Page 30 of The Billionaire's Obsession

One last look at his sleeping form. The twist in my chest isn't guilt—it's longing. Even now, preparing to walk away, I want to crawl back into his arms, to whisper that I'm his, only his, forever his.

That's why I have to go. Because when did I become a woman who can't breathe without a man's permission?

I slip out of the bedroom and through the silent penthouse, my footsteps muffled on the plush carpet. The elevator takes me down eighty floors to the lobby, where the security guard nods at me, recognizing "Mr. Blackwell's...friend." The pause in his greeting says everything about how I'm perceived.

Outside, dawn is breaking over the city. I inhale deeply, tasting freedom and fear in equal measure. The streets are quiet this early, just delivery trucks and early commuters. I pick a direction at random and start walking, each step carrying me further from Damon's bed, his arms, his possession.

But not his hold on me. That, I carry with me, wrapped around my heart like a fist.

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Lucy

I've been walkingfor almost two hours, the morning sun climbing higher in the sky, when I realize I'm circling back toward Damon's building without conscious thought. Like a planet caught in a gravitational pull, I'm unable to escape his orbit. The questions still swirl in my head, but they're joined now by a new sensation—a hollow ache in my chest that grows with each step I take away from him. I miss him. Already. Pathetically. The realization makes me angry and relieved at the same time.

I turn the corner onto his street, still half a block from the gleaming tower where his penthouse sits. That's when I see it—his black limousine, parked haphazardly near the curb, half on the sidewalk like it stopped in a panic. My steps falter. The back door flies open before I can decide whether to approach or run.

Damon practically falls out of the car. Not the controlled, powerful CEO who commands boardrooms with a whisper. This man is disheveled, his normally perfect hair standing up like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. His dress shirt isbuttoned wrong, missing his usual tie. He's wearing suit pants with—I blink in disbelief—slippers.

He sees me and freezes, his body going rigid. "Oh, thank god," he says, his deep voice breaking on the last word.

The raw emotion in those three words hits me like a physical blow. I've never heard Damon Blackwell—who negotiates billion-dollar deals without flinching—sound so utterly wrecked.

"Damon, I?—"

He's on me before I can finish, crossing the distance between us in long, desperate strides. His hands cup my face, eyes scanning me frantically. "Are you hurt? Did something happen?" His thumbs brush my cheeks, my temples, my jaw, as if checking for injuries. "Tell me."

"I'm fine." I steady myself against the intensity of his gaze. "I just went for a walk."

"A walk." He repeats the words like they're in a foreign language. "You disappeared. I woke up and you were gone." Each sentence is clipped, fighting for control. "Your phone location showed you moving, but you wouldn't answer my calls."

I see it now—the naked fear beneath his anger. This powerful man is terrified.

"I needed to think." My voice sounds small, even to my own ears.

His hands tighten on my face. "Four security cameras caught you leaving the building at five-twenty-seven. You looked...upset." Something flashes across his features—vulnerability so raw it hurts to witness. "Because of me?"

The driver and a security guard hover near the limo, pretending not to watch us. A few pedestrians slow their pace, drawn to the drama unfolding on the sidewalk. I'm suddenly aware of how public this moment is.

"Can we go somewhere private to talk?" I ask.

Instead of answering, Damon pulls me against his chest, burying his face in my hair. His heart hammers against mine, racing at a pace that scares me. This isn't the controlled man I know. This is someone undone.

"I thought I'd lost you," he whispers against my temple. "I thought—" He can't finish the sentence.

His driver opens the limo door without being asked. Damon guides me inside with a hand that trembles slightly against my lower back. The door closes, sealing us in the quiet luxury of the back seat. Before I can speak, Damon presses the intercom.

"Drive around. Don't stop until I tell you to."

"Yes, sir."

The privacy partition slides up. The limo pulls smoothly into traffic. And then it's just us, facing each other in the dim interior.

"Two hours and seventeen minutes," he says, his voice low. "That's how long you were gone. Do you know what that did to me?"

I look at him properly now—the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the barely restrained panic still visible in the tightness around his mouth. He looks like a man who's been through hell.

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