Then: “Damien’s. I’ll text you the address.”
My brow pulled tight.
She ended the call and let the phone fall on the coffee table with a sound of pure exhaustion.
“What was that about?”
She rubbed her face. “Candace feels bad and wants to ‘show her support.’ With food.”
The air quotes practically dripped skepticism.
Support.
Food.
At my home.
At five.
I was going to throw up.
“Okay,” I managed, forcing down the words that wanted to rip free.
Hell no. Not tonight. Not when she is finally letting me hold the pieces together.
Instead, I asked, keeping my tone light, “Are they bringing food, or do we need to order in?”
“She’s bringing Chinese or something,” she muttered, tugging the throw blanket higher. It slipped, exposing both her feet. She scowled at it, kicked, then yanked, then kicked again. “Piece of shit,” she hissed under her breath at the fabric, fighting it like it was the source of all her problems.
I watched her struggle, this tiny storm of exhaustion and irritation wrapped in my blanket, until she finally—finally—managed to settle. Her left big toe still sticking out defiantly.
“Um, okay,” I chuckled, looking between her and the phone on the coffee table, which she certainly wouldn’t be able to reach without another MMA fight. “I’ll text her the address.”
The message pinged from my phone into the ether.
Chapter 42
***
Emma
I woke hours later, heavy-limbed and fogged with sleep.
Damien had apparently watched the rest ofEclipsealone—something he begrudgingly informed me of—along with a few episodes of some Alaskan survival show only a man would find remotely entertaining.
Now he was running around the house like a man possessed—straightening pillows, wiping counters, rearranging things that were already perfectly fine.
I’d tried to tell him it was just Candace. But he fussed like a mother hen with an OCD complex.
“Take a shower,” he barked from the kitchen. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“Take a shower,” I muttered back in a terrible impression, followed by a sigh meant to be dramatic.
His head whipped around the corner. Eyes narrowed in warning.
“Fine,” I said quickly, pushing off the couch.
Ten minutes later, warm water still clinging to my skin, I felt almost human again. The shower had given me just enough space to replay everything Damien had said earlier—how he’d taken control of the situation, how he’d planned and maneuvered and protected.
