Chapter 17
* * *
Emma
Candace eyed the pizza like it was communion. “This looks delicious.”
Damien slid a slice onto a plate and handed it to me. “Best pizzeria in New York. I go at least three times a week for lunch.”
I blew lightly on the slice before taking a bite. The crust stretched, the cheese molten, the sauce hitting that perfect sweet-savory balance. A sound escaped me before I could stop it.
“Mmm. You’re right.” I swallowed. “This really is good.”
Damien’s smile widened. “Then I’ll take you there one day for lunch.”
Candace fanned her mouth dramatically. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked, breath hot from too big a bite.
I frowned. “Why not?”
“Well, you two aren’t together-together.” She shrugged. “Plus—with the partnership thing? People might talk.”
Cold water, straight down my spine. People would talk. They always had. They’d take my name, turn it inside out, make it taste wrong in their mouths.
No daughter of mine will be a harlot.
The memory struck like someone had pulled a string tied to something buried deep. Twelve years old. Peach dress delicate as flower petals. His friends in the living room—beer bottles sweating on the table. Laughter that dipped, hardened, shifted. Eyes on me. Too heavy. Too long.
A whisper. A smirk. A hand around my arm.
What the hell are you wearing? Who do you think you are?
Peach fabric that had felt pretty an hour earlier suddenly felt obscene. Skin that didn’t fit. Words that branded deeper than skin.
Whore. Slut.
Laughter in the next room. A mirror later that night. Peach turned poison.
“Emma?”
Damien’s voice broke through the fog.
I cleared my throat. “Sorry. Zoned out. Just thinking about the pizza.”
His gaze hardened—just for a breath. He saw through the lie, heard the ghosts clawing at the back of my mind. But he didn’t press. He just turned back to his slice, taking another bite, his jaw working tighter than before.
“I say we watch a movie,” Candace declared, spinning in her chair like a cat chasing something shiny.
“What movie?”
She stared at me like I’d asked what planet we lived on. “You know the one.”
Damien looked between us, confused and already slightly afraid.
“I’m not sure Damien would approve,” I said, deadpan.
“His feelings don’t matter,” Candace shot back.
Damien attempted a frown and landed on a nod. “That’s… fair.”
Candace had already bounded into the living room, spinning once like she owned the place.
“She means New Moon,” I supplied.
He froze, slice hovering mid-air. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” Candace called, already halfway to the living room. “Grab the wine, lover boy.”
His sigh was pure resignation. “You’re trying to kill me, Ms. Sinclair.”
I followed her, grin already spreading. “It’s Candace this time,” I tossed back.
Behind me came the muted clatter of boxes, the shuffle of cabinets, the clink of glass.
When I glanced back, he carried the pizza boxes stacked on one arm, the unopened wine bottle tucked against his hip, three glasses hooked in his fingers. Easy. Competent. Ridiculously attractive.
She dropped onto the cushions in a practiced flop, knees tucking under her as she settled. I took the opposite end. He popped the cork with a small flourish and poured each of us a glass. The scent of fruit and oak lifted into the air, twining with the tang of tomato sauce.
Then he sat between us.
The cushion dipped. Heat bled from his body into mine. His knee brushed against me—barely there, enough to short-circuit every thought I had.
Holy hell.
I went motionless, lungs snagging. He did, too—shoulders locked, body mirroring my stillness.
He angled closer, lips forming the words. Is this okay?
I nodded—the tiniest lie.
Candace scrolled until she found the movie and hit play. The room dimmed to the pale blue flicker of the TV.
For a moment, it almost felt normal.
“Jacob is so much better than Edward,” I announced to puncture the tension.
Damien’s lopsided grin surfaced. “Agreed. Edward’s a creep.”
“Exactly. He watches her sleep,” I said, scooping up a stray string of cheese and licking it from my finger. “Obsessive, much?”
He tracked the movement, his mouth parting ever so slightly. A breath slipped in through his teeth before he forced his gaze back to his pizza. “Obsessive isn’t always bad,” he murmured. “Sometimes it can be… romantic.”
“Only if it’s the right obsession.”
“And what—” He started, confusion edging his voice.
“Oh, god,” Candace groaned, cutting me off. “Remember when she just stares out the window for months? So cringe.”
Damien laughed, shoulders shaking, eyes creasing, and I felt a smile stretch across my face before I could stop it.
Time bled forward after that. The bottle drained. The pizza shrank to crusts. Little pockets of laughter softened the room, sanding down the sharpness still clinging to the day.
My phone rang, the name lighting the screen as I rolled my eyes and tossed it to Candace.
“Hey,” she answered, already smiling. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
Damien and I shared a look from the corners of our eyes—mutual dread.
She clicked off and turned to us, beaming. “Garrett’s here,” she announced, bounding off toward the elevator.
I dropped back against the cushions. “He’s coming up.”
“I kind of want to meet him,” he admitted, lifting a shoulder.
I threw him a look that could cut glass. “Why?”
“Well first of all,” he said, stacking plates, “he’s part of your world whether we like it or not. And honestly? I kind of want to see exactly how big of an ass this guy is with my own eyes. Meet the legend himself.”
“You two will be oil and water.”
He chuckled. “Which one am I?”
“Water. You’d rise to the top while Garrett chokes at the bottom.”
Damien laughed so hard the couch shook. “This guy must be a real dick.”
“See for yourself,” I muttered as the elevator chimed.
Candace burst out first, glowing again. Garrett followed—gold hair too bright under fluorescent light, jeans too tight, expression too smug. He didn’t look up from his phone.
