Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(112)

“Of course,” I say. “So does this mean I can stay?”

“You damn well better.” He slowly smiles, his eyes bright.

“What?” I say.

“I’m just hoping that you’re not a mirage.”

My smile widens. “I’m real.”

“Prove it,” he says, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the emerald ankle bracelet. I gasp. “Put it on,” he says.

“But how—”

“I went back,” he says, bending to fasten it around my ankle, the light brush of his finger against my skin sending shockwaves rippling through me. “I had to have you with me … even if only a talisman.”

“Damien.” My voice is choked, my heart too full.

He stands, then presses a finger to my lips. “Later. Say too much and we’ll never get out of here. I want you right now—but I can’t miss this meeting.”

I grin and follow him to the door, anticipating later.

He pauses at the threshold. “Just one more thing. When I said you could stay? What I meant to say was I love you.”

I’m looking right at him as he speaks, and his eyes are shining. My mouth curls up into a delighted smile, and I find myself laughing like a child.

So what that we’re facing a murder trial? Damien and I love each other.

And right now, that’s enough for me.





1


Fear yanks me from a deep sleep, and I sit bolt upright in a room shrouded with gray, the muted green light from a digital alarm clock announcing that it is just after midnight. My breath comes in gasps, and my eyes are wide but unseeing. The last remnant of an already forgotten nightmare brushes against me like the tattered hem of a specter’s cloak, powerful enough to fill me with terror, and yet so insubstantial that it evaporates like mist when I try to grasp it.

I do not know what frightened me. I only know that I am alone in an unfamiliar room, and that I am scared.

Alone?

I turn swiftly in bed, shifting my body as I reach out to my right. But I know even before my fingers brush the cool, expensive sheets that he is not there.

I may have fallen asleep in Damien’s arms, but I have awakened alone.

At least now I know the source of the nightmare. It is the same fear I have faced every day and every night for almost two weeks. The fear I try to hide beneath a plastic smile as I sit beside Damien day in and day out as his attorneys go over his defense in meticulous detail. As they explain the procedural ins-and-outs of a murder trial under German law. As they practically beg him to shine a light into the dark corners of his childhood because they know, as I do, that those secrets are his salvation.

But Damien remains stubbornly mute, and I am left huddled against this pervasive fear that I will lose him. That he will be taken from me.

And not just fear. I’m also fighting the damnable, overwhelming, panic-inducing knowledge that there isn’t a goddamn thing in the world I can do. Nothing except wait and watch and hope.

But I do not like waiting, and I have never put my faith in hope. It is a cousin of fate, and both are too mercurial for my taste. What I crave is action, but the only one who can act is Damien, and he has steadfastly refused.

And that, I think, is the worst cut of all. Because while I understand the reason for his silence, I can’t quell the selfish spark of anger. Because at the core of it all, it’s not just himself that Damien is sacrificing. It’s me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the tears to remain at bay. My anger is unfair, and I know it. But I’m just so damn scared.

I take slow, even breaths, and after a moment, I feel calmer. I realize that I am splayed across Damien’s side of the bed, and I breathe even deeper, as if his scent alone can bolster me and erase my fears.

But it isn’t enough. I need the man himself, and I peel myself away from the cool comfort of our bed and stand up. I’m naked, and I bend to retrieve the white, lush robe provided by the Hotel Kempinski. Damien brushed it back off my shoulders after our shower last night, and I left it where it fell, a soft pile of cotton beside the bed.

The sash is a different story, and I have to dig in the rumpled sheets to find it. Last night, it had bound my wrists behind my back. Now, I tie it around my waist and tug it tight, relishing the luxurious comfort after waking so violently. The room itself is equally soothing, every detail done to perfection. Every piece of wood polished, every tiny knickknack or artistic addition thoughtfully arranged. Right now, however, I am oblivious to the room’s charms. I only want to find Damien.

The bedroom connects to an oversized dressing area and a stunning bathroom, but though I check briefly in both, I do not see him, and I continue through to the living area. The space is large and also well-appointed with comfortable seating and a round worktable that is now covered with sheaths of papers and folders representing both the business that Damien is continuing to run despite the world collapsing around our ears, and the various legal documents that his attorney, Charles Maynard, has left for Damien to study.

The room is exactly as we left it last night, even down to the two crystal high ball glasses on the coffee table that held the whiskey we’d sipped while we sat talking on the couch, my feet in his lap and his fingers casually stroking my leg. My skin tingles from the mere memory of his touch, and I cannot help but smile. Despite the circumstances, the night was sweet. This is our last night before the proceedings officially begin, and by some unspoken agreement we said nothing about the reason that we are here in Munich. There was only the two of us and the fire that is forever between us. A fire that started with only the soft glow of coals during dinner, and then exploded into a pyrotechnical display when he finally took me to bed.