"How did he take that?"
Damon's smile is humorless. "About as well as you'd expect."
We stand there, looking at each other across the living room. The meeting is over, and we're both still alive.
So why does the air between us feel more charged than ever?
"I was worried about you," I admit.
Something flickers across his face, surprise, maybe, or something darker. "Were you?"
"Yes."
He takes a step into the room. His eyes move over me, taking inventory, making sure I'm whole and safe. There's something possessive in his gaze, something that makes my skin flush with heat, but also a glimpse of something protective, something that feels like care.
"Why?" he asks.
It's a simple question with a complicated answer. Why was I worried? Because I've grown attached to my captor? Because I depend on him for my safety? Because somewherein the past week, I've started caring about what happens to him?
Or because the thought of never seeing him again panics me? Because a future without him, even one free from captivity, feels strangely empty?
"I don't know," I lie, even as my heart screams the answer.
"Yes, you do." He takes another step closer, and I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker – adrenaline, maybe, or the lingering tension from whatever happened tonight. And beneath it all, the scent ofhim, uniquely Damon.
He's right. I do know. I don't want to say it out loud, because saying it makes it real. Makes it impossible to ignore.
"I should go shower," he says, but he doesn't move. His eyes are locked on mine, dark and intense, revealing a vulnerability I rarely see. "Long fucking night."
"Okay."
But neither of us moves. We stand there, staring at each other.
"Your father threatened to kill me if I hurt you," he says suddenly. “If I touched you.”
"Did you tell him you wouldn't?" I want to know, desperately, what he truly thinks.
"I told him what he needed to hear."
"Which was?"
"That you're safe with me."
"Am I?" The question slips out before I can stop it, loaded with more meaning than just physical safety.
His smile is dangerous, predatory, but there's a flicker of something else beneath it now – conflict, perhaps. "That depends on what you consider dangerous."
"I'm not afraid of you." It's mostly true. The fear is there, a primal hum, but it's overshadowed by this other, more compelling pull.
"You should be."
"Why?"
"Because I can’t stop thinking about touching you. Touching you the first time was a goddamn mistake. But tonight I'm too tired to keep pretending I don't want to."
No romantic declarations, no talk of feelings, just raw, honest desire, laced with a hint of something deeper, a confession of his own losing battle.
"What’s stopping you?" I whisper.
