18. Back To Her
Back To Her
Damian
The city lights blur into streaks of gold and white as I lean back against the seat, exhaustion pressing into my bones like iron weights. The low hum of the engine vibrates beneath me, the scent of leather and gunpowder still thick on my clothes.
Alessandra sits beside me, silent, her body rigid but steady. The slight bruising along her cheekbone and the dried blood at her temple fuel a rage that hasn’t left me since I pulled the trigger in that warehouse.
Outside, my men drive in formation, black SUVs moving through Milan’s quiet streets like predators retreating into the shadows. A reminder that the war isn’t over.
That this night, no matter how victorious, is only the beginning of what’s to come.I shift slightly, glancing at Alessandra. She hasn’t said a word since we left. She just stares out the window, watching the city pass in silence.
“You’re leaving Milan,” I say, my voice steady, firm. “Tomorrow, you’ll be on a flight to America. You’ll stay with friends of mine—people I trust.”
Her fingers twitch slightly against her lap, but she doesn’t turn to look at me.
“It’s the only way to keep you safe.”
She exhales softly, her breath barely audible over the hum of the engine. For a moment, I expect an argument. A protest. A refusal.
Instead, she just nods.
Her gaze stays on the city beyond the glass, watching as we move through streets she may not see again for a long time. Maybe ever.
The weight in my chest tightens.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaustion sinking deeper. There’s no other choice. Not for her. Not for me.
Alessandra may not say it, but I know she understands.
I look out the window and for the first time since waking up, my mind isn’t consumed by blood or strategy.
It’s on Nichole.
A tightness builds in my chest, unfamiliar but unrelenting. I can still feel the weight of her in my arms, the way she collapsed against me when I freed her from the nightmare room. She isn’t real. Not in the way Alessandra is. Not in the way this war is.
But she feels real and that’s enough to drive me insane. I need to see her.
By the time I step into my penthouse, exhaustion clings to me like a second skin. My muscles ache from the hours of relentless movement, from the weight of the gun in my hand, from the violence I just left behind.
The place is silent. Cold.
The city’s glow bleeds through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, fractured shadows across the sleek furniture. But I don’t see any of it.
I’m already moving toward the bedroom, stripping off my bloodstained shirt as I go. The adrenaline that carried me through the mission is fading, leaving behind a sharp, restless energy. My body is on the brink of collapse, but my mind won’t stop.
Not yet. Not until I’m with her again.
The bed is unmade, the sheets slightly rumpled from the last time I slept here. It feels foreign—like something belonging to a life I no longer recognize.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, gripping the back of my neck, willing myself to let go.
Let go of the bloodshed. The bodies. The war that isn’t finished.
Let go of the fact that Alessandra is safe, but Nichole is still just a dream.
A deep breath. Another. My head tilts back.
I let the exhaustion take me.
And the moment my body surrenders to sleep—everything shifts.
The air around me thickens, folding in on itself like a collapsing star. My senses blur, then sharpen again, pulling me through the intangible divide between two worlds.
The scent of marble and firewood replaces the stench of gunpowder and sweat.
The tension coiled in my muscles eases, melting into something familiar. Something safe.
The sounds of the city vanish, swallowed by the distant crackling of flames and Chopin.
The weight of the real world evaporates the moment I step into the dream mansion.
Warmth washes over me, a stark contrast to the cold edge of reality. The high ceilings stretch above, chandeliers casting a golden glow that dances along the polished marble floors. The massive double doors behind me seal shut with a quiet finality, locking the chaos of war behind me.
But I barely register any of it.
Because she’s here.
Nichole stands at the far end of the grand hall, her posture tense, her fingers gripping the fabric of her dress as if bracing for disappointment.
Her eyes search the space wildly—until they land on me.
Relief crashes across her face like a tidal wave, her body sagging slightly before something deeper—something more desperate—takes over.
She moves. Not cautiously. Not hesitantly. She runs.
Before I can take a single step toward her, she’s already in my arms, slamming into my chest with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. Her arms wrap around me, her fingers digging into my back as if anchoring herself to the moment, to me.
I catch her. Hold her. Feel her. And for the first time in what feels like an eternity, my world stops spinning. She’s warm. Solid. Real.
