Chapter 10: Stormy Feelings
The first slice of dawn was a pale, guilty thing. It cut through the narrow gap in the blinds, a razor line of white-gold that fell directly across Bethany’s eyes. She woke not with a start, but with a slow, sinking realization. The weight on her hip was his arm. The heat against her back was his chest, rising and falling in a deep, even rhythm. The scent in the air was no longer just bergamot and cleaner; it was sweat, and sex, and him.
She didn’t move.
Her mind, usually a humming control center of strategies and verdicts, was staticky, quiet. The internal lecture — foolish, reckless, pathetic — hadn’t started yet. For a few suspended minutes, there was just the physical truth. The solid press of him. The unfamiliar, almost forgotten ache in her muscles. A soreness between her thighs that was a stark, bodily confession.
She wasn’t still in love.
That’s what she told the daylight. Love was a contract. Love was trust and future promises. That was shattered. This was something else, a gravitational sickness, a history written in bone-deep familiarity. She knew the exact pattern of his breathing when he was in a true sleep, not a vigilant doze. She knew the faint scar on his knuckle, silvered in this light, from a long-ago fight he’d never explained. She knew him, and the knowing tugged at her with a worry she had no right to feel.
Still worried about him.
It was an infuriating tenderness. She thought of the dangerous circles he moved in, the deals that left shadows under his eyes, the casual way he’d mentioned a rival’s “retirement” over scotch last night. A cold knot formed in her stomach. It was the same fear she’d lived with, the one that had eventually curdled into resentment. She’d left to stop feeling it. Yet here it was, blooming again in the quiet morning, as persistent as a weed.
Calling last night a mistake was a lie she wouldn’t feed herself. It was a choice. A collision. A necessary, terrible truth. And the aftermath was this: a profound, unsettling peace. She didn’t want him to leave. The idea of extracting herself from this tangle of limbs, of walking to the shower and scrubbing his scent away, of returning to her empty, impeccable side of the suite… it felt like a form of violence.
So she stayed. She listened to the city waking up below, a distant rumble seeping through the triple-paned glass. She watched the dust motes dance in the invading beam of light. She mapped the topography of his arm draped over her, the heavy muscle relaxed, the possessive curl of his fingers.
His breathing changed. A hitch, a deeper inhalation. He was surfacing. She closed her eyes, feigning sleep, an old, childish reflex. She felt him stir, the arm around her tightening infinitesimally. He nuzzled the nape of her neck, a sleepy, instinctive gesture that shattered her pretense.
“Your thinking is loud,” his voice was a graveled rumble against her skin.
“I’m not thinking,” she said to the wall.
“Liar.” He kissed her shoulder, where the mark from his teeth was a faint, purple shadow. A claim. She shivered.
He turned her onto her back. He was propped on an elbow, his hair ruffled, his green eyes still soft with sleep but rapidly focusing. He studied her face with an unnerving completeness. She didn’t look away. Let him see the conflict. Let him see she wasn’t hiding now.
“Regrets?” he asked. His tone was careful, neutral.
“No.” The word was immediate, startling them both. She clarified, her voice quieter. “Not about the sex. About the… complication.”
He nodded, as if he’d expected that. “Complication’s my middle name, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart.” It was automatic, but lacked its usual venom. It was a habit, a line drawn in sand that the tide had already washed away.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He traced the line of her eyebrow with his thumb. “What do you want to do?”
The question was dangerously open. It offered a path she couldn’t afford to consider. She deflected. “I want coffee. I want the board meeting notes for today. I want to pretend last night was a dream.”
“Bullshit,” he said softly, without malice. “You want to know if I’m having breakfast here. You want to know if I’m walking out that door and straight into something that’ll get me shot. You want to know if this happens again.” He paused, his thumb resting on her cheekbone. “The answer is: yes, probably, and that’s up to you.”
He saw right through her fortress. It was maddening. Liberating. “I built a life without this chaos, Damien.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” He didn’t say it cruelly. It was a genuine question. “All that control. That impeccable distance. Does it keep you warm?”
Before she could fire back, the hotel phone on the nightstand rang, a shrill, archaic sound. The spell broke. The real world, in all its demanding banality, intruded.
Bethany reached for it, pulling the sheet up with her. “Yes?”
“Ms. Montgomery, your nine-thirty car is confirmed. Also, a delivery arrived for you at the concierge desk. A file, marked urgent.” Her assistant’s voice, efficient and crisp.
“Thank you, Marcus. Have it sent up with the coffee. In twenty minutes.”
She hung up. The space between her and Damien was suddenly charged with a different energy. The clock was ticking.
He had already swung his legs out of bed, his back to her. The landscape of his back was familiar too — old scars, the shift of powerful muscle. He stood, unselfconscious, and found his trousers from the floor. The sight of him dressing, of the night physically receding, filled her with a sudden, sharp panic. Not sadness. Possessiveness.
“So that’s it,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “Back to the empire.”
“You have an empire to run, too,” she said, her voice hardening, rebuilding the wall brick by brick. “Or did you forget?”
He turned, his expression unreadable now. The Mafia boss was back, the softness of the morning tucked away. “I never forget anything.” He walked over, leaned down, and placed his hands on either side of her on the bed, caging her in. He didn’t kiss her. He just held her gaze. “This isn’t over, Beth. You can pretend it is. You can build your walls twice as high. But I’m not a ghost you can exorcise with a good fuck and a strong coffee.”
He straightened up, grabbed his jacket, and walked to the door. He didn’t look back.
The door clicked shut.
Silence roared back in, louder than before. The room felt vast and hollow. The sheets around her still held his warmth. She sat there, rooted, listening to the faint echo of his footsteps in the hall.
Then, she got up. She didn’t head for the shower. She walked to the window and yanked the cord, sending the blinds flying up with a rattle. Morning flooded in, harsh and total, illuminating every detail: the rumpled bed, his abandoned tie on the floor, her own naked reflection in the glass, looking defiant and utterly lost.
A soft knock came at the door. Room service. Coffee and the urgent file.
She pulled on his discarded shirt again, the one from the night before last, now smelling of both of them, and went to answer it. The war wasn’t over. It had just entered a new, more desperate phase. And the most terrifying part was, she no longer knew which side she was on.