Chapter Forty-Four

T he morning is quiet, the cold seeping through the window glass as I pull on a pleated brown midi skirt and a beige turtleneck sweater.

Then I sit at my vanity and get ready for the day. As I finish brushing my curls, the bedroom door opens. I freeze, brush mid-air as Damian steps inside.

“Join me for breakfast?” He leans against the doorway, looking heartbreakingly handsome in a fitted black sweater that stretches across his broad shoulders and dark-wash jeans molding to his powerful thighs.

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

In my defense, he’s never around in the mornings—always rushing off to work without so much as a glance, let alone sticking around long enough to invite me to share a meal. My hand lowers, brush falling to my lap as I study him.

He steps deeper into the room. I watch as he steps closer, looming over me. “Coming?”

“You don’t usually… You’re always…” My words trail off, my eyes dropping to the floor.

“I’m here now.” Gently, he lifts my chin, tipping my face up. There’s no smile—just determination in his gaze.

My heart flutters. “I… I could eat.”

A glimmer of satisfaction settles in his eyes, and before I can process, he bends, brushing his lips against mine, soft and gentle. When he pulls back, his thumb gently grazes my jaw.

He takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine as he guides me to my feet and pulls me out of the room behind him. Thank God there aren’t any mirrors in the hallway, because I’m sure I’m sporting a silly grin on my face and I don’t wish to see it.

After breakfast, Damian rises and extends his bandaged hand toward me. I hesitate, standing up without taking it, and his jaw tightens as if he thinks I’ve rejected him. But before he can pull away, I step forward and take his uninjured hand, slipping my fingers around his.

The tension in his face disappears in an instant. He squeezes my hand, then, without another word, leads me toward the left wing.

“Remember the surprise I mentioned?”

I nod shyly. After last night’s dinner, I’d expected Damian to retreat back to his usual, reserved self. But he didn’t. He didn’t let me keep my distance in our bed, either. The rest of the evening may have passed in tense silence, but the moment we were alone in the bedroom, he reached for me, and I went to him without hesitation.

I still don’t know what tomorrow holds for us or why he despises my father. But last night, I came to understand one thing with absolute certainty: Damian wants me. He cares in his own twisted way. I saw it in his eyes and felt it in every touch. And that has changed something in me. Knowing he truly wants me in his life, that he called me his present and future, has affected me deeply. I may not settle for the bare minimum, but for now, I’ve let myself enjoy what we have in the present.

“Close your eyes,” he says as we stop before a closed door.

“Why?”

He arches an eyebrow—a silent but clear demand to do as I’m told.

I can’t resist teasing him. “Don’t tell me you have a playroom too.”

A laugh slips out as his expression twists in confusion.

“A what?”

“Nothing,” I say, stifling another laugh as I close my eyes.

I hear the door creak open, feel his hand guiding me forward, and then he stops.

“Open.”

As I blink open my eyes, the first thing that hits me is the light—brilliant, streaming through the tall, arched windows.

My heart skips at the sight as I take in the space around me.

In one corner, I spot a sturdy pottery wheel, surrounded by neatly stacked bags of clay in different colors. Just beyond that, a workbench sprawls out, lined with an array of sculpting tools. Wooden modeling tools, metal scrapers, and carving knives—all neatly arranged.

A cozy nook catches my eye, featuring a big, inviting chair and a low table. I can picture myself holed up in here.

He gave me my very own art studio.

I turn to him, my throat tight with emotion. “You… did this for me?”

“Even though this entire place is yours, I wanted you to have a sanctuary—somewhere you can escape and feel completely at home.”

“A sanctuary…”

“And I’m having one built back at the mansion too.”

“Why?”

He steps closer, gently cupping my face in his hands. “Because I’m determined to make you happy, no matter what it takes.”

I clasp his wrists, gently tracing his skin with my fingers. “You know what else would make me happy?”

“What’s that?”

“If you spend the entire day here with me,” I tease, knowing full well that it’s not really possible. But honestly, I’m content with just this moment.

“Done,” he says, catching me off guard.

“I’m not talking about christening this place with sex, just so you know,” I warn, narrowing my eyes.

“I know. But I wouldn’t mind that option either.”

I raise an eyebrow. “When I say spending time here, I mean me giving you a lesson of pottery.”

“And I said done.”

I study him with narrowed eyes for a beat. “All right then, husband. Get ready to roll up your sleeves and get dirty.”

He arches an eyebrow, and heat floods my cheeks. “You know what I mean—”

He just hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me closer. “I’m all yours, wife.”

◆◆◆

“Like this?” he murmurs, his hands brushing against mine as he mimics my movements on the clay, but his fingers linger a moment too long, sending shivers down my spine.

I should’ve known. Damian paid no attention to my instructions for the last twenty minutes, his focus glued more to me than to the clay. Judging by every ‘accidental’ touch, every brush of his fingers over mine—it’s clear he’s more interested in teasing than learning.

