Chapter 35
* * *
Damien
Thank you for wanting me.
The words haunted me—echoed through my skull like a melody I couldn’t unhear.
The way she’d said them. So small. So painfully sincere.
Who made her feel that way?
Who broke her down until gratitude became her default instead of expectation?
Until being wanted felt like a privilege she hadn’t earned?
Rage and sorrow tangled together in my chest.
Whoever they were, whatever ghosts had done this to her, I wanted them gone.
She’d fallen asleep in my arms, body still warm and trembling, skin slick with the remnants of what we’d shared. I’d cleaned her as best I could without waking her, every touch gentle and respectful.
Now she slept soundly, the blanket drawn high, the faintest smile curving her lips. Her curls fanned across the pillow like ink on silk.
“I love you,” I whispered into the dark.
A truth. A confession.
One she wasn’t ready to hear.
Allowing herself to love me—to believe she could—would take time. Especially after tonight. After the way she’d stripped herself bare, body and soul. The rawness that hung between us now would change everything that came next.
Because she would wake up tomorrow drowning in emotions she wouldn’t know how to name. Guilt. Confusion. Fear. All born from my carelessness.
I replayed every moment—not out of desire, but out of analysis. Where had I missed it?
The shift in her rhythm?
The tremor in her words?
The way her body had gone from trembling with pleasure to relaxed and supple in my arms.
I dragged a hand through my hair, exhaling as I slid closer, my chest molding to the gentle curve of her back. She sighed in her sleep, shifting closer, instinct guiding her even in rest.
Her subdrop had hit hard—too hard. She must have been carrying so much already, all that pressure and loneliness building for years, waiting for a crack to escape through.
I pressed my lips to her shoulder. “I should’ve seen it coming.” The words pressed into her skin.
Next time, I would.
Next time, I’d prepare her.
Protect her.
Her scent curled around me—vanilla and something sweet and the faint trace of salt. I inhaled her, let it sink into the fibers of my DNA.
And somewhere between guilt and devotion, I made a silent promise: Never again.
The possibility of what was waiting for us in the future. Her submission.
A choice she’d wear beautifully, I thought, the idea sliding unbidden into my mind. Last night had confirmed it. She needed this as much as I did. She needed to be loved unconditionally, guided not with a cane but with care, supported as she excelled.
My imagination traced the line of her throat, where the collar would rest—simple, elegant, hers. A symbol that she belonged, that she was mine and I was hers.
I’d ordered it hours before, sometime after she’d fallen asleep.
Rush delivery, because patience was a virtue I no longer possessed.
It wasn’t a thick band of leather or cold steel—it was gold, delicate, understated.
Something that would blend seamlessly with the jewelry she already wore.
Something she could wear into a boardroom without anyone ever knowing its meaning.
My hand slid over the curve of her hip, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there. I let myself memorize the feel of her—the steady rise of her breath, the faint hum of life beneath her skin.
She felt like home.
And of all people, I had my damn mother to thank.
Her relentless persistence had driven me to it—the dating profile I’d created ages ago and promptly forgotten. Until one night, when loneliness had carved too deep, and I’d opened it again.
And there she was.
Blurred. Anonymous. But her.
It had been professional admiration at first.
Elion’s steady rise. Its refusal to fold under pressure. The precision and heart threaded through every decision.
A company that could inflate Falkirk’s value by billions—and I wanted it.
I reached out to her with that in mind. Strictly business. A merger, an acquisition—nothing more.
But then she spoke.
And the sound of her—steady, sharp, alive—woke something inside me I hadn’t felt in years.
Fascination, I told myself. Logical. Harmless.
But fascination became fixation.
And fixation became something dangerously close to longing.
I’d made mistakes because of that longing—unforgivable ones.
Pushed when I should’ve waited.
Hidden when I should’ve told her the truth.
And yet here she was, asleep in my arms.
Accepting me. All of me—the dark corners, the jagged edges, the pieces I’d thought no one could ever want.
Her agreement to walk this path with me, to trust me with her body and her heart—it made my chest ache, too full to contain.
* * *
Morning came quietly, turning the curtains a mottled shade of gray as sunlight tried—and failed—to slip through.
Emma breathed softly, her chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm that made time feel almost merciful.
She stirred in my arms, and I froze—waiting for her to drift back under. But a small yawn slipped free. She turned toward me, face creased from the pillow, eyes rimmed red from last night’s tears.
