And maybe that’s worse.
Maybe him not stopping me is the most dangerous part.
Because it means he knows.
Healwaysknows.
The smell is everywhere, thick and heavy in my chest.
And then—heat.
A shadow swallows me whole. A chest against my back. A hand braced firm against the wall by my head. His weight cages me in before I can even jolt.
Damian.
His breath ghosts over the side of my throat. My knees nearly give.
“You really are pathetic, pup,” he murmurs, low and lethal, right against my ear. “Face in my old jackets, moaning like a slut. Bet you’d hump the fabric if I let you.”
A sound rips out of me—wrecked, high, desperate. My grip on the sleeves tightens. My head tips back helplessly against the broad steel of his chest.
“Do you even hear yourself?” His mouth brushes the curl of my ear. “Whimpering like I’ve got you bent over already, when all you’ve done is sniff where I used to sweat. You’re so fucking gone for me you can’t even stand in my hallway without making a mess of yourself.”
The sound is muffled in the fabric, half-groan, half-plea. My thighs tremble. My breath stutters. And the worst—best—part is that he doesn’t push further. Doesn’t drag me to my knees or shove me against the wall.
He just steps back.
Gone.
By the time I turn, heart hammering, face burning, Damian’s already at the counter again. Calm. Controlled. Pouring coffee into a mug.
He sets the mug down in front of me. Black. Strong. Steaming.
“Drink,” he says, as if nothing happened at all.
And I do.
Hands shaking, throat burning, chest wrecked—because I know I’ll follow every order he gives me.
The coffee burns down my throat, hot enough to sting, bitter enough to make my face twist—but it’s the only thingkeeping me upright. Then Damian’s hand sets a plate in front of me. Eggs, toast, something that looks like he actually cooked instead of just dumped out of a container.
I blink at it. Blink at him.
He sits across from me, calm as ever, already eating.
I narrow my eyes.
And because apparently I have no sense of self-preservation left around him, my mouth opens.
“What is this, Cap? Trying to feed me up before you fold me again? Gotta keep your rookie plump so he crawls prettier?”
The chirp hangs in the air. My fork hovers over the eggs I haven’t touched, my pulse hammering because—Christ—why did I say that?
But Damian doesn’t blink. Doesn’t frown. Doesn’t even look up from his plate. He just chews, swallows, and lifts his gaze to mine.
And fuck. That look.
My grin wobbles on my face, reckless fire in my chest warring with the survival instinct telling me to run far, far away.
