Damian’s voice carried softly from the living room. He was on the phone—almost certainly with his lawyer. His tone was calm, composed, but the cold undercurrent in it reminded me how close we had been to the darkness these last days.
Yesterday had been consumed at the police station. Damian and the two surviving bodyguards were arrested, questioned, held under the suffocating pressure of suspicion. The investigation was still unfolding, and every move we made was being watched. Karl and Marlon lay in the hospital, fighting their injuries. So did the only two survivors of Mason’s men.
And Ference...
My chest constricted at the thought of him. He would never come back. Not ever. Because of me. The guilt pressed heavier than any wound, turning each breath into punishment. It had been my choice to go with Mason. My choice to play his game. If I had fought back then—if I had chosen differently—Ference would still be alive. His blood was on my hands.
And Damian... Damian hadn’t just lost a bodyguard. He had lost a friend—a man he trusted with his life. That wound would never heal. Not for him. And not for me.
Damian entered the bedroom, his expression unreadable.
“The lawyer has everything under control,” he said evenly, setting the phone aside. “The investigation is ongoing, but they have nothing that could endanger us. Not if we’re careful.”
“Nothing except the incident in Mason’s office.”
Damian gave a short, dry snort, his gaze cold and calculating. “Mason made sure there were no records of it. He was too terrified of the fallout.”
“But the bodyguards, the assistants... they saw you.”
“Don’t worry about them. They were compensated—generously. The matter is closed.”
Thechill in his words sent a shiver racing down my spine. I wanted to ask how far thatcompensationhad really gone, but I swallowed the question. The ice between us was too thin, and silence felt safer. Still, the memory pressed down on me. Damian had killed Mason—and two of his men—without hesitation. He could have shot to wound, but instead he had aimed for their chests, their heads. Straight for the kill.
“Are you almost done?” he asked.
I flinched as his voice cut through my thoughts, his finger pointing at the towel still wrapped around me.
“How much longer will you need?”
“We should end this,” I whispered, my voice trembling. My heart pounded against my ribs as I looked at him—looked at the grief and violence he carried like a second skin. “You see what comes of this. Everything I touch breaks. Everyone close to me gets hurt. Ference...” His name scraped from my throat like broken glass. A searing ache tore through my chest, and tears pricked my eyes. “He’s dead.”
The words slashed the air between us, but it felt like they cut deeper into me than into him. Because the guilt never stopped eating me alive.
Damian stepped closer, his eyes shadowed with pain and fierce resolve.
“It’s not your fault, Daisy. None of this is your fault.”
He leaned in.
The kiss was so tender it burned, aching worse than a slap. His lips seared against mine, and for one devastating heartbeat, my body wanted nothing more than to collapse into that heat. But the guilt, the fear, the pain inside me were stronger. My fingers dug into the sleeves of his shirt as if I meant to hold on—yet it was a farewell.
“I have to go,” I breathed against his mouth. A violent tremor shuddered through me, making it hard to stand. With the last of my strength, I tore myself from him, grabbed my things off the bed, and pushed past.
My hand had just closed on the handle when his arm slammed against the door beside my head. The door shook under the impact, and a strangled cry escaped me. The bang rang in my ears like thunder.
His hand clamped around my neck, unyielding, merciless. My breath caught as he yanked me back, pinning me to the cold wood. His fist tangled in my hair, forcing my head back. A soft cry slipped from my lips—more shock than pain. His eyes locked on mine, blazing with everything at once: anger, fear, despair, an unbridled hunger that threatened to rip him apart. For an instant, I thought he’d chain me to him. He was fighting the impulse to never let me go. His grip tightened, every line of his body thrumming as though one wrong breath would set off an explosion.
Then something shifted—something that gutted me even more. Slowly, as if it cost him every shred of willpower, he peeled each finger away from my throat and turned to the window. His back strained under the fabric of his shirt, rigid with the force of what he was holding in. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Yet everything in hisposture screamed this wasn’t finished, that it would never be finished.
“Go,” he said at last, his voice raw.
Not a threat.
Not a plea.
So I went.
Chapter 21 Damian
