Page 18 of Twisted Fate

I’ve worked out all the potential scenarios that today can bring, and suddenly come to the realization that Damian might not even step foot in here again for sixty days. Why would he? I’m safely holed away in this lush prison with Luca babysitting me until further notice.

That potential outcome is dismissed the moment I open the bedroom door and see Damian sitting at the long dining table, facing me. As if he’s been waiting for me to emerge.

His gaze travels slowly down my body then slides back up to my face, pausing for a split second on the mark he left on my neck. I feel that look as if he’s touched me and suddenly all I can think of are the things he said he wanted to do to me, the feel of his arms around me and his mouth on mine, the hard ridge of his cock pressed against me. I am not usually this horny or this stupid. Maybe Damian Russo put something in the water.

8

Alina

“Good morning,” I say, trying to force aside the memories of Damian kissing me, touching me, marking my skin. I dreamed about him last night and woke up with my body thrumming like a live wire. Ugh. I don’t want to dream about him, don’t want to want him. Sucks that my body doesn’t care what my brain wants.

“I’ve ordered breakfast,” he says, his voice like smooth, dark silk. He’s wearing faded jeans, worn and soft, and a black t-shirt, the short sleeves pulled taut by the bulge of his biceps, the material stretching across his shoulders and chest, hanging a little loose at his waist. “It should be here any minute now.”

“Oh. Okay.” I wet my lips.

He’s silent for a moment, and then, “Let’s talk, Alina.”

“Talk? About what?” Nervousness swarms over me like I’ve accidentally stepped on a nest of ants.

Damian nods at the chair to his right. “Take a seat.”

I want to resist, but I do what he tells me to do, reminding myself of the plan to be nice and the fact that he has made it clear he expects to be obeyed. I sit, fighting to keep my expression calm.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks.

“Well enough. I was surprised to find my all my things here this morning. More surprised that their delivery didn’t wake me up.” I manage to keep any animosity out of my tone.

“It wasn’t me. After I arrived this morning, I sent Luca to collect your things.”

Damian must have been here very early this morning if Luca had enough time to collect and pack all my shit.

“He tells me you’ve met,” Damian says.

“Briefly last night. Enough to know he’s a Harry Potter fan.”

“Is he?”

I nod, and this is the moment that the front door opens and the six-foot-five Potterhead in question enters the condo, carrying a large paper bag and a tray with two coffees.

Damian’s attention doesn’t leave me for a moment. I feel the heat of his gaze on me as I watch Luca place the bag on the counter, pull out a bunch of white take-away containers and set them on the table along with the tray of coffees. He collects dishes from a cupboard and cutlery from a drawer.

“Bon Appetit,” he says dryly before leaving us alone again.

My stomach grumbles with hunger, since I literally don’t remember the last meal I had. Something quick and forgettable for lunch yesterday. I never ended up eating the crackers and chocolate last night.

Damian pushes a coffee toward me and takes one for himself. “Latte. Extra hot. Extra foam. One shot caramel syrup, one shot vanilla syrup. Cinnamon sprinkled on top,” he says.

He knows my weirdly specific coffee order. I find that unsettling.

I find everything about him unsettling.

“Eat something,” he tells me.

His commanding tone pisses me off. “No thank you. I’m not hungry.”

He opens the containers to reveal scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, fruit cocktail, French toast, and chocolate croissants, which are my favorites. He takes a plate and piles food onto it, everything except a croissant. I have the crazy thought that he got them for me. How would he know that I like them?

The same way he knows so many other things about me, including how I like my coffee.

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