I’ve scolded him half-heartedly, but truth be told, his little touches are getting to me far more than I’d like to admit. Pottery is my passion, and I haven’t touched it in over a year, I should be lost in it but my sole focus is on my husband.

“Sort of,” I reply, my voice sounding unsteady even to me. “You’re supposed to put some muscle into it, not just… poke it.”

“Poke it? I’m doing exactly what you’re showing me.”

Shaking my head, I step behind him, slide my arms around him and guide his hands back to the clay. “Here, let me show you how it’s really done.”

“Feel the texture. It’s all about pressure and balance.” I lean in close, letting my breath skim the side of his neck as I press his hands into the clay, guiding his fingers in the steady, kneading motion.

He tenses, his shoulders stiffening, and I bite back a smile. I can practically feel his resolve slipping. Two can play this game. He’s been driving me crazy with his teasing; now it’s my turn.

My fingers trail slowly over his hands, savoring each reaction—every quiet shift, every quick breath.

“Just like that,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath in his ear, holding him close enough to catch each little reaction.

“Now let’s move to the wheel,” I say, taking pity on him. I explain about how it works as I guide him over to the pottery wheel. There’s a spark of excitement as I settle onto the stool, pressing my palms firmly into the spinning clay. “Watch closely.” I glance up only to find his eyes locked on me with an intensity that sends warmth rushing to my cheeks.

“It’s all about patience,” I explain, my voice a little shaky now. “Here, you try it.” I move to stand, but he steps in behind me, sliding his arms around me, just as I did moments ago.

His hands cover mine, his fingers threading through mine against the clay, his chest pressed against my back.

He’s so close that I can feel every breath he takes, every shift, every quiet inhale. It’s impossible to focus, but I don’t pull away.

I shift slightly. My heart races, and I take a breath to steady myself, feeling an ache that has nothing to do with pottery.

We work together on the wheel, our movements synchronized as the clay takes shape beneath our hands. Suddenly, he leans in, his lips grazing the edge of my ear. “You really love this, don’t you?”

I nod, my heart pounding. I can’t help sneaking a glance at him, admiring how he’s focused now, intent on learning—doing it all just to spend the day with me.

He’s here for business, yet he hasn’t left my side once. And I love him for it, love the way he’s immersing himself in this moment, just for me.

His gaze meets mine, and my breath catches.

“Like this?” he murmurs, his hands moving in perfect sync with mine.

“Mm-hmm,” I manage, and the faintest smile tugs at his lips, his eyes slipping down to my mouth.

Suddenly, he leans in, brushing his lips against the corner of my mouth. “This is surprisingly enjoyable.”

I flush, torn between wanting to scold him and the thrill dancing through me. “Damian!”

“What? I’m following your lead,” he replies, his voice a low hum that vibrates against me. I’m berating him for not focusing, yet I can’t look away from his arms. His sweater sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off the thick veins running along his forearms. My eyes slide to his hands. Those big, warm, calloused hands. I bite my lip as I remember what those hands did to me last night.

Just when I’m reprimanding myself internally for lusting over his hands, he leans in again and presses his lips against my cheek in a quick, tender kiss.

“Hey!” I sputter, flushing. But he simply chuckles, peppering my cheek, jaw and temple with more kisses. I turn, ready to scold him, but his carefree grin freezes me in place.

I forget to breathe, and for a second, I think my heart stopped. Then suddenly, it starts beating fast.

The man I’ve loved so fiercely, so desperately, is finally letting me see him like this—happy, unguarded, and completely real.

My chest hurts the longer I stare at him.

I could spend forever watching him like this, and it still wouldn’t be enough. I’d give everything I have, every piece of myself, just to see him smile like that for a second longer.

Suddenly brimming with love, I lean forward and kiss his jaw. That fast, Damian’s grin fades, his eyes darkening. I press another kiss, this time at the corner of his mouth. Then his cheekbone. Then over his jaw again.

I clear my throat, my cheeks hot. “We should… probably get back to…”

“How about one more kiss before we get back to pottery?”

I bite my lip, seriously tempted.

“Just one little kiss, angel.”

“Just one,” I whisper.

“Just one,” he agrees, leaning down. His lips brush against mine, tentative at first, as if testing the waters. But the moment they touch, the world around us fades away.

His kiss deepens, and I lose myself in the moment. My smeared fingers curl around his sweater, pulling him closer. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me against him.

That’s how we end up christening the studio.

The clay, the wheel, the room—all forgotten as we get lost in our own little world. The clay smears across our clothes and bodies, marking us, painting us. But we don’t care. We’re tangled together, surrendering to the fiery passion.

True to his word, he spends the entire day with me. After making love on the floor, we eventually return to the wheel, resuming his lesson, our laughter filling the room.

At some point, it dawns on me that I can’t remember the last time I felt this light, this…whole.

Being here, with him, feels like a memory I’ve been waiting to relive.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I look at the man I love, and it doesn’t hurt.