Chapter 2: Power Play
The buzz of the light was a drill in his temple. Damon kept her pinned against the cold, porcelain sink edge, the pressure a direct contrast to the way his hands had just touched her. Her blouse was still open, her skin flushed and marked, but her eyes were pure ice now.
“Rules?” he echoed, his voice hoarse. He hadn’t moved back. Their bodies were still aligned, a cruel mockery of intimacy. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his chest. Or maybe it was his own. “We left the rules in a puddle on the floor back there.”
She twisted, trying to shove him off. He didn’t budge. “Get off me, Damon.”
“You first.” He finally stepped back, giving her space that felt suddenly cavernous. The anger was a live wire, surprising him with its intensity. He’d expected regret, maybe coldness. Not this.
Serena yanked her blouse closed, fumbling with the buttons. Her fingers shook. He watched, a strange satisfaction curling in his gut. Good. Let her feel it, too. This wasn’t something you just walked away from.
“You don’t get to look at me like that,” she spat, not meeting his eyes.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve won something.”
He laughed, a short, brittle sound. “Won? Christ, Serena. Look around.” He gestured at the stained tiles, the damp paper towels scattered on the floor. “This isn’t a trophy. It’s a crime scene.”
She finally got her blouse fastened, her armor back in place, piece by piece. She smoothed her ruined skirt. “Exactly. A mistake. A one-time… lapse in judgment.” The words were practiced, legal. She was already building her defense.
“A lapse.” He leaned against the door, blocking her only exit. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“What would you call it?” She found her purse, pulled out a lipstick, and faced the smudged mirror. She didn’t look at his reflection, only at her own as she repaired her mouth with sharp, precise strokes. The ordinary act was a dismissal more potent than any insult.
He studied her. The set of her shoulders, the defensive line of her spine. The lawyer was back, fully formed, shutting down the witness. The woman from five minutes ago, the one who’d gasped his name into the crook of his neck, was gone. It pissed him off. It made him want to shatter that composure all over again.
“I’d call it inevitable,” he said quietly.
Her hand paused. For a fraction of a second, her gaze flicked to his in the mirror. Then she snapped the lipstick cap shut. “Nothing is inevitable.”
“Bullshit.” He pushed off the door and moved closer, stopping just behind her. He didn’t touch her. He watched her watch him. “We’ve been circling this for two years. Every objection, every cross-examination, every ‘see you in court, Blackwood.’ It was all just foreplay.”
She turned then, facing him. The repaired lipstick was a slash of crimson against her pale face. “Don’t flatter yourself. You were an obstacle. A moderately competent one.”
“Moderately competent.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Is that why you came so hard you nearly cracked your head on the tile?”
Her slap was fast, sharp. The sound cracked through the small room, louder than the buzzing light. His head snapped to the side. He slowly brought a hand up to his stinging cheek, his tongue probing the inside of his mouth. Copper. She’d split his lip.
He looked back at her. She was breathing hard, her hand still poised in the air, her eyes wide with a shock that mirrored his own. He saw it then—the fear underneath the fury. Fear of him, of this, of how far over the line they’d both leaped.
He caught her wrist before she could pull it back. His grip was firm, but not painful. He held it there, between them. “Feel better?”
“Let go of me.”
“Answer the question.”
“I don’t owe you answers!” she yelled, the sound bouncing off the tiles. “I don’t owe you a damn thing. This ends now. You will walk out of here, and tomorrow, you will be nothing but opposing counsel. Do you understand?”
He understood perfectly. She was drawing a line. A new, uncrossable one. He could see the desperate need for it in her eyes. The problem was, the line was already ash. He’d watched it burn.
He released her wrist. She snatched it back, cradling it against her chest as if he’d burned her.
“Fine,” he said, his voice flat. He turned to the sink, cranked the cold tap, and splashed water on his face. The sting grounded him. He caught a glimpse of himself in the dirty mirror—tousled hair, a darkening spot on his cheek, a cut on his lip. He looked like hell. He felt like it.
He heard the rustle of her gathering her things. The click of her purse clasp. The sound of her heels on the tile, moving toward the door.
“The feeling,” she said, her voice low and final from behind him, “isn’t mutual. Not anymore.”
He didn’t turn around. He listened to the sound of the lock disengaging, the groan of the door hinge, the decisive click as it shut behind her.
Silence. Thick and absolute, broken only by the drip-drip-drip from the faulty tap. He stared at his ruined reflection. Moderately competent. He thought of her legs wrapped around him, her nails digging into his back, the raw, broken sound she’d made. He thought of the look on her face just before she hit him—not hatred, but terror.
He turned the tap off. The dripping continued.
Straightening his shirt, he ran wet fingers through his hair. The man in the mirror rearranged himself, piece by piece, into Damon Blackwood, rising star at Cranston & Pryce. The cut on his lip would need explaining. A clumsy door, he decided. A stupid accident.
He opened the bathroom door. The bar’s noise rushed in—the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses. He saw her immediately. She was at the end of the hallway, handing cash to the bartender, not looking back. Her posture was ramrod straight, a queen in exile. Then she was gone, vanished into the wet night.
Damon walked to the bar, slid onto the same stool she’d vacated earlier. Her empty bourbon glass was still there, the ghost of her lipstick on the rim.
“Another?” the bartender asked, nodding at the glass.
“No.” Damon pulled out his wallet, tossed a couple bills on the polished wood. “Just the tab.”
Outside, the rain had softened to a mist. The neon sign’s jagged reflection swam on the pavement. He stood under the flickering light, the city’s damp breath on his skin, and replayed her words. You don’t get to claim me.
She was wrong.
He hadn’t claimed her. She’d claimed him. The second she’d followed him down that hallway, she’d taken possession of something he hadn’t even known was his to give. And now she thought she could just hand it back, like a flawed piece of evidence.
A taxi splashed through a puddle nearby, the sound sharp in the quiet street. He started walking, the direction of his condo automatic, his mind anything but.
Tomorrow, she’d be opposing counsel. Nothing more. She’d use every tool, every precedent, every sharp word to beat him. She’d pretend the grimy bathroom, the torn stockings, the taste of her skin, had never existed.
He smiled then, a real one this time, feeling the split in his lip pull.
Let her try.
The game had just gotten infinitely more interesting.