by Lydia Rowan
He gave that bitter not-smile again. “Wish I would’ve thought of that,” he said.
“You have a car? I don’t think mine would be the best option right now,” Lacey said.
“Something we can agree on. Mine is in the woods.”
Lacey smiled a real smile. “Glad you taught me how to hike,” she said.
He didn’t say anything, and instead just looked at her grimly, and she cursed herself for even bringing it up. Their past was probably not the best topic of conversation.
“Let’s go,” he finally said.
Lacey grabbed the bag she had set by the foot of her bed. She had planned on traveling later this week, so it was fortuitous she’d already put some things aside. It wasn’t everything she’d ordinarily pack, but it would do for now. She slung the small duffel over her shoulder and followed Damien down the hall, ignoring how odd, how wonderful, it felt to have him in her home.
He moved swiftly, turning toward the carport, but Lacey stopped him with a hand on his arm. “This way,” she said, gesturing toward the sliding glass door.
He stopped and then watched her as she disengaged the bar reinforcement and opened the door. Damien stepped out in front of her and lifted a hand, indicating she should stay.
She did and followed his gaze as he scanned the backyard. Lacey saw nothing but trusted Damien’s training over her own eyes, so she waited.
A moment later, seeming satisfied, he began to make his way toward the tree line.
“Try to stay quiet and fast,” he said.
Lacey nodded, though she wasn’t sure he could see her in the darkness of the night.
She did as he instructed, following him essentially step for step, and they made their way across the yard and into the woods.
Lacey knew the area well, but had never been out here with the man from her past in front of her and God only knew what behind her. The difference made what was ordinarily calming fraught, tense with fear that she refused to give voice to.
Still, she was proud when she didn’t stumble, and they quickly covered the distance between her house and Damien’s car.
She almost missed it, the dark vehicle blending into the equally dark woods.
“Over here,” Damien whispered.
Lacey paused, searching, and when she finally spotted the vehicle, she quickly slid into the passenger side.
Damien did the same on the opposite side, cranking the car quickly, and Lacey was quite happy when the engine turned over with almost no noise.
She slid the seat belt across her waist and buckled it, and then watched Damien as he guided the vehicle through the woods and out onto the road.
2
For the tenth time in as many minutes, Lacey gazed over at Damien.
For the tenth time in as many minutes, Damien remained stone-faced.
The adrenaline of their earlier escape had faded, and now the air was thick with tension, anger rolling off Damien in dark waves, all of it directed at her. That anger and her acute awareness filled the car with an oppressive wall of tension that kept her on her toes even though exhaustion wanted to claim her.
He hadn’t said anything, but he hadn’t needed to. She’d spent years studying Damien and could still read him now, at least enough to see that he seethed.
The dashboard clock said they had been in the car for an hour and a half, and not a single word had passed between them.
There’d been communication, though, in the form of Lacey looking at Damien and Damien keeping his eyes squarely on the road. He was doing his best to ignore her, and to some eyes, it might look like he was succeeding. But Lacey saw that he was aware of her, saw the physical effort he was putting into restraining himself from speaking.
Still, she silently coaxed him to say something, give her just the tiniest bit of break in his stoic wall, but he gave nothing.
Lacey looked out of the window, wondering if she would have been better off confronting whoever had wanted to invade her home. She’d had a weapon, but more importantly, she’d had firm control of her emotions, wasn’t at the mercy of a man who seemed intent on icing her out, leaving her to the near unbearable tension and rage that made these moments torture.
What had happened to him?
She chided herself for the stupid question. She knew what happened to him, at least some of it. And much to her shame, she’d played a part in it, was responsible for what he had become.
Whatever he had become was entirely different from what he had been before when she’d known him, from when she’d loved him with all her heart.
He had always had a level of hardness, inherent toughness. He wouldn’t have become the decorated SEAL he had been without it. But now, Lacey looked at him and saw that he was broken.
He’d never been that way before. With all he had seen, he was realistic about the world and some of the people who inhabited it, but there had still been a kindness, openness, a softness about him.
It wasn’t there now.
When he’d entered her bedroom, she’d known it was him even though she hadn’t seen him. She hadn’t needed to. Something in her recognized him and she knew it always would.
But the man who sat next to her now bore scarcely any resemblance to the Damien she had known and loved before.
The differences were more than emotional.
Her gaze strayed back to him, and she focused on his shadowed jaw. Damien had always been clean-shaven. Lacey hadn’t known him to go a day without shaving if he could help it, so this stubble was a new development. She let her gaze shift to his dark hair, which now brushed his shoulders, unkempt in a way the old Damien would never have tolerated.
He breathed out hard, drawing Lacey’s attention back to his face. His jaw was more prominent now, even through the beard, and Lacey could see that he had lost weight. He was still a large man, tall, broad, but he was leaner now, and Lacey got the sense the change was not a conscious choice so much as a side effect of Damien’s self-neglect.
“What happened to you, Damien?”
