27. Damian
DAMIAN
T he first thing I'm aware of is pain—a deep, burning ache in my chest that radiates through my ribs with every breath.
The second thing is the steady beeping of machines, the antiseptic smell of a hospital, the scratchy feel of sheets against my skin.
But the third thing, the thing that makes my heart stutter in my chest, is the soft pressure of fingers wrapped around mine.
I know those fingers. I've memorized the way they feel when they're tracing patterns on my skin or tangling in my hair when I'm buried deep inside her. But that can't be right. She can't be here. I walked away from her. I told her?—
My eyes flutter open, fighting against the heavy pull of whatever drugs they've got pumping through my system.
The room is dim, lit only by the glow of monitors and the pale light filtering in from the hallway.
And there, sitting in a chair beside my bed with her hand wrapped around mine, is Sienna.
For a moment, I think I must be hallucinating.
She's exactly as I remember—strawberry-blonde hair falling in waves around her face, soft green eyes, the gentle curve of her mouth.
But there are differences too. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen from crying, her face pale with exhaustion.
She looks like she's been through hell .
Those eyes lock onto mine, and she looks like she comes alive.
"Damian? Can you hear me?"
Her voice is soft, tentative, like she's afraid I might disappear if she speaks too loudly. I try to answer, but my throat feels like sandpaper. All that comes out is a rough croak that might be her name.
"Sienna?" I manage, finally, the word barely a whisper.
Relief floods her features, and fresh tears spill down her cheeks. "I'm here. I'm right here."
I try to sit up, needing to see her better, to make sure she's real, but fire shoots through my chest, and I can't suppress the grunt of pain. Immediately, her hands are on me, gentle but firm, pushing me back down.
"Don't move," she says. "You were shot. You're in the hospital."
Shot. Right. The safe house, Giovanni, the too-young man with the gun who managed to sneak up on us. It all comes flooding back—the mission, the confrontation, the bullet tearing through my chest like liquid fire. And my last thought before the darkness claimed me…
Her. Always her.
"Giovanni—" I start, because all I can think is that she should know that she’s safe, that I protected her. That she doesn’t have to be afraid any longer.
"Dead. Konstantin told me." Her hand squeezes mine, anchoring me. "It's over, Damian. It's all over."
“Sal… wasn’t there. The one who was at the warehouse with us, when we were taken. He’s run, I think. We can go after him, but?—”
“You’re not going anywhere right now,” she says reprovingly. “You’re staying right here and getting better. And then we’re going to talk.”
I stare at her, still not entirely believing she’s real. She's here. After everything I said to her, after the way I walked away, she's here.
"You're here," I murmur, and it's not a question. It's wonder, disbelief—maybe even fear. Because I don't deserve this. I don't deserve her .
"Of course I'm here." She looks at me reproachfully, like I should have ever thought anything else. But that makes no sense.
"But I..." I frown, trying to collect my thoughts through the fog in my head. "I walked away from you. I said those things. I told you?—"
"You told me you weren't good enough for me," she interrupts, her voice gentle but unwavering. "You told me our marriage was temporary. You told me I deserved better."
The words hit me like physical blows, each one a reminder of my cowardice. I can see the hurt in her eyes, the pain I caused with my inability to accept what she was offering me.
"I did.” The admission burns like acid in my throat. “So why are you here? Why aren't you?—"
"Because you're my husband," she says firmly, and the certainty in her voice makes my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with my injuries. "You're my husband, Damian, and I was always going to be here when you woke up. Always."
Her husband. The words should feel foreign, temporary. Instead, they settle into my mind and heart like they belong there. Like they were always meant to be there.
"Sienna, you don't understand. What I said to you, the way I?—"
"The way you tried to protect me from yourself? You’re still doing it." She leans closer, and I can see the steel in her green eyes. "The way you convinced yourself that pushing me away was somehow noble? The way you decided what was best for me without actually asking me what I wanted?"
I want to argue, want to explain that everything I did was for her protection, but the words stick in my throat. Because she's right. I was protecting myself as much as her.
"I was trying to?—"
"You were trying to run," she says, and I flinch at the accuracy of it. "You were scared, so you ran."
