I draw a breath, but I don’t look up. I’m too afraid of what I will see on his face.
Only seconds pass, but they are heavy, full of the weight of unsaid things. Then he tucks his fingertip under my chin and tilts my head so that I must either close my eyes or look at him.
I look and immediately have to blink back tears. Because it isn’t anger or hurt or pity that I see. It is adoration, and possibly even a little bit of respect.
“Damien?”
“Oh, baby.” He takes a step toward me, and I see the force of will that pulls him to a stop, staying just far enough from me to give me space, but close enough to give me strength. “Tell me—tell me what the pain does for you.”
“You know,” I say. I’ve told him all this before.
“Humor me.”
“It grounds me,” I say, as a tear rolls down my cheek. “It centers me. It gives me strength.”
“I see.” He brushes his thumb across my cheek, wiping away my tear.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I’m not.” There’s a flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and I find that my fear is fading. That I am, in fact, softly hopeful.
“You humble me, Nikki. Don’t you see that?” It must be clear from my expression that I do not, because he goes on. “If I do all those things for you—soothe you, center you, give you strength—then that is worth more to me than every penny I have earned building Stark International.”
“I—” I start to speak, but words don’t come. I haven’t thought of it that way before.
“But, baby,” he continues, “it’s not true. The strength is in you. The pain is just your way of mining it. And as for me? I like to think that I am a mirror for you. That when you look at me, you see the reflection of everything you really are.”
I am crying openly now, and he moves to a nearby coffee table and brings me a box of tissues. I wipe my nose and sniffle, feeling overwhelmed and foolish, but blissfully happy.
“You talk as though you love me,” I say.
He doesn’t answer, but his slow smile lights his eyes. He steps closer, one hand cupping the back of my head as his lips close over mine in a kiss that starts out sweet and gentle, but ends up so deep and demanding that it curls through me all the way down to my toes.
“Say yes, baby,” he says, breaking the kiss. “Say that you are mine.”
“How long?” I ask, breathlessly. But he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. I see the answer in his eyes—for as long as it takes. For as long as we want. For as long as I consent to be his.
He says nothing, merely stands in front of me. So much rides on my answer, and yet his eyes are calm, his stance casual. Damien is a man who shows nothing he doesn’t want to show. And yet there is so much he wants to show to me, and so much that I want to share with him.
I hesitate only a moment longer, and only because I want to look at him. I want to drink in this man who has more strength than any human I have ever met, and yet is willing to humble himself before me.
How can I have thought that he has shared too little with me? Not specific events, maybe. But Damien has shown me his heart.
“Yes,” I say, holding out my hand. “We have a deal, Mr. Stark.”
The smile that spreads across his face is slow and wicked, and I laugh out loud.
“Oh, dear,” I say.
“Sweetheart, you have no idea.” He gives my hand a tug. “Come on.”
Considering we’d both been MIA from a party that he is hosting in his own home in part to celebrate a portrait of me that now hangs on his wall, I assume that the reason we ascend back up the service elevator is to slide seamlessly back into that party.
The first person we see when we step into the small hallway that leads to the kitchen is Gregory, Damien’s distinguished, gray-templed valet. “Ms. Fairchild and I are going out.” I blink in surprise. Gregory shows no reaction at all.
“Of course, Mr. Stark. I’ll take care of supervising the cleanup and closing out the house.”
“We’re leaving?” I whisper once Gregory has moved away and Damien is propelling me into the main area.
“We are,” he says.
I consider arguing. Emily Post and Miss Manners flow in my blood, not to mention the even stricter social rules of Elizabeth Fairchild. One does not leave one’s own party. There are rules. Proprieties that must be observed and social niceties that must be respected. Whatever Damien has in mind can wait, and I should say as much. I should put my foot down and insist that we stay here, mingling and making polite conversation.
Instead I mentally bitch-slap my mother’s rule book and stay blissfully silent.