“Good morning,” she croaked, dragging a hand across her face.
I leaned in, pressed a kiss to her temple. The gesture had become instinct—unspoken love made routine. “Good morning.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten.”
“Jeez,” she huffed. “It’s been a while since I slept this late.”
“I know,” I said, my fingers tracing idle circles over the bare skin of her back. “I thought we could do something different today.”
She turned to face me, evidence of sleep still clinging to the inside corners of her eyes. “Like what?”
“Something out of town so we can relax. I found a vintage market about an hour away. I thought we could go take a look.”
“The one in Peeksville?”
“The very same.”
“I’d love that!” she said, tone bright. Then, her face fell. “I promised Candace I’d see her today. She wanted to know how the meeting went.”
“Then invite her with us,” I said with a shrug, unable to stop the small smile tugging at my mouth.
“Is that something a dominant would allow?” she teased, eyebrows arching.
I chuckled. “I’ll never keep you from seeing the people you care about, Emma. Never. If I ever try to pull some shit like that, you have my full permission to kick me in the balls.”
Her eyes lit with amusement before the laugh burst free, and she buried her face in my chest.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
She sprung from my arms, already reaching for her phone. Her fingers danced over the screen, then paused—one decisive tap sending the message.
Her phone buzzed almost instantly, and the way her whole face lit at the reply made me smile.
“She’s in.” A grin spread across her face. “Wants to meet in a couple of hours.”
“Perfect.” I pushed off the bed with a groan and walked toward the bathroom. I turned the shower on, testing the heat with the back of my hand before glancing over my shoulder. “Now, Ms. Sinclair,” I said, letting my voice drop, “would you like to join me?”
Her answering smile was wicked and slow. She rose from the bed in one graceful motion. “Always.”
* * *
The shower had failed her expectations.
She’d reached for me—tentative touches, searching, hungry for connection—but with the strength of a thousand warhorses, I’d declined. It would’ve been too much. Too soon.
She was still fragile, her body and mind both raw from the night before. Sex too soon after subdrop could fracture what we’d built, could turn comfort into confusion.
Instead, I’d given her something else.
Intimacy without the edge.
Unhurried kisses. Easy laughter. Words of affirmation whispered against her damp skin as I washed her, taking my time until she smelled like vanilla and sunlight—clean and sweet.
Now she sat tucked into the leather passenger seat of my car, hair loose and wild, body draped in a flowing blood-red dress I’d laid out for her, a playful pout curving her lips.
The hour-long drive passed in easy rhythm.
We debated everything—music tastes, movie endings, what counted as the superior road-trip snack.
I learned she listened for beats; I listened for lyrics.
She claimed bards in medieval times had great words but “shit accompaniment,” and after a ten-minute argument, I surrendered with mock defeat.
By the time we pulled into the gravel lot, her laughter had faded into soft humming, my hand resting on her upper thigh.
The building rose before us—weathered and full of stories. A rusted tin sign arched over the doorway, bold black letters spelling out Peeksville Vintage Market with a crooked arrow pointing downward. The same rust freckled the building’s frame, ivy clinging to its sides.
Out front, an eclectic sprawl of furniture waited under the bright afternoon sun—chairs that didn’t match, mirrors too ornate for their frames, the ghosts of a hundred homes waiting to be claimed again.
We stepped inside, the scent hitting me first—aged paper and varnish, like an old library buried under time. Every inch of space was occupied: stacks of mismatched furniture, old mirrors, chipped china. Narrow paths wound through the chaos like veins, leading nowhere in particular.
“Emma!” Candace called, darting around a dresser —all bounce and brightness—closing the distance in three quick steps. She was pretty—sculpted, lean, perfectly pleasant. But she lacked the brilliance that clung to Emma like perfume—the quiet gravity that drew every eye without effort.
Emma’s head turned, a smile forming as she waved.
Candace beamed back, wrapping Emma in a hug.
Pleasantries spilled, laughter light and quick—until a man appeared.
My stomach dropped. Disgust clawed its way up my throat.
Garrett.
“Damien,” Candace chirped, catching my eye. “I’m so glad you invited us.”
Emma stepped back from the hug, the warmth drained from her face, replaced by a coldness sharp enough to cut glass. “You,” she snapped, the words slicing clean through the air. “We invited you.”