She’d barely spoken above a whisper, but her voice was like a firecracker in the thick silence of the car’s interior. She hadn’t even meant to speak out loud, but the words had come out before she could stop them.
His rage only intensified.
That surprised her, because Lacey didn’t think he could be any angrier than he already was, didn’t think anyone could be as angry as he was.
But he was—she could see it all over him.
She saw it in the starkness of his bloodshot eyes, eyes that once shone clear blue. Saw it in the way he gripped the steering wheel, saw it in that ever-present tic of his jaw. Saw it in the way he refused to look at her.
Moved by emotions she dared not examine, Lacey reached for him, laid her hand on his forearm, and squeezed, figuring she should show him she understood, show him she still cared.
Her touch seemed to unlock something, and he finally turned to look at her.
She wished he hadn’t.
There was a wildness on his face, a rage so acute, it twisted his face into something unrecognizable. She dropped her hand, pulled it back against her, and wanted to curl into her seat, if only to free herself from that searing gaze.
He turned his eyes back to the road, but there was no relief to be found even though he was no longer looking at her. Because the damage had been done. The fear she felt was unlike any that had come before, this time chased with guilt, sadness that made her chest constrict so tight it was hard to breathe.
And it was all her doing.
Lacey twisted, looked back out the window, watching the road.
The streets were lightly traveled, and Lacey was grateful for that, but she knew that would soon change. It was nearly two in the morning, a few more hours until the sun rose. She knew where they were headed, and the street signs that welcomed them to Washington confirmed it.
They were headed to Seattle.
Made sense, because Seattle had been his and his family’s
home for as long as she had known him. Had been part of the reason she stayed in Oregon instead of going elsewhere.
But what did that mean?
Why was he taking her to his family?
What was he taking her from?
The shock of the situation again hit Lacey.
She had no idea what she was doing here, what she was running from, who he was now. Back at her house, it had been simpler. She’d seen the difference in him, but years of trusting him, loving him had made it easy to go with him, especially when she’d known someone else was coming.
But now, things were different.
She couldn’t just sit here, passively let this unfold.
She looked at him again. Saw that rage, but pushed on anyway.
“Damien—”
“Shut up, Lacey,” he said.
He kept his voice at a whisper, but Lacey recoiled, from his words, from the hate and anger in his tone. An instant later, her own anger began to bubble over, but she choked it back.
Lacey hated to take orders, almost as much as she hated being told to shut up. Yet, one more look at Damien, and she decided today was the day to let that slide.
She slammed her jaw shut and then looked out the window. How had she gotten into this, whatever the hell this was? She didn’t know, and he seemed in no mood to enlighten her.
As they traveled, she realized she’d passed some of these roads, knew where they led. So there was good at least to help ease the bad.
Because she was certain now about where she was going, but she had no clue who she was going with.
3
As the sun started to rise, Damien reached out of the open car window and punched the code into the box.
The gate opened slowly, and Damien drove inside.
If Lacey had any reaction to arriving at his family home, she didn’t show it and instead sat still, aware but not really reacting. He’d never brought her here before, but then, there had never been a reason.
Damien had left this place and, save keeping in contact with his brother, had never had a reason to look back. When Lacey had come into his life, coming back here had never crossed his mind. He’d thought this house, the past it was connected with, was something he could never come back to.
Life had had other plans, and when he’d lost everything, this was the only place he’d had to go. And now, Lacey was here with him.
They hadn’t spoken a single word since he’d told her to shut up, his anger having made it impossible for him to speak, even if only to hurl the bitter words he’d sworn he’d say to her if he ever saw her again. He suspected her silence came from fear, something that both shamed and satisfied him.
Not that the silence, whatever its source, had been a reprieve. He’d had his thoughts to occupy him. The question of what the fuck he was doing with her, why he’d gotten involved, why the sound of her voice, the feel of her hand on his arms for those brief seconds was enough to make him lose himself.
He wanted an answer, wanted to know why he was indulging in this insanity.
He pulled to a stop in front of the house.
Maybe that was what it was. Maybe, after all these years, he had finally lost it. Bringing Lacey Bowers here was proof of that.
He unlocked the door and let Lacey in, then made his way to the bank of security cameras to do a quick review of the evening’s tapes.
The estate hadn’t had any visitors, but he didn’t expect them, not yet.
Once he finished his review, he stayed in place, knowing that he’d have to contend with Lacey. He couldn’t, though, not yet. He had no idea what to say.
So he stood there, staring at the keypad, his back to her.
He felt her watching him, felt her gaze on his skin as if it were a finger’s touch, but he still couldn’t turn, didn’t trust himself to do that, didn’t know what looking at her would do to him.
He heard her move, each step ringing in the empty foyer bringing her closer. He heard her stop behind him, and powerless to stop himself, he turned, locked eyes with her.
The expression on her face was one that ripped at his soul. There was confusion, hurt.
Care.
