Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 323(@200wpm)___ 258(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“Damion,” I whisper, appalled at how horribly I have blown my plan to stay cool and collected.
He kneels in front of me, his hands on my knees, and his touch is comfort, home, and everything familiar and right I’ve ever known. “You okay?”
“Now I am. Now that you’re here.”
He stands and lifts me with him, his arm wrapping my waist, anchoring my wet, naked body to him, and soaking his clothes, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. I’m naked and in his arms, and I’ve never felt as safe in my entire life. “I hate that I let this happen to you.”
Emotion roars in me all over again, and I curl my fingers around his shirt. “This is what I’m worried about. The self-blame you claim for this, Damion. The self-blame you have always claimed over your family when it comes to me. It’s torn us apart, and you can’t do it again now.” I’ve gripped both sides of his shirt now, uncaring of my naked state, determined to ensure he listens to me. “The only thing that kept me going in that damn concrete room was knowing you’d come for me. If you end up dead or in jail, Damion, who will come for me? Who will be there for me? You are all I have. Do you understand that?”
“Easy, baby,” he says, stroking wet hair from my face. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere. Let’s get you a towel and a robe.” He releases me long enough to wrap a towel around me and knot it at my breasts, before he uses another smaller one to dry my hair.
I grab it and hold on, halting his actions, my hair is the last thing on my mind. The image of my father’s casket torments me—it’s a brutal, horrible memory. I cannot bury Damion, too. “I know you, Damion. You will not let this go.”
“You’re right. I won’t let this go. And you said it yourself: this won’t be over until he’s over, but there are ways to approach making that happen that don’t mean I’m in jail or dead.”
“What ideas?”
“Baby, tonight, let’s just get you warm and fed and in bed with me where you belong. Tomorrow we’ll meet with Walker, and we’ll figure this out.”
“Will you let Walker help us?”
“I hired Walker, remember?”
“Adam thinks you’re on the verge of going rogue.”
“Adam doesn’t know me, Alana. You do. I will not allow us to be divided again. You have my word.”
I study him, weighing how committed he is to that answer, but the problem is that Damion has always been committed to protecting me, no matter what the cost to him or our relationship. I’m not sure how easily he can break the cycle.
“I ordered the pizza,” he says. “It should be here soon. Get dressed. We need to get some food down you. How can I help right now? What do you need?”
“You can help by making sure every action you take ends with us together. I’ve dreamed of our wedding way longer than I should probably admit. Don’t take that from me.”
He lifts my left hand and displays my engagement finger. “This ring was created years ago when I desperately wanted to propose. I’ve been thinking about our wedding probably far longer than you can imagine.” He closes his hands over my hand. “Let’s eat pizza and plan our wedding. We’ll deal with my father tomorrow.”
“We can’t plan a wedding with all of this going on.”
“The hell we can’t. Let’s plan our wedding.”
“Damion—”
He cups my face, leans in, and kisses me. “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you and to eat a million pizzas with you over the years. Focus on us. We need that tonight.”
“Yes,” I whisper, because he’s right. I know he’s right. I wanted nothing more than to be with him again when I was trapped in that concrete room. I remember sitting against the door, knees to my chest, thinking that tomorrow is never guaranteed. And it’s not. Life has proven that to me this past month. I wrap my arms around Damion and tilt my chin up to look at him. “Let’s focus on us.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Damion
Thirty minutes later, Alana and I have found our way to the couch, where we sit to devour pizza from a popular local New York City restaurant. Alana sits intimately to my right, her hair silky brown, a delicate quality about her at present, mimicked by the fragile silk of her pink robe. But slowly, with each bite she manages, the color in her cheeks begins to return. By the time she’s downed most of a bottle of water and a full slice of pizza, her voice is stronger, her energy measurably higher.
But while her body is on the mend, free of outward damage, I fear her emotions are far more battered and bruised.