Page 62 of Sinful Sacrifice

I forgot about the detective requesting I become his personal rat.

Should I tell Damien or keep it to myself?

The anxiety of that conversation causes a dull ache to throb inside my head as I roll out of bed and plod through the bedroom to the en suite bath that belongs in a spa.

A duffel bag, filled with my clothes and personal items, sits on the island in the closet. Per Damien’s demand, I texted him a list of stuff to grab from my apartment. His packing me a bag felt weird at first, but I’m growing more comfortable with him. I don’t see him as some creep who’ll sniff my panties.

Okay, not like in a creepy way.

More in a sexy way because I’m pretty sure he’s pocketed a pair of my worn panties before. Damien moves so quickly that it’s hard to keep up with what he does.

He moves like a predator.

Swift and intentional.

Sometimes, you don’t even know you’ve fallen victim to him before it’s too late.

I brush my teeth, my hair, and change into fresh clothes. It took Damien’s men three hours to install everything in my mom’s home yesterday. They spent another hour walking us through how to work them.

Damien isn’t only spoiling me, protecting me, but he’s also extending that courtesy to my family. I have nothing to give him in return, and he doesn’t care.

I leave the bedroom and run my hand along the brass staircase rail while moving down the steps.

Not a fan of steps, huh?

Damien’s brownstone is timeless. He preserved its beautiful history while also renovating the space, making it contemporary. He—or whoever designed the space—gave it the perfect balance. It’s a piece of art tucked between walls. The open-floor plan and large windows provide plenty of natural light.

When my feet hit the bottom step, the front door opens.

Damien walks in, carrying a box of doughnuts. A short woman with silver hair follows him, holding a grocery tote and peering around the chef’s kitchen.

“Pippa,” Damien says, setting the box on the black marble island in the kitchen. “This is Monique. She’s one of the best vegetarian chefs in the city.”

Oh, I recognize her.

I follow her on Instagram and have tried—and unfortunately failed—to recreate her recipes.

I smile, sending her a tiny wave. “Hi, Monique.”

She returns the smile. “It’s very nice to meet you, Pippa. I’m excited to work with you.”

“Monique will be your chef from now on,” Damien says simply, slipping off his blazer and draping it over the island chair.

“I started a menu this morning,” Monique adds before glancing at Damien. “Do you mind if I familiarize myself with your kitchen and make a list of items I’ll need?”

“It’s all yours,” Damien answers. He swipes the doughnut box from the island and hands it to me. “Until she gets started, I brought today’s breakfast.”

“Thank you.” I open the box, finding the most elaborate doughnuts I’ve ever seen. My mouth waters.

“Can’t have my baby going hungry.” He kisses the tip of my nose and clasps my hand.

I follow his lead upstairs, our footsteps echoing through the space, mixing with the sound of Monique moving around the kitchen. When we’re back in the bedroom, Damien softly shuts the door behind us.

“How did you sleep?”

“Good actually.” For once, I didn’t wake up with achy muscles.

A cocky smirk spreads across his face. “Told you my place was better.”

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