I turn to him, my body shifting as I do. I know the moment he sees the blood. The moment he realizes.
His face goes pale. His eyes go hard. “Nikki—oh, God, Nikki. What have you done?”
I open my mouth to speak, to tell him it’s okay—that I’m okay. But the words won’t come. Then he’s at my side, pulling me to my feet. “No, baby, no.” His hands clutch my upper arms and I can smell the fear on his breath. “Not a blade,” he says. “Never a blade. You know that. Nikki, you know that.”
I nod, a little numb. I haven’t cut since Damien, though I’ve come damn close. Now, I see the fear on his face.
“You come to me, dammit.” His voice is harsh, rough with fear. With pain. “Goddammit, Nikki, when it gets bad you fucking come to me.”
He realizes he’s shaking me, and he backs off, breathing hard. “We need to bandage that leg.”
“I need you,” I whisper as he takes a step toward me. “I’m so fucking mad at you, but dammit, Damien, I need you.”
With a gasp, I pull him to me, and we both slam back against the island. I close my mouth over his in a hard, brutal kiss that draws blood. And dammit, I want more.
I fumble for the button on his jeans, and he spins me roughly around, and I say a silent thank you as he rips my tank top over my head and tosses it to the floor. “She’s okay,” he growls. “She’s going to be okay.”
I nod, tears rolling down my cheeks. “Please,” I beg as I spread my legs, as his fingers slide inside me. “Fast,” I demand. “Hard,” I plead.
He bends me over, the edge of the island hard against my ribs. And when he enters me, hard and fast, I relish the pain that accompanies each thrust. This is what I need. This is what I crave. This claiming. This heat.
Damien.
His fingers tease my clit as my breasts rub the granite top of the island. I feel his body tense, mine rising to meet him, and when he stifles a groan of release, I do as well, my body exploding in time with his, until the tremors stop and he pulls me down to the carpet and wraps me in his arms. I cling to him, then realize that he’s shaking.
He’s crying silently, and I curl against him, sharing his pain, drawing it in, stronger now, even if just a little. I don’t know if he’s crying for me or for Anne or if he just needs the release. All I know is that we’re together whereas we were apart before. I’m still angry. Hurt. Confused. But I’m better. And so, I think, is he.
His arms tighten around me as he gathers himself, then his eyes bore into mine, his hand tight on my chin as he forces me to look straight at him. “Never again,” he says, then rises to pull down the first aid kit. He takes out a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and cleans the wound, then covers it with a gauze bandage. “Never again.”
“Never,” I repeat. “Never with a blade.”
He studies my face, as if trying to interpret my words. But he knows perfectly well what I mean. I will always need the pain. It’s part of who I am. And if I won’t turn to a blade, I will turn to Damien.
He nods, then pulls me to him again, holding me close.
We’re calm compared to the freneticism of a moment ago. The rawness. The need.
But that doesn’t mean all is well. We’re still in hell, both of us. But goddammit, at least we’re together.
“Nikki!” Jamie’s voice blasts through from the hall. She pounds on the door, which Damien must have locked behind him. “Nikki! Damien! She’s safe! Come quick! Anne is safe!”
26
I wake to the sun streaming in through the windows, my youngest daughter snuggled between my back and Damien’s chest, and the oldest curled up at our feet, where she so often ends up when she sleeps in our bed.
For the first time in what seems like an eternity, I feel refreshed, and I smile as I roll over, then see Damien smiling right back at me.
“She’s fine,” he says, as if answering a question, though I hadn’t said a word.
I run my hand over her tangled yellow locks and nod. “Yes,” I say. “She is.”
It turns out that she’d been away from the kidnapper’s grasp for most of yesterday. At just after eight in the morning, she’d been left at one of the city’s many drop-in childcare facilities. He’d said his name was Nicholas Starkey, and that he would need to leave her all day in order to attend a series of business meetings.
The facility has security cameras, but they’d walked up, so there was no identifying vehicle in the parking lot. He wore a ball cap, which hid most of his face. The security cameras revealed a mustache and beard, but those were likely stage makeup. The angle of the cameras provided a particularly useless view.
