Or the beginning of it.
Maybe I wasn’t ready to name whatever was curling warm and insistent in my chest. Not tonight. Maybe not for a long time.
But as Damien’s arm tightened unconsciously around me, and I let my eyes drift closed, one thought slipped in anyway, gentle and uninvited:
Maybe one day, when the dust settled and I wasn’t held together with panic and old scars…
I could actually love him.
For now, though, under the fairy lights and the weight of his arm anchoring me in place, it was enough just to stay.
I let myself drift, breathing in the clean, familiar scent of him, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, I fell asleep in someone else’s arms without bracing for the fall.
Chapter 26
***
Emma
Morning light spilled across the room, pale and golden, tracing the sheets tangled around our legs. We’d ended up here in the early hours of the morning, when the birds woke and the first Saturday noises drifted up from the street. I’d shuffled into his room barefoot and wrapped in a blanket, Damien following behind—comfortable in his skin in a way only a Greek god could get away with.
He’d pulled me close when we finally collapsed into bed, both of us barely conscious, exhaustion tugging at our eyelids. And now, his arm lay heavy across my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.
“Good morning, handsome.” I wiggled closer, brushing against him.
He let out a low, lazy laugh. “If you keep that up, neither of us will make it out of this bed.”
“And what if we didn’t?” I teased.
He angled his head, lips brushing my ear. “Want to find out?”
A smile tugged at me. “Is that a warning?”
“Only if you’d rather not end up sorer than you already are.”
“Hmm.” I pretended to consider it. “I’m actually not that sore.”
His mouth curved against my shoulder, wicked and pleased. “Not that sore, huh?”
Before I could answer, his hand dragged me backward, rolling me beneath him in one fluid motion. I squeaked—actually squeaked—as he caged me in with his body.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he purred, lips grazing mine, “I can fix that.”
My laugh dissolved into a gasp as he kissed me again—slow, deep, devastating—pulling me under until thought scattered and the light blurred into gold.
***
Two hours later, I was sitting at Damien’s kitchen table while Ava wreaked cheerful havoc a few feet away. The two of us scrolled through last night’s emails like nothing world-altering had happened on the terrace—or in bed—or in the shower.
Damien’s chin tipped toward the egg currently welding itself to the pan. “I think something’s burning.”
He’d warned me: Ava was a phenomenal baker and an objectively terrible cook. He’d tried to ban her from the stove; she’d staged a rebellion.
“Just pretend you like it,” he muttered, leaning closer. “We’ll order lunch. Early. Very early.”
“Don’t you worry about me,” Ava chided, flapping smoke away like it was perfume.
