Page 155 of Sinful Sacrifice

I break down in tears.

I cry for the time we lost and the uncertainty of our future.

We can’t get back time, but if there’s another chance for us, I’ll never make that mistake again.

Being left in the dark sucks. If Damien was involved in Cernach’s death, it would’ve saved me plenty of stress if he’d told me. I wouldn’t have tried to run off and witness a murder on a private jet had I known Cernach would soon be dead.

Letter in hand, I trek downstairs. Julian is still in the office, but I can hear him talking on the other side of the door as I pour myself a glass of water.

Taking my water, I sprawl out on the couch and try to call Damien.

No answer.

I text next.

Me: Please call or text. I need to know you’re okay.

I sit there, not turning the TV on or scrolling through social media, with only Damien on my mind. I need to know he’s okay. I attempt to put all the clues I missed together. Nothing adds up.

“At least tell me he’s okay,” I say in desperation when Julian finally leaves the office and steps into the living room.

Julian’s face softens. “Yeah, he’s okay. He’ll be home soon.”

Okay doesn’t mean our problem is solved. Unless Damien kills the entire Koglin family, not marrying Riona would still be a breach of contract.

Julian’s phone rings, and he leaves for another call.

I wait and wait until eventually, I fall asleep.

The door clicking open wakes me. I stir on the couch, realizing at some point, Julian must’ve draped a blanket over me. The smell of Damien flows through the room like a calmative.

He’s the fragrance of comfort, of devotion, of home.

My body instantly relaxes when he’s around.

Damien scoops me up in his strong arms, and I put mine around his shoulders while he walks us upstairs.

He flicks the bedroom light on, drags the comforter back, and settles me in bed. No matter what, he always wants to take care of me. I prop myself against the pillow and watch him while he moves around the room. His tux is wrinkled, his bow tie unknotted, and his hair disheveled. He’s the picture of a man who’s had a night from hell.

He silently walks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. I slip out of bed when the shower starts. As I slowly open the door, he peers up at me.

Again, it’s so familiar of the night in the guest room bathroom at Antonio’s, when I kissed his bruises.

This time, there are some differences.

There are no bloody knuckles, bruises, or blood.

Just pure exhaustion on his face.

“Go back to bed, baby,” he says, his voice hoarse.

As much as I want to start asking questions, I hold back.

He needs rest, sleep, a sense of calm, like he always provides me.

I shuffle toward him, stand on my tiptoes, and kiss him. “I’ll be out there waiting for you.”

He lowers his forehead, resting it against mine, and releases a deep sigh. “Thank you.”

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