Chapter 22 — The Break in Control
The faint sound of the city, a dull, faraway hum, was the only thing that dared to puncture the silence of the penthouse. Athena felt the scrutiny of Damon's gaze, a weight that was both unnerving and deeply familiar. It was the same intense focus he applied to a billion-dollar merger or a high-stakes negotiation, but now it was directed entirely at her.
She had caught his fractional smile, that fleeting moment of authentic warmth, and it had melted eight months of carefully constructed armor. It made her realize two things instantly: she still knew how to disarm him, and he was still the most brutally attractive man she had ever known.
In his own domain, Damon was something else entirely. Without the confining structure of a tailored tuxedo jacket, with his sleeves rolled to reveal the taut musculature of his forearms, he looked less like an untouchable titan of industry and more like a predator who had shed his disguise. He looked tired, yes, but in a way that made him appear vulnerable and dangerous all at once.
"You're sure you're alright, Athena?" he asked, his voice low, stepping closer to the edge of the enormous modular couch where she lay. The air shifted, thick with the scent of rain and his expensive cologne.
"Yes," she managed, her voice a little husky. She swung her legs over the side of the couch and planted her feet on the rich, dark wood floor. "Just lightheaded, I think. It was a long day."
He stood over her now, casting a shadow. "Maybe you should see a doctor. I can call someone now."
"No," she insisted, standing quickly—perhaps too quickly—and swaying slightly.
Damon was instantly there, his hands reaching out to steady her before he could think, his palms settling warmly on her bare shoulders just above the sapphire fabric. The contact, immediate and electric, halted both of them dead.
The world narrowed to the small, intimate space between them. Athena felt the undeniable heat radiating from his skin, the unexpected roughness of his thumb brushing against the smooth skin of her arm. For eight months, she had conjured up contempt for him—cold, cutting scorn. Now, all of that dissolved into a dizzying rush of sensation.
She looked up, meeting his eyes. The concern was still there, but beneath it, darker and far more potent, was a flicker of raw, unvarnished desire. It was a look that stripped away the past rejections, the failed attempts, the years of complex tension. It was the look of a man who suddenly saw the thing he wanted most standing right in front of him.
He's looking at me like he I imagined him to, she thought, a dangerous, thrilling acknowledgment.
Damon felt his control fraying, the finely tuned machinery of his composure seizing up. The sapphire dress had fallen slightly, and his eyes, against his own iron will, fixed on the pulse point at her throat, the rapid, tell-tale thump mirroring the sudden, frantic beat of his own heart. He remembered the feel of her hands in his, the soft curve of her waist, the dizzying scent of her hair. He'd told himself that night, months ago, that he was protecting her by pushing her away, protecting his own empire from the risk of emotional attachment. Now, standing here, feeling the undeniable pressure of her shoulders beneath his hands, he realized he had only protected himself from exquisite pain—and exquisite pleasure.
This is a mistake, he thought, his brain screaming the warning, but the thought was too weak, drowned out by the thundering in his ears. She is vulnerable. She is my niece
He should let go. He should step back. But he couldn't. His hands slid down her arms, fingers tracing the fine bone structure of her wrist, before slowly returning to cup her face.
"You look incredible, Athena," he breathed, the words a rough confession torn from him. "Eight months has done nothing but sharpen you."
Her breath hitched. "You asked me here to tell me I clean up well?" she whispered, her voice laced with the old sarcasm, but her body leaning imperceptibly into his touch.
"No," he muttered, his thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw. His gaze fell to her lips, those lips he'd noted with such distraction in the garden, and they were the only thing he could see, the only point of focus in a rapidly tilting world. "I asked you here because... because you collapsed. And because I missed you."
The admission hung heavy, a breaking point.
Athena didn't offer a witty retort. She didn't remind him of his cruelty. She simply moved, tilting her head fractionally and bridging the last remaining distance.
His mouth found hers instantly, fiercely, as if his body had been waiting eight months for this one, solitary action. It wasn't gentle; it was desperate, a collision of two people who had spent too long denying the gravitational pull between them. Damon's hands tangled in the loose hair at her neck, pulling her impossibly closer until the soft, yielding curves of her body pressed against the hard, unyielding lines of his.
The blanket she had been wrapped in fell forgotten to the floor. The chill of the night, the weight of the past, the sophistication of the Gala—all of it vanished in the sheer, electric force of the kiss.
He tasted like the rain and the vague metallic tang of fear that had coated her mouth when she woke up, now chased away by a potent mix of mint and something uniquely his own. Athena's hands moved instinctively, tearing at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel the solid heat of his chest against her palms, to break through the last barrier of formality.
Damon's control had utterly fractured. He deepened the kiss, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his throat as he lifted her, his arms slipping beneath her, never breaking contact. He carried her further into the penthouse, past the massive glass windows that offered a view of the indifferent, glittering city skyline.
He stopped only when they reached his bedroom, the large, masculine space dark save for the distant glow of the city filtering through the glass. He lowered her slowly, their bodies frictioning deliciously against each other as she slid down the length of his chest.
The dress—the elegant sapphire that had looked so cool and untouchable—was now just an obstacle, a hurdle to be quickly discarded. His fingers found the zipper, pulling it down with a single, quick motion. The fabric pooled at her feet as she reached up, dragging his shirt from his shoulders, discarding it to land silently on the carpet.
Skin met skin. Muscle met silk.
Damon stepped back just far enough to look at her, his eyes blazing, consuming every inch of the view. The denial he had been clinging to minutes earlier was a scorched memory. This wasn't regret; it was pure, unadulterated need. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as it grazed the smooth, bare skin of her hip.
She took another step toward him, closing the final gap, her hands resting flat against the sculpted planes of his abdomen. Their breath mingled, ragged and uneven. He tilted her head back gently with his fingers, leaning in, ready to claim her mouth again.
Then, the piercing, shrill sound of a phone alarm—her phone, discarded on the living room table—sliced through the silence, loud and insistent, followed immediately by the automated voice of her digital assistant announcing: "Athena, 2:00 AM. Your daily medication reminder is active."
The sound was a cold shower. They both froze, panting, eyes locked in a shared moment of utter violation. The reminder wasn't just loud; it was a screeching, fluorescent beacon of the world they had forgotten, of the real and complex reasons they were apart. It was a reminder of her body's fragile state, of the chaos of the night, and of the fundamental problems they had yet to resolve.
Damon's hands, which had been tight around her waist, went still. He stared into her eyes, searching for something, his jaw clenched, the desire in his face warring with a sudden, devastating sense of clarity.
With a shuddering breath, he slowly, infinitesimally, let go. He ran a hand through his hair, turning his back to her, creating a painful, echoing space between them.
"I... I should get that for you," he rasped, his voice unrecognizable. He walked rapidly toward the living room, leaving her alone in the immense, silent dark of the bedroom, the sapphire dress lying in a discarded heap at her feet.