Page 42 of Damon

“Emma, I will find out the truth,” he says, firmly bringing my attention back to him. “But I would much rather that the information came from you. I was under the impression there was honesty between us. Do you work for Samson Moreno?”

“What?” I snarl, and my eyes fly open. “I would never work for that bastard. How dare you!”

His whole body sags at my reaction, and the anxious expression which had flitted over his features briefly disappears. His question, although infuriating, offers me a fraction of relief that he cannot be working with Moreno, if he is concerned that I could be.

“Good,” he says, almost to himself. “So how do you know him?”

Trying to deny the truth is pointless—if I don’t tell him, he will find out for himself. “He killed my parents.” Damon listens but doesn’t react. The man in front of me is used to allowing people to speak and showing no emotion. “And it was my testimony that put Moreno behind bars. I am Kathryn Haining.”

Chapter sixteen

Damon and Annie's Home, London

Damon

My suspicions have been confirmed. There’s a lot more to Emma’s backstory than I was aware of. The young woman in front of me is independent and capable because she has had to be. And tonight, I’m going to find out exactly what she’s been through and put in place the measures to support her the best I can, however that may look. Right now, I have no idea myself.

“Start at the beginning,” I tell her firmly. “From the first time you ever saw Moreno until now. I need every detail if I’m to keep you safe, Emma. What happened, and what does he know about you?”

Her tense shoulders sag visibly, and her ice-blue eyes drop to between her feet. She leans forward, places her elbows on her knees, and drops her head into her hands. The long blonde ponytail poised on top of her head falls forward.

My instinct is to go to her—all I want to do is wrap her in my arms and share some of my strength. But I’m uncertain of the connection between us; when I’m in the same room as her, my mind explodes. Everything I promised myself I would never want with someone other than Connie dissipates, and I imagine having it all with Emma.

“Do you want to be called Emma or Kathryn?” I ask her, and she looks up. Fresh tears coat her cheeks, and she wipes at her eyes with trembling fingers.

“My name is Emma,” she replies curtly. “Kathryn no longer exists.”

“Noted.” Keeping myself in my chair is torture. She’s vulnerable, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen her. In all the months that I’ve known her, she’s never looked so emotional. Even the day she gave birth and I walked away, she seemed more in control. “Would you rather speak to someone else about this?”

“No,” she responds, shaking her head. “I’ll tell you. It’s just been a long time since I’ve allowed myself to relive what happened that day.”

“We have all night. Do you want a drink?” I rise and walk over to the cabinet in the corner where I keep my best liquor. Her eyes follow me across the room—I feel her gaze on me even without looking at her. My body tenses under her scrutiny as I wonder what she is thinking. How she sees me.

“A drink would be good,” she replies. “As long as it’s strong.” I glance over and she smiles shyly. “I think I may need it.”

“Me too.” Our eyes lock, and I can’t look away. From memory, I open the cabinet then pick the bottle from the shelf. The tension in the room increases a notch, and for the first time today I notice the shape of her nipples beneath the plain white t-shirt she is wearing.

Pulling my focus away, I concentrate on pouring two generous measures of whiskey into the waiting glasses. I always have crystal ready for when someone visits, and meetings conducted in my office normally require alcohol.

Once done, I walk over to her and offer her a glass. She looks up at me and suddenly, make-up free, she looks so young. Her clear skin is coated with a soft rose glow, and her plump lips shimmer under the lamplight. I swallow as my cock hardens in my suit—fuck, I wish I was wearing denim; it would be less obvious. Her eyes drop to my crotch then lift back to mine. She flushes red and diverts her focus back to the floor.

“Moreno was the local loan shark where we lived,” she begins, her voice so quiet I can barely hear. I place the whiskey glasses on the desk then crouch down beside her before spinning the chair to face me; she stills, then reaches for my hand. “My parents promised me they would never use his service. I had seen what he did to those who didn’t pay. My best friend, Casey, her father lost his fingers from his right hand. Moreno’s men removed them one by one with wire.” She sobs, and it catches in her throat, causing her to cough. “And his family watched it happen.”

“You’re doing great,” I tell her, squeezing her fingers in mine.

“They promised me,” she wails. “They lied to me for months. I was so angry with my parents that night, the night he murdered them. They died thinking I hated them.” She stops speaking, and her free hand lifts to her mouth. She heaves into her fingers, but nothing spills out.

“Take your time.” I take her second hand, leaving me squatted before her, holding both. Our fingers twist together on impulse. “I’m here for as long as you need me to be. Trust me, please.” She snorts quietly, startling me. “What?”

“Damon,” she whispers, and the obvious vulnerability in her tone speaks directly to my protective instincts. Fuck, all I want to do is keep her safe. Anyone who’s caused her pain, I want to drain them of their own life slowly and agonizingly. “Trusting you has never been an issue. You are the most moral man I have ever met.”

I laugh out loud, and she jumps. “You may be the only person who admires my morals.” She giggles. The sound is so fucking sweet. “Plenty would disagree.”

“Well, they’re wrong. You’re a good man.” She pauses, then continues her story. “I knew money was tight. We lived in a nice area, a typical family home with three bedrooms and a small backyard. But then Mother stopped turning on the heating, and I noticed it was supermarket budget brands in the cupboards.

“Each time I asked, they waved away my questions. Then I noticed the men following us. They would wait outside our house in the mornings, follow us in the car to school, and be there when I got home. When I asked my father about them, he told me I was imagining it. I wasn’t.

“The day they died, I returned home from school to find my parents tied to our dining room chairs. My father was only semi-conscious; his ears had been removed and were lying on his lap. My mother had been gagged, and clumps of hair had been pulled from her scalp.”

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