It was the care that broke him. He’d spent so long in a prison of pain, believing that her words of love had been hollow lies, a horrible cruelty, but looking at her now, he could convince himself that some of what she had proclaimed to feel had been true.
That belief, his wish that it was so, made his heart twist, anger, pain, hope all crashing against each other in a knee-weakening wave.
Her eyes were dark even in the sun-brightened foyer, and Damien saw the deep furrow between her brows. She stepped closer, reached out to him.
“Damien—”
He slammed his lips against hers, moved lightning-quick to pull her body against his.
The brush of her soft lips against his, her body again in his arms sent waves of electrical shock through Damien like nothing had for years.
Both touches reminded him of a past that he would never have again, a future he had most desperately wanted, and those memories were enough to make him break the embrace.
He stared down at her, tall for a woman but still far shorter than him. His breath coming out in harsh, rough exhales, exhales that got rougher as she peered up at him through those clear brown eyes, open, curious. Seeing him.
He hated it, couldn’t stand her watching him like that.
Damien latched a hand on her wrist and turned her so her face was pressed against the wood wall of the foyer.
No longer under her gaze, Damien felt like he could breathe again. He looked down her body. This was a view he could handle. Her strong, broad shoulders, the feminine curve of her back visible through her sweatshirt. The spot where her ass rounded over larger-than-fashionable thighs that Damien had loved to have cradle him.
He reached for her hips, pulled her back to him so that her ass was pressed against his hardness.
Were he smart, he would have closed his eyes.
But he was a fucking moron.
What he was doing right now proved as much, so instead he watched himself as he lifted her sweatshirt and the thin T-shirt under it, exposing the dark skin that her shirt had hidden, the smooth planes of her back.
Damien wanted to kiss that skin, taste her, see if his memory was faulty, certain she couldn’t be as soft, as delicious, as he remembered.
He didn’t risk it, though, and instead pulled the shirt up higher and settled it around her shoulders. He saw the shadows of her breasts, which he’d expected. Her lack of a bra hadn’t gone unnoticed despite how hard he’d tried to pretend. He wasn’t trying now, openly staring at the full, dark mounds, watching as her bare nipples hardened, the brown skin of her areola puckering under the cool air.
Damien reached out to touch one of the buds and felt it tighten further under his hands. He twisted hard, and Lacey arched her back and leaned into his touch, responding to his rough treatment. She’d always welcomed his rough play, told him that the little bite of pain made the pleasure more intense.
That, it seemed, hadn’t changed.
Damien lifted his other hand and cupped her breast, pressing his fingers into her soft flesh, kneading it, trying to touch all of her at once. Lacey sighed, arched her back deeper, bringing her ass into closer contact with his cock, which throbbed against his pants, desperate to be inside her.
Lacey wasn’t in this alone. The chemistry between them had been instant and off the charts. That chemistry was still there, different, more combustible, but still unlike anything Damien had felt with anyone but her.
He could have stayed in that place forever, hanging on the edge with Lacey, afloat in this passion, passion that made the rest of the world seem not to exist.
He would have stayed there as long as he could were it not for the soft moan that whispered from her throat but was then cut off quickly.
That sound brought back so many memories. How he’d heard it so often before, dedicated himself to
hearing it. How after, alone in the dead of night, he’d stroked himself as his mind replayed that sound. How hurt, how stupid he’d felt after he’d come in his own hand, the memories of the woman who had turned her back on him the only thing that gave him a moment’s solace.
How he’d chide himself every time, knowing that he would always love her but never again have her.
But he’d been wrong.
She was here, now, in his arms, and he couldn’t let this chance pass him by. He released her tits and moved his hands down her soft stomach to unbutton the jeans that hugged her hips and thighs in the way he wanted to.
Damien stepped back just enough to pull them and the tiny shorts she wore over her ass and thighs. He wedged a hand between them, not surprised when she widened her stance to accommodate him. Lacey was many things, but shy, especially in the pursuit of pleasure, was not one of them.
He stroked two fingers along the slick petals of her sex and ignored the bloom of happiness that wanted to grow in his chest at finding her wet for him. He didn’t care about her pleasure, he told himself. Wouldn’t allow himself to care about anything, especially not making her happy.
Her walls yielded to the two fingers that he pushed inside her, the scalding touch of her hot, wet, the grip tight on his fingers. She cried out when he added another finger, stroked his thumb across the pucker of her rosette.
Damien thrust his fingers into her urgently, the wet sound of her sex yielding to him, her low breaths, the slight tremor of her body and the way she clutched at the wooden walls the most beautiful thing—the only beautiful thing—he had experienced in years.
Suddenly, he dropped his hands, no longer touching her though he wanted to with every fiber of his being. Instead he watched, waited to see what she might do, but she did nothing, didn’t turn, didn’t speak, just kept her hands on the wall, waiting, asking without asking.
Her reaction, lack of, would have confused Damien if he still had the capacity for thought.
He didn’t.
All that mattered, his only thought, was being inside her.