Claim Me(68)

10


“Go,” Damien says to Ollie, his voice colder and more commanding than I have ever heard it.

I see my friend open his mouth as if to argue, but I catch his eye and nod. He frowns, then shoots Damien a look so full of disdain it makes my stomach curl. Damien doesn’t notice. He’s paid Ollie only scant attention, and his eyes have never left my face.

“Damien,” I begin.

“No,” he says. He pulls me roughly to him and wraps his arms around me. He practically trembles with anger, and I press my cheek against his chest, thankful to have this brief reprieve before the storm hits.

The music is still loud and fast with such a heavy bass that the roof beneath our feet seems to throb. I imagine we must look ridiculous, holding each other as if in a slow dance, but I don’t care. And soon, to my surprise, the music changes to match our pose. I glance up, curious, and see that a small crowd has gathered around us. Damien Stark is at least as famous as Garreth Todd, and we have stolen Mr. Todd’s spotlight.

I can only presume that the DJ is among the spectators, and has decided to match the music to our mood.

Since we do nothing more than sway in each other’s arms, interest soon wanes. The crowd either drifts away or joins us on the floor, and I begin to feel less like a fish in a bowl. A chastised fish, ready to be scolded.

He holds me through one song and then another, and though I am happy to spend my entire life inside the circle of his arms, I have reached the point where I can no longer stand the suspense. “Say something,” I plead.

He stays silent, and a cold dread curls through me. I am about to beg again when he speaks, so low and so gentle that I have to strain to hear him, and even then I am not sure that I have actually caught his words.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re—what?” I step back so that I can see his face, because I am certain that I have not heard right.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. We have stopped swaying and now we stand still on the dance floor.

“Is this some sort of reverse psychology? Because I know you pretty well, Damien Stark, and that wasn’t repentance I saw in your eyes when you crashed through the crowd. More like scary megalomaniac fury. Besides,” I add with a small grimace, “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

Damien’s expression doesn’t change, but for the tiniest of instants, I think I see a flicker of amusement. “First off,” he says, “I didn’t crash through the crowd. I walked, and quite calmly, too, considering the circumstances.”

I swallow. I knew he was pissed.

“Second,” he continues, “I believe a megalomaniac is someone who suffers from delusions about their own power. Trust me,” he says, and this time I am certain I see mirth dancing in his eyes, “I suffer no delusions about the extent of my power. And finally, you may have reason to be sorry. I, however, have more.”

“I—oh.” I have no idea what to say. This conversation isn’t going at all the way I expected. But he’s right; I do have reason to be sorry. “I should have told you that Jamie and I were going out with Ollie.”

“So you knew at the time?”

“No. Raine called later and told Jamie about the party. Then Ollie called and ended up coming along. I actually picked up the phone to call you. But then I didn’t,” I finish with a shrug.

“Because you knew I’d be pissed.”

I nod. “And that’s why I’m sorry.”

“Then we have that in common.”