I obey.I close my eyes and cover my ears.I dimly hear voices, shouts, and I jerk as a single shot detonates, leaving only deadly silence in its wake.
Damiano moves again, shifting me into his arms as if I’m something precious and sacred, and carries me out of the place where I thought I was going to die.When I open my eyes again, I’m in the backseat of a car, curled up on his lap.He strokes my hair, grounding me, whispering wordless comfort.And in the warmth of his embrace, I know one thing for certain—my monster came for me.
And he will never let the darkness touch me again.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Lily
Damiano lifts me out of the car like I weigh nothing, his arms strong and sure around me.I don’t protest.I am too drained, too hollowed out to even try.My head rests against his chest, cheek pressed to the steady beat of his heart.That sound alone is enough to stop my spiraling.The elevator ride up to his penthouse is silent, save for the subtle hum of the mechanics and the occasional hiss of his breath.He is angry, still coiled with violence.I can sense it in the way his jaw tics, in the white-knuckle grip he has around me and the protective way his body shields mine from the world.
He didn’t say a word as he ran his hands over me in the car, checking for injuries with silent, intense focus.His touch was firm, clinical, but the storm in his eyes told another story entirely.Only when I whispered that I felt okay and that I didn’t need a hospital did he finally speak to order the driver to take us home.
Home.That single word cracked something open in me…and somehow began to stitch me back together again.Now it echoes inside me, low and steady, as his arms wrap around me, warm and solid, inescapable.
Maybe home isn’t a place.Maybe home is him.
When the elevator doors slide open, the scent of his penthouse hits me, clean cedar, leather, and something that’s purely him.It’s familiar, anchoring.The door shuts behind us with a soft click.He doesn’t speak as he carries me through the sleek, modern space, past floor-to-ceiling windows veiled in heavy drapes, past quiet shadows that seem to hold their breath.Everything is dim but warm.As if by shutting out the daylight, he is trying to keep the world away…to keep me safe inside the dark.We enter the bedroom, but he doesn’t stop there.Instead, he carries me straight into the bathroom.The soft rustle of him setting me down on the marble bench near the shower echoes in the stillness.I blink up at him, unsure what to say, but he has already turned to the tub.My mind is sluggish, as if wrapped in cotton.I can’t hold onto a single thought, and soon I am mesmerized by the light of the bathroom.Warm and golden, it dances across the brass fixtures and polished stone, flickering like candlelight beneath the floating mirror.I stare, transfixed.The world narrows to the soft glow and shifting shapes.
Damiano fills the bath in silence, checking the temperature with his hand.Only when the steam begins to rise does he come back to me and kneel down, his hands gentle at the lapels of his jacket.
“Let me?”he asks, voice hoarse with restraint.
I nod.
One by one, he peels off the remnants of the day, the fabric torn and dirtied, the skin beneath marked with bruises that make his breath catch.He never looks away, never flinches.I should feel vulnerable bare like this, but his touch is anchoring me, soothing my frayed nerves.He helps me into the tub and sinks down beside it, rolling up his sleeves.The water is hot and encompassing, swallowing me whole like safety itself.I close my eyes as he wets a cloth and begins to clean me with slow, careful strokes, over my neck, my arms, my bruised ribs.He pauses at the split on my lip, his thumb brushing beneath it as if he could erase the pain with his tenderness.
“I didn’t run from you,” I whisper, eyes still closed.
His hand stills.Then he rasps, “I know, love.”
I open my eyes and find him watching me, his expression unreadable, but I see the storm beneath.Guilt… Fury… And something I don’t want to name.
“I’m done running, Dark,” I whisper, voice breaking.“I’m done being scared.I’m done hiding from you.”Something in his gaze softens, crumbles then reforms all at once.He leans forward and presses a kiss to my temple.
“I’ll never let anything or anyone hurt you again,” he murmurs.“I swear it.Not while I breathe.”
By the time I step out of the bath, wrapped in one of Damiano’s thick, dark towels, something in me has settled.Not healed, but steadied.A fracture made solid again by his care and the way he saw every broken part of me and didn’t flinch.He now watches me quietly from where he leans against the bathroom door frame.His shirt sleeves are still rolled up, his inked forearms tense, his expression unreadable.But his eyes never leave mine.
I walk to him slowly, barefoot, water still clinging to my skin.I reach for his hand, curling my fingers around his.“I need…” My voice falters.
“You don’t have to say it,” he says gently, voice low and warm.“Whatever you need, it’s yours.”
I nod.“I need to feel in control again.I need you to let me have that, just this time.”
His gaze darkens, not with dominance, but with surrender.
“Take it,” he says.“Take all of me.”
He lets me lead him to the bedroom, where soft light and shadows dance across the wide bed.The curtains are drawn, sealing us off from the outside world.And somehow, that makes me even more aware of him, of us.He sits as I guide him by the hand.There is something raw in the way he looks at me, like I’m the single thing anchoring him to this world.I let the towel fall to the floor and watch how his breath catches, but he doesn’t move.He doesn’t reach for me.He waits, like a beast on a leash, like my monster tamed for me alone.I climb into his lap, straddling him.His hands stay at his sides, his body locked beneath mine.I cup his face with trembling fingers and press my forehead to his.
“I want to be the one who takes,” I whisper.“Just this once.I need to.”
His eyes close, lashes brushing against my skin as he exhales.“Then take,” he murmurs.“Ruin me, little flower.”
And I do.I kiss him first, slow and bold.It’s not a question or a plea, but a claiming.
He opens for me like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.I slide my fingers through his hair, tugging him closer, and his hands rise to rest gently on my thighs, but they don’t move.He lets me guide everything.I push his shirt from his shoulders, tracing every line of muscle, every scar, every mark that makes him mine.I kiss down his throat, his chest, the flower etched over his heart, and he trembles beneath me.
