Page 59 of Scorching Sienna

When we return to my building, Bob disappears once we are inside. I carry Sienna’s sleeping form all the way upstairs. Jordan is waiting for me at the door to her place, no doubt watching our arrival on one of the cameras.

Once inside her room, I gently place her on the bed before removing her boots. Getting her dress off is another story, but I succeed. The hardon I rubbed out earlier looks like it needs a round two. I pull the covers over her to save my sanity while she snuggles into their warmth.

I run a finger softly over her face.

“Damon?” she mumbles, half asleep.

“Shhhh, we are home.” I keep my voice low, afraid she might wake up.

“Don’t leave me. Please, Damon.” Her voice pleads with me quietly, the alcohol in her system making it come out a bit slurred.

“I’m not going anywhere, rainbow.” I stroke her hair, a small smile on her face.

While her previous words may have been slurred, her next ones are crystal clear and land with a thud in the silence around us, rooting in my dark heart and blooming like a moonflower answering to its namesake. The blood surges around as my heart beats faster, the weight of her words like a fucking vice.

“I love you, Damon.”

Chapter 16

Light

I can’t tell if it’s the hangover or the nerves making my stomach uneasy. Perhaps both. After last night's glasses of champagne, I felt pretty fragile this morning.

A heavy blanket of guilt and uncertainty weighed me down when I couldn’t remember how we got home or even how I got out of my dress. I didn’t ask either, not wanting to feel steeped even deeper in the embarrassment of being drunk in front of Damon. What if I did or said something bizarre?

But he acted like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred and, thankfully, helped me through the worst. He managed to coach more glasses of water into me than I typically consume in a day and a hearty vegetarian breakfast from somewhere close to where we live—my new favorite place. The meal was the best I have ever had. Perhaps the hangover speaking.

Mixed in with a headache tablet, and here I was, just after noon and feeling better than I could have imagined this morning.

And on my way to get a tattoo. If I still wanted one. Damon did say there was no pressure, but if I didn’t change my mind, he designed something for me. He must have done it last night after I fell asleep, which meant he got even less sleep than I did. Considering he was awake and propped up in the bed when I woke up, scrolling on his phone.

I steal a glance at him as he deftly navigates through the traffic, looking fresh and irresistible. Definitely not showing any signs of sleep deprivation. I wish I possessed that ability. When I saw myself this morning, the effects of last night's alcohol were evident. My skin was dry and lackluster, while he looked like a model. I can’t help but feel a mix of admiration and envy towards him.

“You are staring at me.” His dark chocolate eyes don’t leave the road, but he does smile, making my heart flutter. The unease in my stomach multiplies as the little critters add to the equation. Would that feeling ever subside?

“How did you get the scar on your face?” The question had been lingering in my mind for ages, a puzzle piece I was desperate to fit into the larger picture of Damon. The question burned even brighter after last night when his fighting skills were on full display. He was a seasoned fighter. That much was clear. But where did he learn it? And was that the reason for his scar?

“My mother. She attacked me with a fishing knife when I was fourteen. She was aiming for my eye, but luckily for me, she missed.”

The blood drains from my face as he tells the story so casually, leaving all of my theories shot to pieces.

I turn my body in the passenger seat to face him, the shock leaving me speechless.

“Your sappy emotions are misplaced.” His eyes briefly meet mine and sweep my face, checking if I am okay.

“She got what she deserved a couple of days later when a bus hit her during one of her heroine-induced psychotic episodes.”

I blink a couple of times, trying to understand how someone can tell this story with such ease, not even flinching. But this is Damon. He seems to process things differently. Perhaps because of this very experience.

I don’t bother saying I’m sorry because I don’t think Damon feels sad about the situation. And while I am shocked, when I truly look at my feelings, I’m not sorry either. That makes me flinch. Was that bad? Would karma come for me, thinking such a thought? She hurt Damon, but did that justify her dying? No. But it happened, and I didn’t feel bad about it. It can’t have been easy growing up around someone taking drugs. Especially not the person who birthed you and who should protect you.

“I’m glad,” Damon says when the silence stretches on.

“So am I.” The words leave my mouth, and there is no shoving them back in. They were out in the world, attracting to it god only knows what energy and karma.

They even surprise Damon, who smiles.

Not his usual half smile.

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