Chapter 18
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Damien
I think I’m going to die. Drop dead right here on Emma’s floor.
My head couldn’t keep up. My heart could. It hadn’t stopped since the elevator doors opened—steady, punishing, relentless.
Air had bled from my lungs all night. The pizza tasted like the box it came in—cardboard and nerves. Every bite turned to sand in my mouth.
How the hell did I end up here?
I’d hurt her—badly—and the memory still carved through me.
Her tears from that night replayed like a film I couldn’t stop watching, the look on her face when I broke something fragile.
And now I was sitting on her couch while she showered, the sound of water carrying through the walls like a reminder I didn’t deserve.
Then I remembered the mugger. That motherfucker who’d scared her so badly she’d texted me—for help. Me, of all people.
I dragged my hands down my face, trying to claw the anger down. It didn’t move.
He’d pulled a gun on them.
She’d looked so small when I pulled up—shaking, pale, eyes wide with shock. Candace, too. Both still vibrating with leftover terror.
I could’ve lost her today.
The thought landed sharp and deep, a blade sinking to bone.
Ripped from my life by some piece of shit in an alley.
Her scent hit me next, the vanilla and coconut bath products drifted through the air. I drew it in like I could pull her into my lungs and keep her there, somewhere safe.
A stray thought slid in before I could stop it: I should find her some of that. Stock it at my place. Something that smelled like her.
The thought lingered, absurd and tender, so I let it drift upward—like a prayer tossed to the universe.
Give me the chance to see her there. To know she feels safe enough to stay.
I didn’t know who I was praying to. I just knew I meant it.
Then the water stopped. Silence followed, thick and expectant.
It was 8:37 p.m. Normally by now we’d be halfway through our third show—home renovation marathons, the same ones my mother watched. Emma’s dry commentary about sidewalks and backyards flickered through my mind, uninvited and impossible to ignore.
Footsteps sounded down the hall.
When I looked up, everything stopped.
She stepped into view, skin flushed from the shower, a silky tank and shorts skimming against her full curves, a towel twisted around her hair.
My pulse kicked back to life in a frantic rhythm.
She was exquisite.
Voluptuous enough to make my knees forget their purpose.
Get it together, Holt.
I shut my jaw before it dropped. Pressed my palms into my thighs like I could pin my sanity back into place.
Too late.
She’d seen the look on my face.
Whatever she read in it made her fold inward, arms wrapping around her stomach like she could hide from me.
My chest cracked cleanly down the center.
Then she winced.
“What’s wrong?” The words ripped out of me.
She looked down. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“I saw you wince.”
She glanced up, apologetic. “My back hurts from today.”
Then I saw them.
Bruises blooming across her upper arms. Finger-shaped. Ugly.
“What did he do to you?” The words came out low, dangerous. Nothing like the man I tried to be around her.
“He grabbed me—pulled me into the alley.” Her voice shook.
I was on my feet before I knew I’d moved. She flinched when I reached for her—then eased, letting me look.
Purple. Brown. Black.
Cruel, blooming bruises.
Rage swelled—cold and exact, settling into my bones like something that had always lived there.
A rage that could ruin a man.
A rage I’d have to bury before it ruined me.
A rage I’d tried and failed to contain for years.
“And your back?”
“He kind of slammed me into the wall.”
“Kind of?”
She looked at me—dark eyes ringed with green, shining with a shame she had no business carrying.
I reached for her carefully, hands settling on her shoulders, closing the last inches between us. “I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around my waist and pulled me in, holding on like she meant it.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
I pulled her in carefully, one hand at her lower back, one anchoring her shoulder.
She fit against me too perfectly.
Trusted me too much.
I didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve her warmth pressed against my chest, her arms around my waist, the way she held on like I was safe.
I wasn’t safe. I was the man who’d made her cry.
But God help me, I held her back like I could be.
When she finally straightened, pain flickered across her face. “It’s okay,” she tried. “I’m really fine.”
“No.” My voice dropped. “You’re not.”
I guided her toward the couch before she could argue.
She let me—proof I was right.
“Lie down,” I prompted, easing her onto her side.
“Seriously, Damien,” she protested, but obeyed anyway. The silk of her shirt slid beneath my fingers like water. Once she was comfortable, I slipped away to the kitchen.
“Where’s your Advil?”
A pause. Then: “Top cabinet, right of the stove.”
I found it quickly, along with a glass, which I filled from the pitcher in her fridge. When I turned back, she was curled awkwardly, pillow just out of reach. She tried to sit up—I gently stopped her.
“There’s no room for you to sit,” she protested.
“I’ll survive.”
She looked so small. So human.
Not CEO Emma.
Not sharp-tongued, steel-spined Emma.
Just Emma, hurting.
I lifted her head, gave her the pills and water. A “thank you” left her, barely audible.
And then I did something stupid.
I sat, and eased her head into my lap. “Is this okay?”
It came out thin, almost inaudible. I was practically begging. Praying I hadn’t just fucked this up.
