She sat there on the bed, still dazed.
Damian sat up too. He reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, his face slowly coming into focus in the soft glow.
His eyes locked onto hers, and when he spoke, his voice carried that familiar cocky edge. "What, it's only been a few days and you've already forgotten what my hands feel like on you?"
Scarlett didn't answer. She just watched him, wary, and asked, "What are you doing here?"
As she spoke, she shifted away from him.
Something twisted in his chest when he saw her move like that—deliberately putting distance between them.
But he pushed the feeling down. Ignored it. This time, when he spoke, his face was serious. "I came because I wanted to hold you."
Her brow furrowed. She tried to remind him, "Don't do this. Melinda's the one you should be with."
That set him off. His voice rose. "You're the one I want."
She turned her face away, wouldn't look at him. Pointed at the door. "Get out. Or I'll scream."
Damian stayed put on the bed, his expression hardening. "I'm not leaving unless you want me dead outside that door."
She didn't say a word. Just kept her hand aimed at the door.
Her message was clear.
Seeing how set she was, he got up barefoot. Stood there by the bed and started pulling off his clothes without a word.
First his jacket. Then his sweater, his undershirt—until his chest was bare.
The wound on his chest hadn't healed yet. A bandage still covered it.
She wouldn't look. Kept her face turned away.
Damian didn't say anything either. He reached up and ripped the bandage off.
Let it fall to the floor. Then he pressed his finger hard into the wound.
The half-healed skin tore open under the pressure. Blood started seeping out.


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