2. Damian
DAMIAN
The hoodie falls back, and honey-blonde waves cascade past narrow shoulders—silky, wavy strands catching the warm amber light from the recessed bathroom fixtures.
The golden locks frame her face in disheveled layers, some pieces clinging to her tear-streaked cheeks.
My breath catches in my throat, a sharp intake that seems to echo in the sudden stillness.
Not a boy. Not even close.
A girl. A stunningly beautiful girl with wide hazel eyes that shift between green and gold, framed by thick, dark lashes now clumped together with moisture.
Her porcelain skin appears almost translucent under the office lighting, marred only by smudges of dirt along her jawline and—I blink hard, focusing—chocolate?
Dark streaks mark her delicate features, evidence of her midnight feast. Those fine-boned features twist in unmistakable fear as she realizes she's been caught, her soft pink lips parted in a silent gasp as she presses herself harder against the cold marble counter, as if she could somehow disappear into it.
Then I see it, and my world tilts.
Dark, wet patches blooming across the front of her oversized cream sweater. Growing larger by the second. Spreading outward from her chest in telltale circles that make my pulse thunder in my ears and my mouth go bone dry.
My stomach drops.
She's lactating.
Something primal shifts in my chest, an ache I've never experienced before. Protective. Possessive. Wrong in every way that matters and right in ways I can't explain.
"You're a—" I can't finish. The words jam in my throat.
"I'm not a little girl!" Her voice cracks, defiant despite the tremor. "I'm eighteen!"
I drag my gaze from her chest to her face, forcing myself to focus. "Eighteen and breaking into homes? Eating my food?" I gesture toward the kitchen island where a half-destroyed food and chocolate cake sits, crumbs scattered like evidence. "You're acting like a child."
"I didn't?—"
"You have chocolate on your mouth."
Her hand flies to her lips, fingertips coming away brown. She stares at them like they betrayed her.
"I was just—it was there, and I—" She stumbles over the words, shrinking further into the counter. "I didn't mean to."
"Didn't mean to break in? Didn't mean to steal?" I close the distance between us, towering over her petite frame. She barely reaches my chest. "Which part was accidental, exactly?"
Those hazel eyes shimmer with unshed tears. Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth.
"I'm calling the police."
"No!" The word bursts from her, sharp and desperate. She lunges forward, tiny hands grabbing my forearm. Her touch burns through the water still clinging to my skin. "Please, you can't—please don't."
I look down at where her fingers grip me, white-knuckled and trembling. The wet patches on her sweater have spread further. She smells like sugar and fear and something sweet I can't name.
"Give me one reason."
"I'll—I'll do anything. Please." Her voice drops to a whisper, broken and raw. "They'll put me back in the system. Or worse. Just—just let me go. I'll never come back. You'll never see me again."
The desperation in her tone hooks something deep in my gut. But I've built an empire on not being swayed by pretty faces or sob stories.
"Should've thought of that before you climbed through my window." I pull my arm free, reaching for my phone on the counter behind her.
She flinches back, pressing herself against the marble. "Please, please?—"
"Begging won't change my mind, little girl."
"Stop calling me that!"
I pause, phone in hand, studying her flushed face and defiant eyes still brimming with terror. Despite everything—the breaking and entering, the lies, the chocolate smeared across her mouth—she's the most beautiful disaster I've ever seen.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do with her.
Her small fists connect with my chest—pathetic little thumps that wouldn't bruise a child.
She's all wild desperation and zero technique, pushing and shoving like a cornered animal.
I reach out to grab her wrists, to stop this ridiculous display before she hurts herself, and the movement pulls at the towel knotted low on my hips.
It drops.
We both freeze.
The thick terry cloth puddles at my feet, leaving me completely exposed. Her eyes go wide—those hazel irises flaring with shock—then drop. She inhales sharply, her gaze drinking in every inch before she jerks her face away, cheeks flooding with crimson that spreads down her throat.
But not before I catch it.
Hunger.
Pure, unfiltered want darkens those expressive eyes to amber-gold. Her pupils dilate. Her lips part on a shaky exhale. And those wet patches on her sweater? They bloom larger, spreading outward as milk soaks through the cream fabric, mapping the curves beneath.
My mouth waters.
