Chapter 8
DAMON
The hum of the city filters through the thick glass windows of my office. Even on the twentieth floor, the buzz of traffic, honking horns, and the occasional wail of a siren never completely fades.
The space is dimly lit, a single desk lamp casting a pool of light over the papers scattered across my desk.
The walls are lined with shelves, and a giant whiteboard takes up most of my personal space.
On the whiteboard are surveillance photos tacked up with pins, financial records taped beside them, and red strings crisscrossing between points.
The only common connection is Jason Whitmore.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under me, and pick up another stack of bank statements.
Offshore accounts. Transactions routed through shell companies with names so generic, they scream fake.
I trace the line to the next photo on the wall: a weapons cache we uncovered in Kandahar, linked to Jason’s old network.
Payments match up too neatly to be coincidence.
“This isn’t just some deadbeat ex,” I mutter, spreading the bank statements across the desk. My fingers tighten around the edges of another photo of Jason, grinning like he’s won the lottery, standing with a man I know only by reputation. An arms dealer. International level.
The fluorescent light buzzes faintly, adding to the static already roaring in my head. My gut clenches. Jason Whitmore isn’t just a stalker, or even a common criminal.
“Who is this guy?” I murmur, staring at the face in the photo.
I know him on paper. I know the files I’ve dug up, the operations he’s botched, the lives he’s ruined.
But every new connection I uncover makes him seem less like a man and more like a damn hydra.
Cut one head, and two more take its place.
I shove back from the desk and pace to the window.
How did I not see it when I worked with him for almost six months?
The guy’s good at putting up pretenses. Back on base, he was never more than an acquaintance.
As a habit, I tried not to make friends with fellow soldiers.
Their loss always brought more pain than anything else.
But Jason had weaseled his way into my close circle.
I thought he was an eager fellow, happy to please the people around me.
It wasn’t until I met Mia at the bar that fateful night that I could even imagine he had a darker side.
My phone buzzes on the desk, jolting me from my thoughts. I glance at the screen, seeing Zane’s name light up. For a moment, I debate letting it go to voicemail. But if he’s calling, it’s because he’s found something.
“Talk to me,” I answer, leaning back in my chair, my gaze flicking to the web on the wall. Jason’s smug face stares back at me from a photo in the corner, and I swear under my breath. If this doesn’t end soon, none of us are getting out clean.
“Where are you?” Zane’s voice is clipped, urgency threading every word.
“At the office, doing research.” My eyes flick to the mess of papers and photos strewn across the desk. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve got a situation,” he says, the tension in his tone sharp enough to cut glass. “Whitmore invaded the home. Made a mess. It’s a warning that Mia’s not safe. I’m moving her to the safehouse.”
My jaw tightens. Jason’s audacity never fails to amaze me. For Asher and Zane to pull a move like this, Jason must have crossed another line. One I’ll make damn sure he pays for.
“Details?” I ask, already standing and grabbing my jacket.
I hear Zane exhale, a hard sound over the line. “Photos. He left them everywhere. One of them was from her bedroom, taken last night. He’s been inside, Damon. Watching them while they slept.”
A chill runs through me. Not much shakes me anymore, but this? This is a different level of violation. Jason isn’t just dangerous. He’s escalating, playing a game that’s personal and calculated.
I force my voice to stay even and professional. “I’m on my way.”
There’s a pause, and I can practically hear Zane weighing his words. “You might want to prepare yourself. The twins were there when she found the photos. She’s shaken up, but she’s holding it together for them.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.” I hang up before he can say anything else, my mind already racing.
I race to the safehouse as fast as I can. It’s a renovated Victorian, its weathered brick exterior blending into the quiet, tree-lined street. Large bay windows are reinforced with discreet security glass, and the surrounding yard is enclosed by a wrought-iron fence topped with subtle cameras.
Inside, the house is just as deceptive. The warm, polished wood floors and high ceilings give it an inviting, almost cozy feel, but with strategically placed panic buttons and reinforced doors.
The door to the study is cracked open, and I see Mia sitting on the couch, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her head is down, her hair spilling like a curtain over her face.
I step inside, closing the door softly behind me. “Mia.”
She looks up, her eyes red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t hear you come in,” she says, her voice raw, like she’s barely holding herself together.
I move closer, lowering myself to sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of her. “Zane told me what happened. Are you okay?”
Her laugh is bitter, a sound that cuts deep. “Do I look okay? He’s been in my house, Damon. My bedroom. I don’t even know how to feel safe anymore.”
I reach out, hesitating for a moment before resting my hand lightly on her knee. She doesn’t pull away. “I’m not going to let him hurt you. I swear.”
Her lips tremble, and she looks away, biting down hard like she’s trying to keep herself from breaking. “You say that like you can stop him. Like anyone can.”
Something in me snaps, a fierce need to make her believe it, to make her feel something other than fear. “I will stop him, Mia. I don’t care what it takes.”
