Page 47 of Scorned Queen

I dig in my pocket, pull out that note, and hand it to Damion.Damion stares down at it and then lifts his gaze to mine.His expression is indecipherable, but his jaw is a band of muscle, his body next to mine is steel.“I know Adam told you about this.”

“He did.”

“What does he think he gave me?”

“He’s arrogant enough to believe he allows those around him to live and thrive.Therefore, he’s God.He gives those around him the very breath they breathe.”

A chill runs down my spine.“And he can take it away,” I whisper.

“Yes, baby.That’s what I’ve been telling you.He doesn’t just believe he can.He believes it’s his right.”

Chapter thirty-eight

IwanttoaskDamion so many things right now.

Does he know if they were having an affair way back then?Does she hate him because he knows things I do not that he might tell me?And I want to tell him I’m sorry for how she treated him, but the elevator dings to our right.I’m so very on edge that I whip around to watch Kelvin step out with a load of my things in his arms.Adam exits the apartment, and the moment of truth with Damion is lost.

Adam clears us to enter the apartment, and Damion catches me to him and kisses me.“We’ll talk.We have a lifetime to sort out the details.Let’s get you settled and them out of here.”

A lifetime.

Those words rush through me, as confusing and sweet as rain on a scorching hot sunny day.But maybe they are not all that confusing at all.We have known each other a lifetime.We’re connected.There is nothing that can erase that bond, and I shove the naysaying in my mind away, refusing to give it a voice.

I push to my toes and kiss him.“Yes.Let’s get me moved in.”

His hand presses warmly, possessively, on my lower back, and he murmurs, “I love you, Alana.Don’t ever forget that.”The thundering of his heart beneath my palm drives home the promise of a storm before us in that proclamation.

“I love you, too.And don’t ever forget that.”

He kisses me, a long stroke of tongue, before catching my hand in his and leading me toward the door.A few minutes later, I’m in his—no, our—enormous closet organizing my clothes while the sound of male voices lift, followed by laughter, Damion’s laughter, and it’s sweet music to my ears.Too many years passed without that sound in my life, without him in my life.

Once I’ve lined up my clothes, I hurry into the bathroom and claim a few spots as my own, hoping Damion doesn’t mind.It’s all so surreal.When I’m finally done, I step into the closet again and just stare at my clothes opposite Damion’s clothes.I walk to the rows of suits and run my hand over the finely woven fabric.

It’s then that I realize the apartment is silent, and I wonder if I’m alone.Unease fills me, and I exit the closet, walk through the bedroom, and pause in the doorway between it and the living room.I find Damion in one of two leather chairs facing the window that appear to be new, his jacket gone, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and displaying his powerful forearms.

He downs the contents of a glass and reaches for the bottle on a table next to him, pouring amber liquid, allowing it to slosh around the ice.It’s only then that I recognize the familiar beauty of a classical violin, the same music he’d favored as an older teen, and not during happy times.This was how he escaped the hell of his many battles with his father—brutal battles at times.Damion would be left bruised and bloody inside, if not outside, feeling as if he wasn’t good enough for his father.As if he wasn’t living life as his father demanded and expected.This music was always a sign of dark times for Damion.

Damion leans back in his chair and tilts his head skyward, the glass resting in his hand, his energy a heavy pulse.Something has happened—something that has deeply upset him—and my gut knots with this absolute certainty.And just as I didn’t hesitate to go to him during his turbulent times in the past, I won’t now, either.

Decision made, I cross the room, confirming the pair of chairs and the small table to be new and, I suspect, for us to share the view.This touches me deeply, and I settle on my knees in front of him, my hands on his knee next to me.

There’s a flex of muscle beneath my palm and his head lifts, dark eyes meeting mine, a punch of his torment stealing my breath, but somehow, I offer a raspy, “Hi.”

He downs the contents of his glass again, discarding it as he sets it next to the bottle, before he leans close and catches a strand of my hair.“Hi,” he says softly.“All settled?”There’s a gentleness to his tone that defies the intensity of his mood.

“I am,” I say, “but obviously you are not.”

“You being here with me, Alana, is everything.”

It’s not an answer.In fact, it’s the avoidance of an answer.“But it doesn’t make all the chaos around us go away, now does it?”I ask.“There’s a reason you’re out here alone.”

“Waiting on you, baby.That’s all.Just waiting on you.”

“And raking yourself over the coals because your father did as well.Did you think I’d forget your way of dealing with him or this music?”

His lips lift; more of that tenderness I feel in him tonight in the curve of his mouth, but it can’t break through the darkness of his mood.“Of course you didn’t,” he says softly, his fingers trailing over my jaw.“Do you know how many times since I bought this apartment a few months ago that I stood at this window, wishing you were here?”

I want to push him to tell me what happened with his father, but I can sense that he doesn’t want to talk.He will, I know he will, but he has a process with his father and with all challenges, and I have to give him time to process.“I’m here now,” I murmur.“And I wouldn’t be anywhere but here.”

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