Chapter 15 #2
A minute later, a sleek black car slid up to the curb. The driver’s door flew open, and Damien was out before the engine fully settled. He crossed the sidewalk in long controlled strides, scanning me head to toe like he expected to find a wound. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” I managed, though my voice shook.
Beside me, Candace tilted her head back to take him in—really look—and her mouth dropped open.
Damien turned toward her, concern still carved deep. “Are you okay?”
She nodded once, careful. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Good.” He exhaled, steadying himself. “I’m Damien—sorry we had to meet like this.”
“It’s—it’s okay,” she managed, her brain already running inventory. The sharp jaw, the beard, the shoulders, that easy authority he carried without trying.
Then she whipped her head toward me. “You should have led with this,” she hissed. “This makes a big difference.”
A disbelieving laugh tugged at my mouth. “Candace,” I warned.
But she was already turning back to him, evaluating him like a painting she didn’t want to admit she liked.
Color rose along his cheekbones as he went still under the attention.
Then he moved.
His arm slipped around me—firm, careful—his palm spreading over my lower back. The heat of him cutting through the leftover chill in my skin. “Let’s get you both off the street.”
He kept his long strides deliberately slow, guiding me all the way to the passenger door and easing it open with a click. His strong hand found my elbow as I lowered myself into the seat with excruciating care. Once I was in, he shut the door gently behind me.
The back door opened a second later. Candace climbed in, leather squeaking under her.
Damien rounded the hood and slid into the driver’s seat. The muted thud of the door closing sealed us in.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you.” He shook his head like he still couldn’t quite process it. “There are too many scumbags in this city.”
“He had a gun,” Candace whispered, tone thin.
Damien’s eyes found mine. “Really?”
I nodded, throat tight.
He dragged a hand across his forehead, elbow braced on the door. “Jesus,” he muttered on a rough exhale. “That must have been terrifying.”
“It was,” Candace answered, small in the sudden hush.
His focus shifted to my hands. The polish gleamed, absurdly perfect. A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “At least your nails look good.”
“Yeah,” I said gently, watching the muscle jump in his jaw. He was holding it together for us. Barely.
“Is there anyone you need to call?” he asked, turning toward Candace, offering his phone.
She shook her head at first. “I don’t think so.”
“What about Garrett?” I said.
She blinked once as the name caught up. “Oh. Yeah. I should probably let him know.”
Damien and I locked eyes over the console. Same thought. Same sick dread.
She took his phone, already unlocked. Like the thing didn’t carry the inner workings of a multibillion-dollar company in its memory.
“What?” Garrett’s voice crackled through the speaker.
Candace swallowed. “Emma and I were just robbed.”
A pause. Then—“Whose phone are you calling from?”
“Um…” She hesitated. “Damien’s.”
“Who’s Damien?” he asked, an edge creeping into his voice.
“Damien is Emma’s… friend,” she said.
“Oh.”
“Didn’t you hear her?” I cut in. “We were robbed.”
Silence stretched on the other end. Then—
“Was he armed?”
She nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “Yes.”
“With a gun or a knife?”
“Gun.”
“Jeez, that sucks. What kind?”
“I—I don’t know. A small one,” Candace stammered.
“Oh, that’s good. At least it wasn’t an AK or something.”
Our eyes met again, a thousand words conveyed between us in mere moments.
Not Are you okay?
Not Where are you?
Not What can I do to help?
Cold gathered at my fingertips.
Rage collected around Damien like pressure in the air, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
And there it was—the echo I recognized. Not the CEO. Not the liar. The man whose care had never wavered when the world tilted sideways.
My pulse stuttered, something new unfurling under the leftover adrenaline. Maybe I didn’t fully know Damien Holt. But Read—the way he cared—had always been real.
“Are you going back to Emma’s?” Garrett asked, distracted.
Candace hesitated. “I was hoping I could come home.”
“Sure,” he said after a pause. “I’m at a friend’s house right now. We’re in the middle of a project, but I’ll be home by seven.”
Damien and I both glanced at the clock. 12:35 p.m.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. His hand twitched toward the phone, then stilled. Fingers curled back around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.
Candace wet her lips and lowered the phone to her lap. “Em, is it okay if I stay with you a while?”
“Of course,” I said, catching her eyes in the mirror. “As long as you want.”
She lifted the phone again. “I’ll just stay with Emma.”
“Sounds good. I’ll pick you up from there.”
The line went dead. Silence seeped into the car as she passed the phone forward, her hand trembling.
Damien took it carefully and set it in the console. His fingers brushed mine—just for a heartbeat—and the touch shot through me, scattering what was left of my composure.
I gave him my address, my voice thin around the adrenaline still clinging to my veins.
The car eased into motion, engine humming low.
For a while, that was all there was—the city rushing by, tires humming, and the quick cuts of panic replaying in my head.
Moments that had lasted seconds, stretching impossibly long inside me.
One traffic jam and an unexpected detour later, we finally pulled up in front of my building. He cut the engine, attention climbing the facade—old brick, ivy threading up the walls, wrought-iron balconies catching the afternoon light.
“This is…” He trailed off, sounding almost surprised. “Not what I expected.”
“I picked it for the charm,” I said, more defensive than I meant.
He looked back at me, face softening. “I love it.”
Behind us, Candace reached for the handle and climbed out. The door shut with a heavy thud. Her footsteps clipped away across the sidewalk, leaving the car in her wake.
Damien turned his attention to me. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay,” I said, hoping it was true. “But I feel bad for Candace. Garrett—”
“Is an ass,” he finished.
A huff of laughter broke free. “Yeah. He really is.”
He rubbed a hand along his jaw. “I can see why they have so many problems.”
“I can’t get her away from him,” I admitted. “I’ve been trying for years.”
The lines in his face softened. “Sometimes it’s hard to leave toxic situations. Trauma bonding and all that fun shit.” His mouth tipped in a wry not-quite smile.
“You have a mouth on you, Mr. Holt,” I teased, matching his tone before I could stop myself. “Read did, too.”
He let that land and chose not to push it. “Got it from my mom. She swears like a sailor.”
“I thought you said Rosie was a sweet little old thing.”
“That’s what Read said,” he hedged, then grinned. “I say she’s an unhinged Italian woman throwing curse words around like garlic.”
My laugh broke loose, startling in the quiet. A slow grin tugging at his mouth.
“You have the most beautiful laugh.”
Blush rushed to my cheeks. “Thanks,” I muttered, ducking my head.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The space between us felt thick with everything new—and everything still broken.
Before I had time to stop them, the words slipped out. “Would you… like to come in?”
He stilled completely, caught halfway. Something tense and fragile pulled taut between us. My pulse kicked hard, a sharp jolt of fear ricocheting through me.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I’d like that very much.”