by Tempest Phan
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Synopsis
Epigraph
Dedication
Soundtrack
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
PART TWO
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Epilogue
Excerpt—Lukas, Forever
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
DAMIEN, FOREVER
Copyright © 2020 by Tempest Phan
First Edition, December 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior express written permission of the above copyright owner of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing: 3 Em Dash Editorial
Cover Design and Interior Formatting: Wicked Owl Designs
Cover Photo: Michelle Lancaster www.michellelancaster.com
Interior Art: Shutterstock
ISBN-13: 9798696195544
www.AuthorTempestPhan.com
Dear reader: Damien, Forever is the book of my heart, and I hope you enjoy the slow burn. This friends-to-lovers, second-chance romance with hints of emotional confusion also contains mild triggers (including a few related to mental health), situations which may elicit a strong emotional response in some readers, and quite a bit of angst. If that's not your jam, Dame and Bella's story might not be for you. If it is, welcome to the tribe!
Damien
She’s everyone’s favorite princess. Gorgeous girl next door. Homecoming queen. But to me, she’ll always be so much more. The light in my dark, my best friend, my everything. But there’s one thing she can’t ever be. And that’s mine. Because I’ll make damn sure to keep my filthy hands off her. Even if it kills me.
Bella
He’s the boy of broken whispers. The one dripping ink. The one sowing fear. But to me, he’ll always be so much more. The music in my soul, my best friend, my everything. And pretty soon, he’ll be between my sheets, too. Because what baby girl wants, she gets. Just watch.
I Do Not Love Thee
I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!
And yet when thou art absent I am sad;
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.
I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,
Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me:
And often in my solitude I sigh
That those I do love are not more like thee!
I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,
I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)
Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone
Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.
I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,
With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,
Between me and the midnight heaven arise,
Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.
I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!
Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;
And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,
Because they see me gazing where thou art.
—Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
To Duonguette Chaussettes, the best sis and friend a girl could ask for.
Thanks so much for encouraging me to publish this romance novel and not worry about what anyone might say. Thanks for telling me that I should never, ever apologize for writing (and doing) what makes me happy.
Thanks for being the best. For everything. (Even for breaking my Barbies when we were little. It did help build my character. ;)
(And to NCV, the other loves of my life: Mwah!)
Single
Beautiful—HIM
Album
Lovesong—The Cure
Jealous Sky—Negative
I Can Wait Forever—Simple Plan
Poison Girl—HIM
She’s the Prettiest Girl at the Party (and She Can Prove it with A Solid Right Hook)—Frank Iero
Demolition Lovers—My Chemical Romance
Let Me Be—Escape the Fate
Resurrection—HIM
I’m Not Okay (I Promise)—My Chemical Romance
Perfection through Silence—Finch
The Drug in Me Is Reimagined—Falling in Reverse
Always on My Mind—Elvis
Turn It Up—Sonic Syndicate
Present Day
Damien
I stared at the crumpled letter by my side, the letter with her happy, loopy cursive.
Hands trembling, I tried to smooth it out, my fingers tracing the words again.
My Damien James, I hope this letter finds you well . . .
So this was how it was all going to end, then. Before I ever gave it a chance to begin. Before I could ever claim her as mine.
The universe could be one vicious motherfucker, sometimes.
An entire lifetime of knowing her. Of being wildly, madly in love with her.
An entire fucking lifetime.
And I’d waited too long.
Too damn long, and this was where I would run out of time.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I wouldn’t hear her say I do, and ‘til death do us part.
I wouldn’t wake up every single morning for the rest of my life and see her face. Kiss her lips. Hear her laugh.
Make love to her.
Not me.
But I’d offer her my heart, anyways. She could take it, fling it into her suitcase, pack it up. It was hers to take, no strings attached.
Here you go, baby girl.
Because it had alw
ays been hers. Because I had only ever been hers. Only hers.
I stared at the crumpled letter in my hand and shook my head again.
My Damien James . . .
I downed my glass of whiskey—just the one, because God knew I couldn’t tumble into that spiral—and laid back down in my sterile hotel room bed, my damn heart crushed beyond repair. The familiar dark desperation washed over me, the desperation I thought I had conquered, all those weeks ago.
“Goodbye, kisses and bites, Bella baby,” I whispered. “Be happy, sweet baby girl . . .”
