Damian’s already striding toward the check-in desk like he owns the island, like he’s here to buy the place and burn the receipt afterward—no limp, no crutch, just that small, sharp tightness in his jaw that only shows if you know him well enough to read the fine print. Which I do. Obsessively. I trail after him at a half-limping jog, dragging all six bags behind me, including the tote—the one that jingles.
The Cole bag.
I swear it’s heavier than it was five minutes ago. I don’t trust it. It looks like a public safety violation wrapped in leopard print, and I refuse to open it until Damian’s in the shower and I’ve got gloves on. Idoknow Cole slipped in at least three kinds of lube—probably edible, possibly cursed, maybe glowing in the dark—and I make a mental note to unpack that shit myself before Damian stumbles across it and throws me off a balcony in righteous fury.
The cane is mocking me too, sticking out of the duffel like an accusation, like it knows Damian didn’t want to bring it, didn’t want to need it, and is currently one misstep away from provingit right because someone—me—is absolutely going to get fucked in ways that test the structural integrity of expensive furniture.
I hoist everything forward, trying not to sweat straight through my tank top, and squint toward the marble check-in desk just in time to see it. The flirting.
Damian’s standing there in all six-foot-five inches of him, sleeves rolled to his forearms, sunglasses hooked casually at his collar, wearing an expression that says he’s contemplating murder with a fruit knife. And the concierge—the man isswooning.
He’s leaned forward with both elbows on the counter, smile cranked up to something unprofessional, voice dipped low and soft in that way people do when they think they’re being subtle. His fingers tap the desk in a slow rhythm, and his gaze keeps flicking down—to Damian’s arms, his chest, the scar like it’s a religious experience.
I growl. It actually slips out of me, low and instinctive, before I can stop it, like I’m some jealous hellhound and this pretty little twink in a bowtie just wandered too close to my bone.
Damian doesn’t turn around, but he smirks. I catch it—the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—like he knew exactly when I’d snap. The concierge startles, straightens, clears his throat, and suddenly remembers how to stand like a professional human being.
And I tighten my grip on the bags, teeth clenched, already plotting murder.
I stomp the rest of the way up, dramatic as hell, all bag straps and rage and territorial heat radiating off me like I’m about to piss on the marble. I slam the bags down behind us with a thud that makes the fake orchids tremble in their fancy gold vases.
Damian doesn’t look back at me, doesn’t break his posture or his focus on the desk in front of him, but his hand reaches behind his back like it knows exactly where I am, fingers findingmine without searching and giving a gentle tug. And just like that, everything in me caves. The rage fizzles out, my heart stutters, and I lace my fingers through his, squeezing tight as I lean in close enough to murmur against his shoulder, my voice low and sharp with it.
“He keeps looking at your chest again,” I whisper. “I’m going feral.”
Damian hums, barely audible. “Let him.”
“Baby.”
“He’s just doing his job.”
I narrow my eyes, jaw setting as I watch the concierge out of the corner of my vision. “His job does not include undressing you with his face.”
That’s when Damian finally turns. And the smile he gives me—soft and smug—hits like a promise I’m not prepared for. “Are you jealous?” he asks.
I blink up at him, pulse kicking hard. “Do you want me to be?”
His hand slips free of mine and slides to my waist instead, thumb settling at my hip with casual ownership, grounding and infuriating all at once. He leans in, close enough that his lips brush my temple as he murmurs, low and private, “I want you to show me later.”
Fucking hell.
The concierge is already rattling off details—private villa, plunge pool, sea view, the words “honeymoon package” floating past like meaningless noise—but I can’t track any of it, not with Damian’s fingers teasing the waistband of my shorts and his voice still lingering against my ear like an afterimage.
“I’m gonna ruin you in that pool, pup,” he murmurs under his breath. “And you’re gonna scream loud enough theydokick us out.”
I make a sound I cannot defend—something wounded and wrecked, halfway between a porn star and a dying espressomachine—and the concierge coughs sharply like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t hear it. A key card is offered a second later, fast and professional and very pointedly not accompanied by eye contact. Damian takes it with a brief nod and a thank-you so cold and clipped it could qualify as a crime in several countries.
Then we’re moving again, luggage clattering behind me as I drag it along, my hand still tingling where he held it, Damian’s palm warm and steady at my lower back like he’s guiding me through enemy territory. I’m vibrating the entire way—jealousy still buzzing under my skin, anticipation coiled tight in my chest, and the absolute certainty that the second we get to that room, I am not leaving it for days.
The suite is rich-people obscene. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the ocean like it was staged there on purpose, blue and endless beyond the glass. The bed is massive, big enough to host a team meeting and still have room for bad decisions, and the private plunge pool glistens just outside on the stone deck like it knows exactly what it’s about to witness. There’s a bowl of mangoes on the counter that probably cost more than my first car, arranged like art instead of fruit.
And Damian doesn’t even look at any of it. Doesn’t glance at the view. Doesn’t acknowledge the infinity tub carved into the floor like a pagan altar to sin. Doesn’t even blink at the giant welcome display on the bed with towels folded into swans and champagne already chilling on ice.
He walks in like he owns the entire damn resort, steps over the threshold with that silent predator grace he always has, and then—stops, turns and goes straight for the Cole bag.
I freeze mid-step. Still clutching the straps of the duffel and trying not to drop the cane or knock over a decorative vase shaped like a flamingo fucking a pineapple. “Baby, wait—”
He doesn’t wait. He reaches into the tote like he knows exactly where to go, plunging his hand past silk scarves and tangledcharger cords, past whatever unholy chaos Cole crammed into that hellbag, and comes back up with it like it was always meant to end this way.