Christ. I want to taste her. Want to peel that oversized sweater off her trembling frame and put my mouth on those full breasts, drink from her until she's shaking and begging and?—
"I didn't—I wasn't—" She stumbles backward, arms crossing over her chest in a futile attempt at modesty. "Put some clothes on!"
"You broke into my house." I don't move to retrieve the towel. Let her look. Let her want. "I'll wear what I damn well please."
"You're—this is—" She can't seem to form a complete sentence, her gaze darting everywhere except at me. But gravity keeps winning, pulling her eyes back down before she wrenches them away again.
An idea crystallizes. Dangerous. Wrong in ways that should matter more than they do. But the ache in my chest, that possessive pull toward this beautiful little thief, drowns out reason.
"Are you married?" The question comes out rougher than intended.
Her head snaps up. "What?"
"Simple question. Are you married? Engaged? Belong to someone?"
"I don't belong to anyone." Fire flashes in her eyes despite the fear still trembling through her frame.
"Then pregnant?" I gesture toward her chest, toward those telltale stains. "Because that's not normal for a girl your age unless?—"
"I'm not pregnant!" The words burst out, defensive and sharp. Her arms tighten across her breasts. "I'm not—I've never—I'm a virgin, okay?"
Silence crashes between us.
Her eyes widen as the confession registers. Horror creeps across her delicate features, turning her porcelain skin even paler.
"I didn't mean—I shouldn't have—" She bites down hard on her bottom lip, cutting off the stammered backtracking.
Virgin. The word echoes through my skull, igniting something primitive and claiming in my gut. A virgin who lactates at the sight of me. Whose body responds to my presence like she was made for this. For me.
"When did it start?" I keep my voice low, controlled. "The milk."
She won't meet my eyes. Won't answer.
"Tell me."
"Just now," she whispers, the words barely audible. "When I saw you in the shower. I've never—it's never happened before. I don't understand why?—"
She cuts herself off, shame painting her features as she realizes what she's admitted.
The pieces click together with sudden, crystalline clarity. The shadow I caught in my peripheral vision while water cascaded down my back. The presence I felt watching, raising the hairs on my neck even through the steam.
Her.
This beautiful little thief stood in my door, those hazel eyes drinking in every inch of my naked body while her innocent frame responded for the first time. Milk flooding her breasts because she wanted me. Because her body recognized what her mind refuses to accept.
"You were watching me." Not a question. A statement of fact that lands between us like a physical thing. "In the shower."
Her throat works as she swallows. "I didn't?—"
"Did you like what you saw?"
"No." The word comes out too fast, pitched too high. A lie written across every tense line of her petite body.
I take a step closer. She retreats until her spine hits the counter again, trapped.
"Say that again. Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn't like watching me."
Her gaze darts away—to my chest, my shoulders, lower—before she wrenches it back up. "I didn't."
Those hazel eyes betray her. Pupils blown wide, irises shifting between green and gold like sunset through leaves. Her pulse hammers visibly in the delicate hollow of her throat.
I bend down, retrieving my towel in one smooth motion and knotting it back around my hips. Her shoulders drop a fraction, relief bleeding through the fear.
"Come with me."
I turn toward my bedroom, every instinct screaming that this is wrong, that I should call the police and be done with it. But that primal ache in my chest drowns out reason.
"Where—"
"Now." I don't raise my voice. Don't need to. The command sits in the single word, absolute and unyielding.
Her feet shuffle against the hardwood behind me. Small, hesitant steps that nevertheless follow.
My bedroom sprawls before us—king bed with charcoal sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, minimalist furniture in dark woods and metals. I flip on the bedside lamp, warm light spilling across the space.
She hovers near the doorway like a skittish deer.
"Close the door."
Her hand trembles as she pushes it shut. The soft click echoes.
I face her fully, crossing my arms over my chest. Water still beads on my shoulders, trickling down.
"Strip."
The color drains from her face. "What?"
"You heard me. Take off your clothes."
"You saw me naked in the shower." I let the words hang between us, heavy and deliberate. "Only fair I see you too."
Her mouth opens, closes. Opens again like a fish gasping for air. "That's—you can't be serious."
"Dead serious." I lean against the dresser, arms still crossed. "But I'm not going to force you to do something you don't want to do."
Relief flickers across her delicate features, loosening the rigid tension in her narrow shoulders.
"What's your name?"
She shifts her weight from foot to foot, gaze dropping to the hardwood. "Augusta Miller. But everyone calls me Dusty."