I bury my face in her hair, inhaling the faint trace of jasmine and honey that lingers in the strands. My arms tighten around her, my fingers pressing into the small of her back, ensuring that she doesn’t disappear.
She tilts her head, her lips brushing against my throat as she exhales shakily.
Then she pulls back just enough to look at me, her hands still gripping the fabric of my shirt as if afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go. Her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, her eyes searching mine—frantic, desperate, relieved.
"You’re back," she murmurs, as if she still can’t believe it.
I bring my hand to her face, brushing my fingers through her soft hair, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my touch. It grounds me, she grounds me. The scent of jasmine lingers in the air between us, intoxicating, familiar.
"You know I can’t be away from you for too long," I say, my voice lower, rough with exhaustion and something else—something deeper.
Her lips part slightly, but no words come out. They don’t need to. The silence between us speaks louder than anything we could say. The weight of everything we’ve endured—the nightmares, the pain, the fear—settles between us.
For days, we fought through hell. Together. And now, we’re here.
I don’t say anything. I just pull her closer, wrapping my arms around her again, tucking her against my chest. She presses her forehead against my shoulder, exhaling slowly.
Her body fits against mine perfectly. Like she belongs there.
My fingers trail down her back, slow, steady, reassuring. “It’s over.”
She exhales sharply, as if the words snap something inside her.
Her arms tighten around me, and she nods against my shoulder. She needs this. And for once, I let myself admit that I do too.
I rest my chin against the top of her head, closing my eyes for a moment.
We survived.
I tilt her chin up, my fingers brushing along the soft curve of her jaw, forcing her to look at me. Her lips are slightly parted, her breath shallow, her pulse racing. But she doesn’t pull away.
She never does. I see it in her eyes—that fear, that longing. The same ache that’s been clawing at my chest since the moment I left her behind.
I lower my head, my lips brushing against hers, light at first—a whisper of a touch, testing, waiting. She exhales softly, a quiet sigh that sends heat racing through my veins.
And then I kiss her.
Not rushed. Not desperate.
Slow. Deliberate. Certain.
Nichole melts against me, her body pressing into mine, her fingers curling tighter into my shirt as if trying to anchor herself.
Her lips part beneath mine, welcoming me, pulling me deeper.
I take my time, memorizing the shape of her mouth, the warmth of her breath, the way she shivers slightly when my hand drifts lower, resting at the small of her back.
This isn’t just need. It isn’t just lust.
It’s something more. Something undeniable.
A silent promise that no matter how much time or distance separates us, we will always find our way back to each other.
I deepen the kiss, tilting my head, drawing her closer, savoring the taste of her. She responds just as fiercely, her hands moving from my chest to my shoulders, then higher, threading through my hair.
A sharp exhale escapes me as her nails lightly scrape against my scalp.
Fuck.
Everything fades—the nightmares, the blood, the war.
There is only her.
I pull back just enough to look at her, my forehead resting against hers. Her eyes flutter open, dazed, her lips swollen from my kiss. My thumb brushes over her cheek, my own breathing uneven.
“Nichole…” My voice is rough, low, filled with everything I can’t say.
Her fingers tremble against my jawline. “I know.”
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe it.
The fire crackles softly, filling the room with its gentle warmth. Shadows flicker against the marble walls, stretching and shifting as if they, too, are caught in the quiet pull between us. The scent of burning wood lingers in the air, mixing with something deeper—anticipation.
Nichole stands in front of me, illuminated by the glow of the flames. Her golden skin reflects the light, her dark eyes steady on mine, searching for something unspoken. I know what she’s looking for because I feel it too—the need to anchor ourselves in something real, something tangible.
It’s strange how the mansion feels different now. Before, it had been a place of mystery, of power, of endless questions. But now? Now, it feels like something else entirely. A sanctuary. A place that only belongs to us.
She shifts slightly, bare feet brushing against the fur rug.
I watch the way the firelight plays along the curves of her body, the way her lips part slightly, like she’s about to say something—but she doesn’t.
Instead, she reaches for me, her fingers grazing my forearm before trailing higher, pressing against my chest.
I cover her hand with mine, holding it there, feeling the steady beat of my heart beneath her touch. It’s steady, controlled—but barely.
“I missed you,” she whispers.