9. Jade
— ? —
Jade
The day before the gala, I’m standing in the bathroom, fighting with my hair.
I haven’t had to think about things like this in four years. In prison, I kept it short - practical, easy to manage. Now it’s grown out, tangled and wild, and I have no idea how to make it look presentable for a room full of people who will be judging my every move.
A knock on the door.
“You okay in there?” Damian’s voice.
“Fine. Just... fighting with my hair.”
“Need help?”
I laugh bitterly. “Unless you know how to do an updo, no.”
Silence.
Then: “Actually, I do.”
I open the door. Stare at him.
“You’re joking.”
“My mother used to make me help her before galas when I was a kid. She said I had steady hands.” He shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. “I haven’t done it in years, but I remember the basics.”
I should say no. Should close the door and figure it out myself. The last thing I need is to be alone with him in a small space, his hands in my hair, his body close to mine.
But my brain isn’t making the decisions right now.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Show me.”
He follows me into the bathroom.
It’s not a small space - nothing in this house is small - but suddenly it feels tiny. He stands behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror, and something in his expression makes my breath catch.
“Turn around,” he says. “It’s easier if I can see what I’m doing.”
I turn.
Now I’m facing his chest. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar - I can see the hollow of his throat, the beginning of his collarbone. I focus on my hands instead.
He gathers my hair gently. His fingers brush the back of my neck.
I shiver.
“Cold?” he asks.
“No.”
He works in silence for a moment. I can feel the warmth of him behind me. The steadiness of his hands. Every time his fingers graze my skin, my breath catches.
“You have beautiful hair,” he murmurs.
“It’s a mess.”
“It’s beautiful.” His voice is low. Close to my ear. “You’re beautiful.”
I look up. Meet his eyes in the mirror again.
He’s not looking at my hair anymore. He’s looking at my face. My mouth.
His hands have stopped moving. They rest on my shoulders now. Warm. Heavy.
“Damian...”
“I know.” His voice is strained. Rough. “I’m trying to behave.”
“What if I don’t want you to behave?”
What am I saying? What am I doing?
His grip tightens on my shoulders. I watch his jaw clench in the mirror. See the way his chest expands with a deep, controlled breath.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m holding on by a thread here, Jade.” He leans down. His mouth is inches from my ear. I can feel his breath on my skin. “And if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something we might both regret.”
“Or we might not regret it at all.”
He makes a sound. Low. Almost a growl.
His hands slide from my shoulders down my arms. Slowly. I feel every inch of it, the heat of his palms, the pressure of his fingers, the way my whole body is straining toward him.
Then he steps back.
Abruptly. Puts distance between us.
“Your hair looks fine,” he says, and his voice is rough, wrecked. “Wear it down tomorrow. It suits you.”
He leaves the bathroom. I hear his bedroom door close.
And I stand there, heart pounding, skin on fire, wondering what the hell just happened.
***
That night, I can’t sleep.
Again.
I lie in bed, replaying every moment. His fingers in my hair. His breath on my neck. The way he said I’m holding on by a thread like it was a confession and a warning all at once.
He wants me.
The realization hits like lightning. He wants me, not as a project to save, not as a weapon against his family, but as a woman. As me.
And God help me, I want him too.
This is insane. This is the worst possible timing. Tomorrow is the most important day of your life and you’re lying here thinking about-
Around midnight, I give up. Get out of bed. I’m wearing one of his t-shirts again - I should ask for something else to sleep in, something that doesn’t smell like him - but I won’t. I know I won’t.
I pad to the kitchen for water. The house is dark.
But he’s there.
Standing at the counter. Shirtless. A glass of water in his hand.
We both freeze.
His chest is bare. I’ve seen fit men before - Donald spent hours in the gym - but Damian is different. Leaner. Harder. A scar runs along his ribs, pale against golden skin. I want to trace it with my fingers. Want to ask how he got it. Want to put my mouth on it and-
Stop.
His eyes drop to my legs. To the hem of the shirt that barely covers my thighs.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he says. But he doesn’t smile.
“Can’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
I walk to the counter. Reach past him for a glass. My arm brushes his chest.
Neither of us moves.
“This is torture,” he says quietly.
“What is?”
“You.” His voice drops. Roughens. “Here. In my shirt. In my house. In my head every second of every day.”
“Then stop fighting it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if I touch you right now, I won’t stop.” His eyes burn into mine. “And tomorrow is the most important day of your life. You need to focus on Nova. On getting your daughter back. Not on me. Not on this.”
I hate that he’s right. Hate that he’s being noble when all I want is to feel something good for once. Something that isn’t pain or grief or emptiness.
“After,” I whisper. “After the gala. After we start the fight for Nova. Then what?”
He reaches out. Tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The same gesture from before. But this time his hand lingers. Trails down my jaw. Tilts my chin up.
“After?” His thumb brushes my lower lip, feather-light, devastating. “After, I’m going to take my time with you. I’m going to learn every inch of you. I’m going to make you forget every bad thing that ever happened to you.”
I can’t breathe.
“Is that a promise?” I manage.
“That’s a guarantee.”
He leans down. For one heart-stopping second, I think he’s going to kiss me.
Instead, his lips brush my forehead. Soft. Reverent.
Then he steps back.
“Go to bed, Jade. Tomorrow, we go to war. And I need you sharp.”
I nod. Don’t trust my voice.
I walk back to my room on shaking legs. Close the door. Lean against it.
My whole body is trembling. Aching. Wanting.
After, I tell myself. After.
I just have to survive tomorrow first.
That night I don’t sleep. I lie awake thinking about his hands, his voice, his promise.
And when dawn breaks, I’m more terrified of what’s building between us than I am of facing Vivian.