And I shut my eyes against the darkness.
Nine Years Earlier
Bella
The doorbell rang. I heard low voices, and then my dad called out, “Mira. It’s Damien Mortensen.”
He was here. I flew down the stairs, my heart in my throat. Here. After five years. Finally.
A tall, lean guy was standing at the entrance next to my dad, dwarfing him. This was no easy feat as my dad, at an imposing six foot, was not a small man. I stopped in my tracks. This stranger wasn’t the little boy of my childhood. His face was chiseled, his lips set. He was wearing a black zip-up sweatshirt with the hood thrown up, the fabric unable to contain the dark hair falling out haphazardly over his brow. His long, muscular legs were encased in a pair of low-slung, ripped dark 511s, and he had on worn out, black high-top Vans. I could also make out piercings—a lot of them—glinting silver in the light. Every-fucking-where. He looked . . . dangerous. He must have heard me because he looked over my dad’s shoulder. His eyes were still a shattering, heartbreaking blue, the kind of blue that shines out after the rains have washed out the skies. And they were now ringed with smudged black liner. My breath caught.
“Hello, Mirabella.” His voice was deep, soft, barely a whisper. He took a hand out of his hoodie pocket and raised it in a half wave gesture. His nails were painted matte black.
“Hey Dame . . .”
“Sorry. I know I took my time . . .”
“Better late than never.” My voice cracked. I stumbled to him and he stepped up, engulfing me in a big bear hug as the intoxicating scent of sandalwood and smoke swirled around us. I melted against him. It felt so good to be in his strong, steel-like arms. The boy I’d known had grown into a man.
My dad cleared his throat. He didn’t look very happy at all but didn’t say a word.
“Let’s go for a walk.” I grabbed Dame’s hand and we walked outside.
I avoided looking at my dad. There would be hell to pay later. We stepped onto the tree-lined driveway, continuing past the black wrought iron gates. I glanced back and saw that he was still at the doors, staring at us.
“Let’s keep going,” I told Dame. He glanced at my dad, his baby blues dark.
We walked until we were out of my dad’s line of sight and had reached the small park and playground where Dame and I had played as kids. I sat on a swing. He did the same.
I looked over at him. He pushed back his hood. Time had hardened him. And yes, his height was an understatement. When he’d given me that bear hug, I’d barely come to his chest. Granted, at five three, I was super fun-sized, but Damien had to be at least a foot and change taller.
He raked his hand through his black hair. Sitting close to him, I could now see that it was shaven at the sides, with the hair at the crown long and falling in a mess over his brow, making me want to flit my fingers through it as it swept across his left cheekbone. He moved and the light glinted off his three helix hoops. I continued to catalog his piercings: right eyebrow, left nostril, small double rings that made up his spider bites on the lower right side of his decadent full lips.
Damien James Mortensen was beautiful, painfully so, all perfect symmetry and sharp angles, jutting cheekbones that looked like they could cut through glass, and harsh planes almost too severe but not quite. He had a regal face softened by deliciously full lips, and his ocean eyes were framed by eyelashes so long and thick they were almost feminine.
Yes, the gentle face of the boy I used to know had sharpened. He was gorgeous, a dark-haired Machine Gun Kelly by way of Stephen James, with a healthy dollop of Vinnie Woolston. He was absolutely beautiful yet undeniably masculine.
But regardless, soft-spoken walking rap gods and tattooed underwear models aside, it felt good to be in his presence again. That hadn’t changed.
“You got tall,” I said finally.
“You didn’t,” he replied, the right side of his delicious mouth turning up in a half-mocking smile, a half smile that time had not changed. His voice, again, barely above a whisper. I watched, fascinated, as his tongue came out to play with the rings in his lip, making my stomach do an unfamiliar flip.
“Ouch!” I cried out, jokingly punching him in the shoulder. He grabbed my hand and paused for a second, and suddenly, I just threw myself into his arms. The force took him by surprise, and he fell backwards off the swing, taking me with him. I landed softly on top of him. After a short silence, we both started laughing. And just like that, the ice was broken, and I found the best friend I had thought long gone.
