Claim Me
Page 50
“Don’t you already know that? I do.”
There is something dark in the eyes that look back at me. “How can you, when there are still so many things you don’t know?”
He is not saying anything I haven’t thought of, but for a moment, I am afraid. What dark secrets does Damien have that still remain buried?
The thing is, I understand better than anyone why he wants the facade of the game in place if he’s going to try to open up to me. I cut myself in order to cope with the horrors of my childhood, but what did Damien do? Nothing except conquer the world and learn to bury his secrets deep.
I glance down at the books in the glass case, and can’t help the smile that touches my lips. Even the little things are a big step for Damien. But the shit in his past—the things like Sara Padgett and the guilt he felt over that poor girl’s suicide—those are the kinds of things that Damien needs to say with a net.
The truth rips through me. The game is his net.
And once that net is in place, doesn’t it make sense that the physical between us can strengthen the emotional?
Maybe I’m manufacturing a justification, but there’s no denying that I want what he’s offering. That desire, however, doesn’t quell the lingering fear that still bubbles inside me.
Damien must see my hesitation, because he reaches for my hand. Only then do I realize that I have been unconsciously twisting my once-abused left finger between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand.
“Can you tell me?” he asks gently.
I swallow and try to will the words to come. “I’m scared,” I confess.
“Of what?”
“Of you,” I say, then immediately regret the words when I see confusion and hurt flash in his eyes. “No, no, not like that.” I move closer and press my palms against his cheeks. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“That does sound terrifying.”
I grin, grateful to him for putting me more at ease. “Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m using you.” I pause, waiting for him to make a joke about how he would be very happy for me to use him any way that I like. But he remains silent, watchful, and I realize that he understands how hard this is for me. “Like a crutch, I mean.” I think of the scars that mar my thighs. Of the string wrapped tight around my finger. Of the weight of a knife in my hand and the ecstasy of that first fiery sting when the blade slices through skin.
Most of all, I think of how much I’ve needed all of those things, and of the scars I now bear as testament to my weakness.
I swallow, then look down, not wanting to meet the eyes of this man who already sees so much inside me. “I’m afraid that you’re a replacement for the pain.”
“I see,” he says, but there is no emotion in the words. Not anger or hurt. Nothing.
And then there is silence.
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.
There is something dark in the eyes that look back at me. “How can you, when there are still so many things you don’t know?”
He is not saying anything I haven’t thought of, but for a moment, I am afraid. What dark secrets does Damien have that still remain buried?
The thing is, I understand better than anyone why he wants the facade of the game in place if he’s going to try to open up to me. I cut myself in order to cope with the horrors of my childhood, but what did Damien do? Nothing except conquer the world and learn to bury his secrets deep.
I glance down at the books in the glass case, and can’t help the smile that touches my lips. Even the little things are a big step for Damien. But the shit in his past—the things like Sara Padgett and the guilt he felt over that poor girl’s suicide—those are the kinds of things that Damien needs to say with a net.
The truth rips through me. The game is his net.
And once that net is in place, doesn’t it make sense that the physical between us can strengthen the emotional?
Maybe I’m manufacturing a justification, but there’s no denying that I want what he’s offering. That desire, however, doesn’t quell the lingering fear that still bubbles inside me.
Damien must see my hesitation, because he reaches for my hand. Only then do I realize that I have been unconsciously twisting my once-abused left finger between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand.
“Can you tell me?” he asks gently.
I swallow and try to will the words to come. “I’m scared,” I confess.
“Of what?”
“Of you,” I say, then immediately regret the words when I see confusion and hurt flash in his eyes. “No, no, not like that.” I move closer and press my palms against his cheeks. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“That does sound terrifying.”
I grin, grateful to him for putting me more at ease. “Sometimes I’m afraid that I’m using you.” I pause, waiting for him to make a joke about how he would be very happy for me to use him any way that I like. But he remains silent, watchful, and I realize that he understands how hard this is for me. “Like a crutch, I mean.” I think of the scars that mar my thighs. Of the string wrapped tight around my finger. Of the weight of a knife in my hand and the ecstasy of that first fiery sting when the blade slices through skin.
Most of all, I think of how much I’ve needed all of those things, and of the scars I now bear as testament to my weakness.
I swallow, then look down, not wanting to meet the eyes of this man who already sees so much inside me. “I’m afraid that you’re a replacement for the pain.”
“I see,” he says, but there is no emotion in the words. Not anger or hurt. Nothing.
And then there is silence.
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.
