Page 22 of Bite of Midnight
But another part, the one that still remembers who I was before tonight, fights to breathe.
I turn to face him, and the look in his eyes nearly undoes me. There’s centuries of loneliness in that gaze, but also something brighter, something I can’t name.
“I can’t,” I whisper, the words breaking on the way out. “I want to, but I can’t. Not right now.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t argue. His jaw tightens, his expression unreadable, but his hand stays on my arm, light, careful, unwilling to let go.
“I understand,” he says softly. “But you’ll come back. You have to. You’re part of me now.”
His words sink deep, echoing in places I didn’t know existed. And when I finally step away, my heart feels like it’s being pulled in two directions, one toward the door, and one that will always, somehow, lead back to him.
I text Brooke.
Me:On my way down. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.
I swallow hard, clutching my purse strap a little too tightly. “Could you walk me down? I’m not sure I could make it back without getting lost.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Of course.”
I watch as he pulls on his pants, then reaches for the shirt he discarded hours, or was it minutes?, ago. He buttons it slowly, tucking it in with practiced precision. The sight shouldn’t make my heart twist, but it does. He looks every bit the dark, composed immortal again. And yet, there’s something softer about him now, something unguarded. His hair’s a little mussed, his shirt creased, like he’s just as undone by what happened between us as I am.
When I finish slipping on my heels, he moves closer. His hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady, and I feel that familiar current spark to life again.
“Ready?” he murmurs.
I nod, though I’m not sure I am.
He leads me toward the hall, our footsteps quiet on the old floors. The silence between us isn’t awkward, it’s heavy withthings unsaid, like the air still remembers everything that happened upstairs.
Before we reach the ballroom, he stops. I turn, and he’s watching me with that unreadable expression again, something caught between longing and restraint.
“This place,” he says, voice low, “is my home. You can come back anytime. Day or night.”
Something in my chest tightens. “Damien…”
He reaches out, takes my phone gently from my fingers. My pulse jumps when his thumb brushes mine. In a few quick movements, he adds his number, then presses call. A faint vibration hums from his pocket.
“Now I have yours too,” he says softly. He hands the phone back to me. “If you want to talk, I’m here. I’ll answer any questions you have.”
The words sound simple, but they feel like a vow. His gaze holds mine for a moment longer, steady, endless, devastatingly sure, before he exhales and looks away, like letting me leave is costing him something real.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He gives me a faint smile, but his eyes don’t match it. “Don’t thank me yet.”
I tuck the phone into my purse, my fingers trembling slightly. When he moves to open the door, I catch a glimpse of the ballroom beyond, the crowd, the lights, the ordinary hum of life, and it feels like another world entirely.
I take a deep breath. One step. Then another.
And I wonder, as I follow him back into the noise and the light, if anything about my world will ever feel ordinary again.
Before we step through the doorway, Damien catches my wrist and turns me toward him.
“Wait,” he murmurs.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, gentle but sure, and then he kisses me. It’s not a goodbye. It’s not even a promise. It’s a beginning, the kind that steals your breath and rearranges your heartbeat until nothing feels quite the same again.
When he finally pulls back, I’m dizzy, my lips tingling, my pulse a mess. He rests his forehead against mine for one lingering heartbeat before straightening, all poise and control again.
