Page 42 of Damiano De Luca (The Five Syndicates)
I typed, pausing every other word because I couldn’t decide what was worse—sending the text or not.
Renata: I had a dream last night. You kissed me in it.
Damian: That’s not stupid.
I didn’t respond. This was a bad idea. Fifteen minutes and two more speakers passed. My phone buzzed. I forced myself not to check it, even when Damian talking with the Romano woman burned my eyes.
My phone buzzed again a few minutes later, and I caved.
Damian: In your dream, how did I taste?
Damian: You hate that I’m talking to her. What do you think that means, Princess?
It meant that I cared more than I should have. I needed to nip this in the bud, but I wouldn’t because I needed the reprieve he offered more, if only for tonight. Tomorrow, I would wake up and leave for Connecticut. Tonight, maybe I could take what he offered.
Renata: I’m not sure how you tasted. It wasn’t those lips you kissed.
His foot went slack and fell from my leg. He dropped his spoon in his soup bowl as he read his text. The new speaker spoke of Vincent as if he’d been a father figure. I stiffened. Damian’s leg brushed against mine again, and I returned my attention to him. The phone buzzed.
Damian: Spend the night with me, Renata. No strings attached. Just one night. We can take it from there. I know you want to. I know you’re afraid. Be fearless, Knight.
Renata: I know what you’re doing.
Damian: I know. I’m distracting you, because you’re hurting. And you’ll accept my help, because that’s what we do. I hurt. You help. You hurt. I help. Don’t change us, Knight.
“Too late, Day,” I whispered, and his eyes shot to mine from across the table.
Don’t trust everything you see. Even salt looks like sugar.
Maryum Ahsam
Damian led me out the side to his car. By the time we made it to my nook in the library, I had questioned my decision to leave with him a million times. In the end, I knew I needed this. Damian chased away the pain. He did for me what drugs and alcohol did for others. Problem was, he was more dangerous than substances. If he wanted to, he could ruin me.
I sat on my bed, pulled my knees to my chest, and rested my chin on them. “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Promise me that, when I wake up, you’ll be gone.”
His features darkened. “Ren…”
“Please.”
He didn’t answer for a moment. “Fine.”
“Thank you.”
He took a seat next to me and handed my oversized sleeping shirt to me. I shimmied into it as he turned away. My bare thigh touched the top of his hand as I wiggled out of my dress. He sucked in a breath, and I felt like I had when we were teens—always a heartbeat away from a kiss.
When I settled back against the headboard, he looked at me again. “Remember that song we slow danced to?”
I closed my eyes and pictured prom night. “A remake of Bryan Adam’s ‘Heaven.’”
“I heard it in my hotel elevator this morning.” His hand reached out and gripped my thigh.
We sat beside one another, our backs leaning against the headboard and our legs lying flat on the bed.
I sighed at his touch. “Are we crazy for doing this?”
