high on relief, drunk on closeness, sobered by the power he still holds over me.