“It’s fine,” she murmured against my leg.
Christ.
The words pulsed in my skull as my heartbeat thundered through my veins. She had to hear it—how could she not? The sound filled my ears, drowning out everything but the even rhythm of her breathing.
She shifted. “Do you want to watch our show?”
“Ye—yes.”
I fumbled like an idiot for the remote. Honestly shocked I didn’t drop it.
When the theme music filled the room, she relaxed. Every time she laughed—even a small one—she flinched. A tiny jolt. Discomfort humming under her skin.
Each one landed in my gut.
“Is there something I can do to help?”
“I don’t think so,” she murmured. Her voice vibrated against my leg—dangerously distracting.
Dead cats. Grandmas. Roaches. I chanted the words, praying they would spare me from an amateur mistake.
I swallowed hard. “Would it help if I rubbed it?”
She went still, thinking it over. Then: “I don’t think it would hurt to try.”
My stomach lurched as I reached, careful and slow, my hand hovering before making contact. “Here?”
“Lower.”
A minefield.
A line I wasn’t going to cross—not tonight.
But I slid my hand down just enough, stopping above the curve of her back.
My palm moved in measured circles through the thin fabric of her shirt, pausing now and then to press lightly into the knots along her spine. Each twitch that left her body felt like proof I hadn’t made things worse.
She eased against me, her breath evening out.
“Is it helping?”
“I think so.” Wonder eased the edges of her voice.
“Good.” I watched the towel unravel from her head, curls escaping one by one.
She reached for it, then gasped when another jolt of pain lifted the hair on her arms. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” I eased the towel from her head. Hair spilled into my lap in half-dry spirals. Against my better judgment, I reached for one—twirling it gently around my finger. She went still. So did I. My hand froze where it rested against her.
The show droned on in the background, someone on screen complaining about backsplash choices.
“I hate those cabinets,” she muttered.
“What?” I blinked.
She repeated it. Relaxing again.
“Yeah,” I echoed, pretending I wasn’t dizzy from how warm her hair felt against my hand.
We stayed like that until the clock inched past ten.
“We still have work tomorrow,” she sighed, pulling the moment back to reality.
“Unfortunately.” I looked down at her—hair now dry against my lap, the tension in her spine finally eased. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes.” Quick. Certain.
She drew her hair out of my hands, fingers slipping through the soft strands as she straightened. Her face pinched for a moment—bracing for it—but then smoothed.
A genuine smile broke through. “It helped a lot.” Disbelief colored her voice. “I might just hire you as my personal masseuse,” she teased, still running her hands over her skin.
“I’d love that.” The words escaped before I could stop them.
She laughed, tossing her head back, the smooth line of her throat catching the light. “I’m sure you would.” Her eyes were bright with humor.
I sucked in a breath; the hair on my arms prickled at the sound.
I tugged at the fly of my jeans—one last, ridiculous verification that everything was contained and in order—then rose to stand and look down at her. She met me with those big, beautiful eyes, and for a stupid, brilliant second the world narrowed to nothing else.
“Are we still on for tomorrow?” I asked, hope bleeding into every word.
“Absolutely.”
Not maybe.
Not we’ll see.
Absolutely.
“Thank you, Emma,” I breathed. The words felt plain and honest, so I kept going. “I never expected this. Never deserved this.” I ran a hand through my hair—a nervous habit from childhood, my worst poker tell. “So—thank you.”
Her expression gentled. “You did kind of save me today.”
“Candace said the same thing.” I laughed, shaking my head. “I’d hardly call picking you up saving you. You still have bruises and back pain.” I nodded toward the marks along her arms and the way she shifted.
She hesitated—then looked up. “What would you have done if you were there?”
“Kick that motherfucker’s ass into next Tuesday.”
She laughed—sharp and unguarded. “I’d actually like to see that.” Then her head tilted. “Can you actually fight?”
I feigned offense. “Of course I can, but I don’t like to. Fucks my knuckles up. Everyone asks about it for weeks.” I perched on the edge of the sofa. “It’s inconvenient.”
“I imagine it would be,” she laughed, her attention drifting toward the ornate golden clock on the wall.
“I know,” I said, catching the hint.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I promised. “I also have a company to run, after all.”
She rose—careful, testing. No pain. Her smile widened. “Okay, I really might hire you.”
“Anytime,” I said with a grin, snagging my keys from the counter.
She followed me to the elevator, her bare feet making adorably light slapping sounds with each step.
“Thank you again for today,” she said, closing the space between us—eight inches. A measurement I knew by heart. A damn fine number, if I said so myself.
“No,” I said. “Thank you.”
The tension coiled, warm and electric.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled her in. She came willingly—delicate arms winding around me. Holding on. I returned the embrace, gentler, pressing her close just once. Breathing her in.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she stepped away.
The elevator opened behind me, cool air brushing my back.
“See you tomorrow,” I whispered.
One final prayer as the doors slid shut between us.