Page 81 of The Prince of Power

Across the room, Damian sits behind his desk. The man across from him leans forward. “My father wrote the speeches for Stanton during the recession. The ones that made him sound like he gave a shit about ordinary people.”

Damian nods. “That kind of messaging never fails if you’re eloquent.”

“Yep. If the language is principled enough, it doesn’t matter what’s underneath.”

“Most people mistake tone for truth.”

A chill scrapes the back of my neck. What on earth is this about?

Not a conversation between two college students, that’s for sure. It sounds…really corrupt. Like they’re trying to manipulate people on a massive scale.

Damian said Thornecroft is a recruitment center. Is that what he’s doing now—recruiting someone to instigate some kind of political scheme?

Damian’s gaze lands on me. The cool, measured look on his face slips. For a heartbeat, he looks…delighted.

It warms me inside. I think he was truly worried about me this past week.

He clears his throat, and the mask returns. “That’ll be all.” He cuts the man off mid sentence.

The man hesitates, then gathers his things and leaves without further comment, brushing past me on his way out.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Damian stands and then rounds the desk with slow steps. “I don’t mind.”

He scans me head to toe, eyes lingering like he’s drinking me in. It sends a lightning bolt of heat into my core.

It’s time to stop lying to myself. I like him.

Maybe it took losing myself to finally admit it to myself. This is crazy—wrong—twisted. Objectively, I know this. But in the past few weeks, something’s changed. My mind can’t seem to reconcile what I know with what I feel.

Where is the shame? There ought to be a cold sickness in my stomach, clawing its way up my chest. But somehow, my fear and loathing for my captor have morphed into something different.

I think it might be compassion.

Damian didn’tchoosethis world. I’m almost certain he was raised in it. Trained. Conditioned. And while that certainly doesn’t make him innocent now, it does make him…something else. Not quite evil.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice is soft. Maybe even a little tender.

I shift my weight on my feet. Just before I open my mouth to speak, my eyes land on a dark stone statue in the corner. The body of a woman with the head of a lion.

“Is that Egyptian?” I ask, thankful for the distraction.

Damian looks over his shoulder. “Yes.”

I step closer, and the dark stone catches the faint morning sunlight. “Is it real?”

“Of course.”

It certainly looks real with its marred surface, as if it’s been eroded by time. “It must be thousands of years old,” I murmur. “How did you get it? Did someone steal it?”

Damian laughs, making my cheeks warm.

“Steal it.” He shakes his head. “You really think the worst of me, don’t you?” In a lower voice, he adds, “Though I guess I can’t blame you.”

Was that an admission of guilt from Damian Cross? I never thought I’d live to see the day.

“But no,” he says. “My great-grandfather got it at auction when he designed this house. Over a hundred years ago, probably. The Wild West for art collection. You could get pieces like this without—” his lips twitch “—stealing them.”

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