Page 43 of Watch Me Burn
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like a living painting, Denver’s lights twinkling against the night sky. The snowstorm adds a dreamy quality to the view, turning the night ethereal. Dense waves of white cascade past the glass, each flake luminous against the darkness, backlit by the city’s thousand windows that feel like glowing eyes.
“Oh,” I move toward the windows as if pulled by the sight. “This is—”
“The view makes it worth the ridiculous price tag.”
I laugh, appreciating his attempt at humility even though we both know what “ridiculous” means in Damien Wolfe terms.
“You weren’t exaggerating about the view.”
He comes up behind me, standing close. Not touching, but near enough that his warmth radiates against my back. “What’s your poison? Whiskey? Wine?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
I follow his reflection in the window as he moves to a bar in the corner and selects a bottle, pouring two generous measures into crystal tumblers. His movements are fluid and controlled, just like everything about him.
Everything except for the moments when I catch him looking at me. In those unguarded seconds, hunger blazes raw and undisguised in his eyes, and my skin goes hot, nerve endings firing like live wires beneath the surface.
“Here.”
He hands me my drink. Our fingers brush during the exchange, and electricity skitters up my arm at the brief contact.
“Thank you.” I take a cautious sip and can’t suppress a small sound of appreciation. The whiskey is rich and complex, sliding down my throat with only a pleasant burn. “This is exceptional.”
“It should be. It’s a thirty-year single malt from a small distillery in the Scottish Highlands. Only a few hundred bottles are made each year.” He stands beside me now, both of us facing the view. “I discovered it on a trip years ago and bought their entire stock for that season.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Of course you did.”
“What does that mean?” There’s an edge to his voice now.
“Just that it’s a very Damien Wolfe thing to do. Find something rare and beautiful and then acquire it.”
He turns to face me, his expression unreadable. “Is that how you see me? As someone who collects beautiful things?”
I meet his gaze. “I think you’re someone who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to go after it.”
“And what if what I want isn’t for sale?” His voice drops lower, and my skin flushes with sudden heat.
“Then I imagine you find other ways to get it.” I take another sip of whiskey. “It’s peaceful up this high. Though I prefer my view of the mountains and forest.”
He turns to me and takes the still half-full glass from my hand, setting it aside with his empty one.
“Stay tonight.”
My heart skips several beats. “Damien—”
“The snow’s getting worse.” He nods toward the window. “I’ll take you back if it’s what you really want, but I’d love for you to stay.”
Hope lights his features, but underneath runs a current of desire and want so heavy my throat tightens.
“I have plenty of guest rooms if that’s what you’re worried about.”
But his eyes tell a different story. He doesn’t want me in a guest room. He wants me in his bed.
“I should get back. Theanimals—”
“Maren is there.” He reaches for my hand, and his thumb brushes the pulse point on my wrist, making me tremble. “Stay, Luna.”
I want to. God, how I want to. But my wolf will come for me tonight, and if I’m not there, there’s no telling what he might do.