Damien rose, composed. “I’m Damien.” He offered a hand. “You must be Garrett.”
Silence stretched while the men sized each other up. Garrett looked Damien over—like a Chihuahua evaluating a wolf. Then he smirked. “So you’re the fucker who lied to our Emma.”
Our.
I swallowed a spike of nausea.
“I guess you could call me that,” Damien said calmly.
Garrett scoffed. “Candace told me all the dirty details of your first date.”
Damien nodded once, guilt flickering. “I made a mistake.”
“You could call it that,” Garrett drawled. “I’d call it selfish. Entitled—”
I stared daggers at Candace. Every word out of his mouth had been one I’d spat in confidence. Her gaze darted away, guilt flashing before she fixed her attention on the far wall.
But Damien stood there, taking each blow without flinching. Until—
“And Emma—” Garrett turned to me. “I’m disappointed—”
Damien’s mouth opened, the vein in his temple jumping.
“That’s enough,” I cut in, harder than I meant to—before Damien could launch. “He gets it.”
Garrett lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Just speaking the truth,” he drawled, turning his attention to the empty boxes. “You didn’t save me any?”
“You said you already ate,” Candace shot back. “I figured—”
“You could have asked.”
Her shoulders drew up. “I was mugged, Garrett. I don’t have a phone.”
“That’s not an excuse. Emma has a phone.”
The air turned razor-thin.
“It was impromptu,” Damien said. “I ordered while she was in the shower.”
Garrett’s head whipped toward her. “You showered here?”
“Obviously.” Her voice cracked sharp. “I was mugged.”
“Did you get so dirty you needed a shower afterward?”
“I think it was more emotional,” I cut in, fast. “Honestly, I’ve been wanting one myself.”
Damien turned to me, concern already settling over his face. “Why didn’t you?”
“It felt… weird. With you here.”
His guilt was instant. “If I’d known, I would’ve waited downstairs, or something. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” My voice eased. “I’ll shower later.”
Garrett stretched, already bored. “Anyway. Nice meeting you, Damien.” Then to Candace. “I’m starving, let’s get out of here.”
Candace gathered her things. They drifted to the elevator.
“Let’s go to Brock’s,” Garrett suggested.
“I don’t want to walk tonight. Can we stay in?”
“Oh, come on—you’ll be safe with me.”
Silence. A sigh. Then the elevator doors closed.
Damien turned back to me, tension crackling under his calm. “I fucking hate that guy.”
I laughed. “Told you.”
“No seriously—is he like that all the time?”
“Always.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face. “What the hell does she see in him?”
“God knows,” I muttered.
He hesitated, shifting his weight. “I should probably head out. Let you shower.”
Something kicked in me—not forward, not back. Just… startled. Garrett had Candace and I had… nobody. Nobody except for Read, and he was standing right here in front of me.
“I don’t think I want you to leave,” I admitted, tearing myself wide. “Not yet.”
His brows lifted. “Really?”
“Honestly… I’m still freaked out. And I don’t want to be alone.” The truth spilled from me before I could reel it back.
“Okay. But under one condition.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You shower. I’ll wait in my car. Text me when you’re done.”
I shook my head. Too far. Too empty. Too alone.
“No, you can stay. But—” I pointed at him. “You stay on the couch. No wandering. No peeking.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He paused, and I watched the mischief surface, slow as honey. “Okay, that might be a lie. I might dream about it.”
Heat hit my cheeks. “Damien,” I reprimanded.
“Fine. No wandering. No peeking.” He planted a hand above his heart. “Scout’s honor.”
I couldn’t stop the grin this time as I moved toward my room. I stole a last look over my shoulder. He stayed exactly where he promised—hands lifted in exaggerated innocence, that crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
The door clicked shut. I leaned against it, pulse catching. My heart thudded too hard. Too hopeful. Too scared.
The shower roared to life. Steam rose, climbing the mirror. Clothes fell away. I stepped into the heat—
And froze. Faint bruises blooming on my arm.
The memory of rough hands. The brick wall. The gun. The deep demanding voice.
Air vanished. I braced both palms on the tile, breathing through the sting.
Five things.
Four.
Three.
The ache eased. The panic thinned.
I reached for my conditioner—too fast—and a bolt of pain shot up my spine, electric and blinding. My muscles seized, nerves screaming in protest. I jerked back, one hand braced at the small of my back, feeling the throb pulse through wet skin.
But I pushed through. Careful, measured movements. Each stretch a sharp spasm.
Minutes later, I was done—barely. A thin film of conditioner clung to my ends because I didn’t have the strength to rinse it all out.
I stepped into the cool air and grabbed a towel, wrapping it close around my chest.
Steam curled around me as I took myself in—damp hair, bare face, skin flushed from heat and effort.
The curl cream and diffuser called my name. I reached—another vicious pull in my lower back stopped me cold.
Okay. So that’s a no.
I wrapped a towel around my hair like a turban and stepped into my closet.
Nothing felt right. Structured clothes felt suffocating. Athletic wear rubbed wrong against my sore body.
So I opened my pajama drawer and dug until my fingers brushed something soft.
A silk shorts-and-tank set—deep red, cool and smooth against my skin.
I slipped it on and stood before the mirror. No makeup. No hair. No strategically picked clothing. No armor.
Just me.
My legs weakened. Suddenly the idea of letting him stay felt reckless. Vulnerable. Stupid.
But then—
Fuck it.
I opened the door and walked toward the man waiting in my living room.