We stayed there on the ground, shoulder to shoulder. For the first time in five years, my battered heart felt full again. I felt him in my bones, as if he hadn’t ever left. His presence seeped through all the cracks in my soul, bringing with it comfort I hadn’t experienced since . . . him.
“I can’t believe you’re finally back. Not a day went by these last five years that I didn’t think of you, wish that you’d write me back, let me know that you and your mom were ok.” I said this matter-of-factly, playing with my ponytail as I stared up at the starlit sky.
He shifted slightly, his chain wallet clanking in the night.
“I’m sorry I left you hanging, Bella. There was just a lot going on with my mom.”
I raised myself up, leaning on an elbow while I looked down at him. “How is your mom?”
He shrugged and returned my stare. “Same. Worse. I don’t know, I guess she’ll never get over it.”
It as in his dad walking out on them after the greatest tragedy of their lives? Or it as in the greatest tragedy of their lives? I didn’t ask for clarification.
“Still wishes I’d never been born.” His voice was steady as he said it, but his eyes were broken. I’d have given anything in that instant to wipe the pain from their depths. He let out a humorless laugh, ran a hand over his face, and suddenly sat up, sending some of the rubber mulch on the ground flying. “Fuck, I’m such a drama queen. Sorry.”
“I get it, Dame,” I said softly as I sat up, too.
He shook his head, like he was trying to clear his thoughts. “But how are you?” He rubbed his jaw.
Before I could respond, my cell rang. I fished it out of my pocket. My dad. With a sigh, I accepted the call.
“Hi Daddy. Yes, I know it’s late. No. Dame and I are going to go pick up something to eat instead. Bye!” I hung up before he could say anything else. There’d be hell to pay when I got home tonight, but I couldn’t think of anything more worth it than this.
“I sense that your dad doesn’t like me much.”
I touched his brow ring, ran my finger lightly down to the smudged eyeliner. “You think?” I laughed, but there wasn’t much joy in that sound. “Don’t worry. Most days, he doesn’t like me much either. He looks at me and can’t quite place me, like I’m this terrible disappointment.” I shrugged, taking my hair out of my scrunchie and redoing my ponytail. “But I try to not take it too personally. After all, I don’t think my grandfather ever quite forgave him for marrying a Chinese woman and,” I made air quotes with my fingers, “sullying his bloodline. He’s battling his own ghosts.” My turn to shake my head. “God, that sounded so medieval.”
“Well, his loss. And I’ve missed you, Bella. I know this doesn’t make it better, but not a single day went by when you weren’t in my thoughts.”
Bella. His nickname for me from years ago now whispered in his dark voice. Why did it make my heart stumble?
&n
bsp; I ignored the strange feelings and smiled. “It does, Dame. It does. And same.”
I looked into his eyes and found in them the warmth and admiration and love that had seemed so absent in my life until then.
“Thank you for coming back,” I whispered, reaching out to brush some mulch off his shoulder.
“I’m sorry I ever left.” A sigh. “But enough with that shit,” he smiled as he stood up, before reaching out to help me to my feet. “Let’s get some burgers or something. I’ll drive.”
“Oh, good, because I can’t. Don’t have a car.”
“Oh?”
“I crashed mine the day I got my permit. What can I say.” I flipped my ponytail over my shoulder. “I like to live dangerously.” I dropped my voice an octave, looking at him from under my lashes, before breaking out in laughter.
Damien smiled at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t possibly let some old asshole in a Bugatti cut me off, now could I?”
He laughed, the sound like rich, hot chocolate.
“And my dad refuses to get me another one until he feels that I can properly handle myself.”
“Your dad’s a tad unforgiving no?”
“Ah. Right. If you only knew!”
“I think I already do,” he said so softly, I almost missed it.
We walked to his car, parked in front of the gates to our property. It was a beat-up grey Chevy, held together by sheer force of will and a prayer. He gallantly opened the door for me. The faint smell of smoke mixed with sandalwood—his scent—enveloped me, oddly comforting. We pulled away from the privileged neighborhood where I lived.
As we drove, I once again stole glances at him. He looked the same and yet not the same. I could still see the boy I used to know outlined on his face. And yet, he was different. He’d grown up. There was an underlying darkness, a sharp edge to him that I’d not noticed before.
And his dangerous beauty was strangely at odds with the manner in which he spoke. I had to strain to hear him, his voice never above a whisper.