Complete Me(62)

And that is why I am willing to fight so hard.

Slowly, I open my eyes and tilt my head to look at him. “I know,” I say. “But that doesn’t make it relevant. Maynard didn’t call about stock prices or your corporate logo or what they serve in the goddamn lunchroom at Stark Tower.”

He’s staring at me as if I’ve gone mad, and maybe I have a little. But dammit, I want him to understand.

“We’re not attached at the hip, Damien. Everything’s not about us. And that’s fine. Hell, it’s good. I don’t want to steal your autonomy any more than I want to hand you mine. But I have memorized every line of your face, and I recognized the shadows I saw in your eyes. So don’t trivialize something that really does affect us by making it sound like some minor irritation that’s going to require us to reschedule dinner next Thursday.”

He raises an eyebrow as he looks at me. “Well,” he says, and that simple word holds both surprise and acknowledgment.

After a moment, he takes the last step toward me and sits next to me on the bed. He gently takes my hand and uses his fingertip to trace lightly upon my skin. He says nothing, though, and the silence hangs heavy between us, full of both questions and hope.

I remember my thought as we took off—that we are either going to keep moving forward, or we are going to crash. Finally, I can take it no longer. I reach for him, then stroke my hand down the side of his cheek. “I love you,” I say, though the words seem too big for my throat.

“Nikki.” My name sounds as though it was wrenched from him, and when he pulls me close and holds me tight, I close my eyes, wanting—no, needing—to hear the words back. He has not said that he loves me since my first week in Germany. Not since the trial prep began in earnest and the attorneys warned him that he was risking jail and his future if he didn’t testify.

I need to hear it now, though. I desperately need him to say those three little words. Not because I doubt that Damien loves me, but because I cannot shake the fear that we are on a collision course with the real world, and that those words are our only shield once our shiny, protective bubble shatters.

He says nothing, though. He simply holds me, his arms closing tight around me as if that is all the protection I need.

When he does speak, his words surprise me. “The press has been going hot and heavy suggesting that I bribed someone to get the charges dropped.”

I stiffen and pull back so that I can see his face. “Those f*cking bastards.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I agree completely with your assessment, but the truth is I’ve been accused of worse.” I search his face and see nothing of my own anger. Whatever is bothering him, it isn’t this ridiculous accusation. That’s just one part of the story.

“Okay,” I say. “Go on.”

“Apparently the prosecutors and judges weren’t thrilled with the allegations. The prosecution released an official statement that the charges against me were dropped after additional evidence was brought to the court’s attention.”

Considering that’s exactly what happened, I’m still not seeing the problem. But I say nothing, content to wait.

“Now the press is pushing to see the evidence.”

Oh . . .

I squeeze his hand tight. “Damien, that’s—” I cut myself off, because I don’t know what to say. Horrible? I think of how wrecked he was after the dismissal and try to magnify that a million-fold if those photos are released to the whole goddamned world. My chest constricts and my skin feels prickly merely from the thought. I can’t even imagine how Damien must feel—or how brutally the release of those photos will rip him apart.