Her gaze snaps back to mine. “Why are you even here, Damon? After all these years? Why now? Why is fate so cruel?”
I don’t have an answer that won’t make this situation worse, so I do the only thing I can. I reach for her. My hand cups her cheek, and she leans into the touch, her eyes closing like she’s been starving for comfort. When she looks at me again, there’s a question in her eyes. A silent plea.
I don’t think. I lean in.
She gasps softly, her hands coming up to grip my shirt, pulling me closer. I don’t hold back, deepening the kiss, pouring every ounce into it.
Her mouth opens under mine, and I take the invitation, my tongue sliding against hers.
She moans softly, the sound vibrating against my lips, and it’s everything I can do not to lose control.
My hands move to her waist, pulling her against me, feeling the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her shirt.
“Damon,” she whispers against my mouth, her voice trembling with something that feels like both fear and need.
I pull back just enough to meet her gaze. “Tell me to stop, Mia. If this isn’t what you want—”
She cuts me off with another kiss, fiercer this time, her hands sliding up to tangle in my hair. “Don’t stop.”
I don’t need to be told twice. My mouth trails down her jaw, finding the sensitive spot just below her ear.
Her breath hitches, and her hands tighten in my hair as I move lower, kissing along her neck.
She tilts her head, giving me better access, and I take full advantage, nipping and sucking gently at the delicate skin.
Her shirt slides down her shoulder, and I don’t stop myself from pulling it lower, revealing the curve of her breast. My mouth moves there instinctively, kissing the soft skin before taking her nipple into my mouth. She gasps, her back arching as I swirl my tongue over the sensitive peak.
“Damon,” she breathes, her voice breaking.
I want to give her everything, to make her forget every moment of fear and pain Jason has caused her. My hands slide down her sides, gripping her hips as I press her back against the couch. I kiss my way down her stomach, pushing her shirt higher as I go, until I’m kneeling in front of her.
She looks down at me, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her lips parted. There’s a vulnerability in her eyes, but also trust. A trust I don’t deserve but will do everything to earn.
“You don’t have to,” she says softly, but her voice wavers, and I can see the war inside her.
“I want to,” I say, my voice low and rough. “Let me take care of you, Mia.”
She nods, and I slide my hands under the waistband of her pants, pulling them down slowly. Her breath catches as I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another, moving closer to where she’s already wet and ready.
When my mouth finally finds her, she cries out softly, her hands gripping the back of the couch. My tongue begins with a slow, deliberate glide over her, tasting her fully. Her hands tighten in my hair, and her hips jerk involuntarily.
“Stay still,” I murmur against her, the vibration making her shiver.
She doesn’t stay still, of course. How could she? Not when I take my time exploring her wet cunt.
Mine. All mine.
I focus on her clit, circling it with maddening slowness before teasing it with light, feathery strokes. Her body arches, her breath coming in sharp gasps as I work her over, deliberately avoiding giving her exactly what she wants just yet.
“Damon, please…” she whispers, her voice breaking on the plea.
I glance up, catching her gaze. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted, and her eyes are dark with need. The sight alone almost undoes me, but I want her teetering on the edge. I want her to come undone completely.
Leaning back in, I wrap my lips around her clit and suck gently, adding just enough pressure to make her cry out. My fingers join the effort, sliding inside her slowly, curling to find the spot that makes her legs tremble.
“Damon!” Her voice rises, her thighs clenching around my head as her release crashes over her.
I don’t stop, drawing out every last tremor until she collapses back against the couch, utterly spent.
I pull Mia’s shirt gently over her head, smoothing the fabric down her arms. Her lips are kiss-bruised.
“There,” I murmur, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger on her jaw for a moment longer than I should. “All set.”
She exhales shakily.
I want to say something—anything—to keep this moment between us from dissolving completely. “Mia, I—” I begin.
Zane strides in, his expression hard, his eyes flicking between me and Mia.
His frown deepens slightly as he takes us in, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s piecing something together or if he’s just his usual grumpy self.
Either way, it sets me on edge. For a second, I consider telling him about my history with Mia—about the night that’s haunted me for six years—but I bite it back. Not now. Not like this.
Zane tosses a file onto the desk. “We’ve got a problem.”
Mia’s face pales as she sits on the edge of the desk.
I open the file, my gut clenching the moment I see Jason’s smug face captured mid-conversation with two men I hoped never to see again.
Martin Stroud and Kyle Travis—names I haven’t said out loud in years.
Men I’ve only ever associated with trouble.
“Stroud and Travis?” I grit out, flipping through the photos. “They’re still active?”
“Private security,” Zane says, crossing his arms. “Jason’s calling in favors. He’s not working alone anymore.”
Mia leans closer, her fingers trembling as she picks up one of the photos. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “The man on the left... he was at the hospital yesterday. I thought he was just another visitor.”
I glance at Zane, my grip tightening on the folder. “This changes things.”
Zane nods, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. It does.”