"I don't run." The words come out defensive, automatic, but even as I say them, I know they're a lie. I’ve never run from a fight, but love is something I haven’t faced before.
And the possibility of someone trusting me, loving me, and failing them in the end was more terrifying than any enemy or weapon has ever been.
"Don't you?" Her eyebrow arches, and I can tell that she sees right through my bullshit. "Then what was tonight? What was walking away from me, from us, right before you went on what could have been a suicide mission?"
"I thought it would be easier," I admit, my voice barely audible. "For both of us."
"Easier for who? Because it sure as hell wasn't easier for me." There are tears in her voice now, and each one feels like a knife to my chest. "Do you have any idea what these past few hours have been like? Thinking I might lose you before I could tell you how I really feel?"
The guilt is crushing. I've been so focused on my own pain, my own fears, that I didn't consider what walking away would do to her. I'm supposed to protect her, not hurt her, but that's exactly what I did.
"Sienna—"
"No, let me finish." She takes a shaky breath, and I can see her gathering her courage. "I need you to promise me something, Damian. I need you to promise me you'll never walk away from me like that again."
The request hits me like a physical blow. She's asking me to promise something I'm not sure I can deliver, because my first instinct will always be to protect her, even if that means protecting her from me.
"I can't promise that. If it means keeping you safe?—"
"Stop." The word cracks like a whip, and I blink in surprise at the authority in her voice. "Stop making decisions for me. Stop deciding what I can and can't handle. I'm not some fragile flower that's going to wilt at the first sign of trouble."
But she is fragile, at least compared to me. She's softness and light in a world of violence and darkness. She deserves better than what I can give her.
"You don't understand what I am," I say desperately, needing her to see the truth. "What I've done. The things I'm capable of?— "
"I know exactly what you are." She leans forward, her voice fierce with conviction.
"You're the man who saved me from that warehouse.
You're the man who married me to keep me safe, even though you barely knew me.
You're the man who's been nothing but gentle with my son. You’re the man who showed me what pleasure was, when no one else ever has.”
"That's not all I am?—"
"No, it's not," she agrees readily. "You're also brutal. You're dangerous. You kill people, and you're good at it. You frighten other people, powerful people, with just a look." She pauses, and when she speaks again, her words stop my heart. "And I don't care."
"What?" The word comes out strangled.
"I don't care that you're brutal, Damian.
I don't care that you frighten others. I don't care about your past or the blood on your hands or any of it.
" Her hand comes up to cup my face, her touch gentle against the rough stubble.
"Because you don't frighten me. You never have.
Even that first night, when I was terrified of everything, I wasn't afraid of you.
Not really. And honestly…" She shrugs, the tiniest smile quirking the corner of her mouth. “I kind of like it. I do like it. I like that I’ll always feel safe with you. That no one will ever go through you to get to me or Adam. I like being protected… but I always want it to be you who protects me.”
My throat feels tight, disbelief washing through me. How is that possible? How can she look at me—at what I am, what I've done—and not be afraid? "You should be afraid of me," I whisper, because it's the truth. I'm a killer, a man who's taken more lives than I can count. I should terrify her.
"Why? Because you might hurt me?" She shakes her head, smiling softly.
"You won't. I know you won't. You'd die before you'd hurt me or Adam. You’ve been handling me like I’m made of glass from the first time you touched me, because you were afraid you might harm me in some small way. I’ll never be afraid of you, Damian. "
The certainty in her voice undoes me. She sees things in me that I can't see. And maybe… maybe she's right. Maybe I've been so focused on what I am that I couldn’t see who I could be .
"Sienna—"
"I love you," she whispers, cutting me off with words that hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. "I love all of you—the gentle parts and the brutal parts and everything in between. I love you, and I want this marriage. I want us. But only if you'll fight for it too."
I stare at her, this incredible woman who somehow sees something worth loving in a man like me. The words I've been too afraid to say are right there, burning in my throat, but they feel too big, too important.
"I don't know how to do this," I admit, my voice rough with emotion. "I don't know how to be what you need. I don’t know how to say the right things."