Page 63 of Mutual Desire

Frowning, Damien declined the call and set his phone to vibrate. He crept quietly into the bedroom, where Craig lay sprawled on his stomach, his bare chest rising and falling in the dim light of the television.

Damien climbed onto the bed and gently ran his fingers through Craig’s hair, brushing his cheek. He watched his boyfriend sleep, the steady rhythm of Craig's breath bringing a rare moment of peace to Damien’s racing mind.

Then, his phone vibrated again on the bedside table.

Damien grabbed it, and his heart sank. Nabokov. A message followed seconds later:

You are avoiding me so I came to you. I’m waiting outside.

Damien stared at the text, disbelief and anger colliding in his chest. What the hell was Nabokov doing here? Outside Craig’s apartment, of all places?

Furious, Damien slipped into the bathroom and returned the call. Nabokov answered after two rings.

“Nabokov,” came the smooth, infuriating voice on the other end.

“What the fuck, Alexander?” Damien whispered harshly, barely containing his rage.

A beat of silence followed before Nabokov responded, his tone maddeningly calm.“Good evening to you too, Damien.”

“This isn’t funny. Tell me you’re not actually outside.”

“I am,” Nabokov replied evenly. “And I’m getting impatient.”

Damien clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. “You’re insane. I’m not coming down.”

Nabokov’s voice lowered, tinged with amusement. “Then I’ll come to you.”

“No, you fucking won’t!” Damien hissed.

Nabokov ignored him. “You have two minutes, Damien.”

Before Damien could respond, the line went dead.

Muttering curses under his breath, Damien slipped out of the apartment and headed for the street. The sleek black Bentley was impossible to miss. Anger seethed through him as he yanked open the back door of the car and slid inside.Nabokov sat with a laptop on his lap, Bluetooth in his ear, typing as if Damien’s fury didn’t matter.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Damien spat, glaring at the Russian man.

Nabokov removed the Bluetooth with practiced indifference and set it aside. Their eyes met, and Damien’s heart pounded with a dangerous mix of fury and… something else.

“Good evening, Damien,” Nabokov said smoothly, as if they were old friends.

“Cut the bullshit,” Damien snapped. “Why are you stalking me?”

Nabokov’s lips curled slightly. “Stalking? I prefer to call it… persistence.”

Damien’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the seat.“You don’t get to do this,” Damien growled. “This is harassment.”

Nabokov leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “And yet, here you are.”

The tension between them thickened, filling the small space. Damien’s breath hitched as Nabokov’s gaze locked onto his.

“Tell me, Damien,” Nabokov whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “Are you going to walk away? Or are you going to give in?”

Damien’s heart raced, and the world outside the car seemed to fade. In this moment, with Nabokov’s hand grazing his thigh and their breaths mingling, there was only one undeniable truth—he was already falling.

“Stay out of my life, Alexander. I’m warning you. I won’t accept you harassing me like some creepy stalker,” Damien said, clinging to Nabokov’s gaze, his voice a mix of rage and desperation.

Nabokov's expression didn’t change. The billionaire remained impenetrable, like a statue—cold, unmoved, and composed. Damien could feel the weight of failure pressing on him. His threat had no effect. Slowly, reluctantly, Damien turned toward the door handle, ready to escape.

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