The facility reported that Anne seemed groggy at first—something we later confirmed as the lingering effect of the Versed. She perked up later, but called frequently for her mommy, daddy, and sister.
Eventually, closing time arrived, with no bearded man there to pick her up. That was when they checked the paperwork and called the number. Our number. Ryan answered, and we all raced to get her.
The facility will be receiving a very large donation later today.
Our pediatrician had met us at the facility and confirmed that she was absolutely fine, and there were no lingering effects from the Versed. As far as we can tell, Anne remembers nothing. Well, nothing except Nemo.
Now, she stirs in her sleep, and I reach over her for Damien. He glances down, relief so obvious he practically glows with it. But when he looks up at me, his eyes are haunted.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I shake my head. “I’m the one who cut.”
“And I’m the reason.”
I prop myself up on my elbow. “You should have told me. Whatever that tracking thing you did, you should have told me the truth.” But then I shake my head and sigh with frustration. “But maybe … oh, hell. I don’t know. He let her go. Whatever you did, it didn’t make him keep her or harm her. So I don’t know.”
“I wanted—want—to kill the son-of-a-bitch. I wanted to find him for you. To destroy him for us. For Anne. And I justified doing whatever it took to find him. It was a risk I shouldn’t have taken.” He looks down, to where my leg is hidden under the covers. “Anne may be fine, but you’re not. You cut because of me. All this time, and I’m the reason you took a blade to your skin.”
“Don’t,” I say. “I did this. Not you. You don’t blame me for my weaknesses. It really doesn’t make sense to blame yourself.”
“Oh, I think it does.”
“Damien. Don’t.”
I think he’s going to argue, but then he nods. “You’re amazing.”
I laugh without much humor. “Apparently I’m a mess.”
“An amazing mess.”
Now, I roll my eyes. “What I am, is yours. Always. No matter what.”
“And thank God for that.”
He leans over to kiss me, then gets a little fist in his face when Anne stretches. We both laugh, which wakes her up, which makes us laugh some more.
“Breakfast,
” he says, and I nod in agreement.
I expect to find the house empty, but Ryan and Quincy are still there. Dallas had to fly back to New York, and Ryan sent his staff home to their beds. Evelyn and Ollie both left word that they’d be by later, Jamie is still asleep in one of the guest rooms, and Sofia went back to her hotel. The last of which makes me happier than I want to admit.
“We need to tell Bree it’s over,” I say, but Damien’s face tightens. “What?” I press. “You don’t still think she’s involved?”
“She was released. The kidnapper knew her schedule. Let’s just say the jury’s still out.”
“I don’t believe it,” I say. “I trust her.” But do I? If I really trusted her, wouldn’t I have pressed Damien harder to let her go?
Damien, I notice, is frowning, too.
“What is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head, then tells me to get the girls dressed while he takes care of breakfast.
I do, herding them to their room and helping them into their clothes, and giving Anne so many hugs and tickles that it’s a wonder she’s not running from me.
When I come back, I find out that my husband’s been cheating on me, and I put my hands on my hips and stare him down.
He and Ryan are standing behind Quincy at one of the computers, and he lifts his hands in surrender. “I only enlisted Gregory to cook breakfast because I had a flash of brilliance.”
I cock my head. “Only a flash, Mr. Stark? You’re slipping.” But I tell the girls to go in the kitchen and Mr. G will feed them. Since Gregory spoils them rotten, I hear no complaints as they scamper that direction.
“Okay. Tell.”
“Your husband’s not exaggerating,” Quincy says, focusing intently on his computer screen even though he’s speaking to me. “The bastard’s a bloody genius. Even if he was a little slow on the uptake.”
“Weren’t we all?” Damien says. “And we may be wrong.”
“We’re not,” Ryan says, then grins at Damien. “And thanks to you, we’ll be able to prove it.”
“Prove what?” Jamie asks, walking into the room in a pair of pajamas that were obviously bought for Ryan. She rubs sleep out of her eyes as she looks at me. “What did I miss?”