The elevator climbed in silence. My composure slipped one floor at a time, each chime tapping against my ribs like a countdown.
What the hell am I doing?
Meeting him here—his home, his space—blurred a line I hadn’t even defined. Anticipation tangled with apprehension, fluttering in the hollow of my throat.
The numbers blinked higher.
A chime, a blink, and a heartbeat later the doors parted—and there he was.
Damien leaned against a wall of dark wood and low amber light, wearing black slacks, a fitted T-shirt, and a blazer that clung to his shoulders like sin. His posture was deceptively casual, but the moment his eyes found mine, he came alive—bright and certain, breaking through the air between us like sunlight after a storm.
He pushed off the wall.
Three long strides, and he was in front of me, arms sliding around my waist and up my back, pulling me flush against him. My lungs stuttered—then my hands fisted in the back of his blazer, dragging him impossibly closer as his cologne tangled with my perfume.
I pressed my cheek to his chest, listening as his heartbeat stuttered under my ear. Something caught in him—just once—like he couldn’t quite hide it.
A laugh escaped me, muffled against him. He was nervous, too.
“What?” he asked, the word rumbling through his chest.
“Nothing,” I murmured, peeling myself away from him. Already missing the heat of him.
His hand stayed at the small of my back as we walked deeper into his home. Brick architecture. Clean lines. Masculine. The place was striking, but what caught me wasn’t the scale—it was the bits of him scattered everywhere—lived-in edges tucked inside all the sleek lines.
Framed photos lined the shelves—snapshots of a life I didn’t expect from the man in front of me. One stopped me cold: a younger Damien, maybe eight or nine, grinning in the arms of a woman whose joy radiated through the glossy print.
“That’s Rosie,” he explained.
I studied the photo. A strange tenderness seeped into my chest, accompanied by the all too familiar twinge of pain. “You look like her.”
He chuckled. “That’s what everyone says. I hated hearing it when I was younger but now…” Something eased in his smile. “Now I take it as a compliment.”
“You should,” I said. “She’s beautiful.”
He tilted his head. “Does that mean you think I’m a beautiful man?”
I gave him an exaggerated once-over, tapping my chin like I was considering a business proposal. He went stock-still—sweat beading at his temples.
Then—with an exhale. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you were handsome,” I admitted. The tease dissolved into something raw, terrifyingly honest.
He laughed—relief dropping his shoulders. “Thank god. I was starting to think we were reenacting some corporateBeauty and the Beastsituation.”
“Are you calling me a beast, Mr.Holt?”
He threw his hands up immediately, laughing harder. “Absolutely not. Never.”
Then he stepped closer, the humor thinning into something tender. “I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”
My pulse kicked painfully. Compliments like that never fit right on my skin.
“Please,” I muttered, color climbing my neck.
He reached out, gentle fingers catching a curl and twirling it once around his finger. The air shifted—like spiderwebs whispering against my skin, a tingling awareness sparking down my arms.
“I’m not joking,” he said. “Remember? I was a psycho from the beginning—obsessed with a woman I didn’t even know. Your intelligence pulled me in. But your looks…” He exhaled slow, eyes dragging over me like confession. “That’s what turned me into a madman. And once I started talking to you?” His head shook, helpless. “I was gone.”
Heat surfaced across my chest, my throat, my face—every rational thought dissolving into a hazy, helpless fog. I dipped my head, though warmth tugged insistently at my lips.
