Damien's POV:
Pain yanked me back to consciousness like a chain wrapped around my ribs.
For one merciful heartbeat everything was numb, body, mind, the world reduced to a dull gray hum.
Then reality slammed into me: fire in my left shoulder, ribs screaming with every shallow breath, the metallic taste of old blood coating my tongue, the cold bite of concrete under my back.
I was lying down, no longer on the iron chair, but on a bed.
I forced my eyes open.
The room was dim, lit only by a single bare bulb hanging from a frayed cord in the ceiling.
Dust motes drifted in the weak yellow beam.
Concrete walls, peeling paint the color of old bruises, a cracked window boarded from the inside with plywood and nails. The air smelled of mildew, rust, old furniture, and something sharper, blood, definitely mine.
This was not my penthouse, not a hospital, not even the concrete basement where I'd last remembered fists, batons, mocking laughter, I was still alive.
The thought hit harder than the pain, i should be dead, yet here I was, breathing, heart beating, shoulder bandaged, neatly, professionally, white gauze taped tight over the bullet wound.
Someone had cleaned it, stitched it, even applied antiseptic; I could smell the faint sting of alcohol under the gauze, feel the pull of sutures when I shifted.
Who?
I tried to sit up, and a sharp pain lanced through my shoulder and down my spine.
A low groan escaped before I could choke it back. I collapsed against the thin pillow, sweat breaking across my forehead, the sheet slipped lower and looked down.
I was naked.
Completely, gloriously naked!! Just the thin sheet barely clinging to my hips.
"Fuck," I rasped, voice rough, cracked from disuse and pain.
My mind raced, trying to stitch fragments together. The ambush, gunshot, pain, then nothing.
Now this, a hideout, and a captor who didn't want me dead... yet.
I scanned the room again. One door, heavy steel with no visible lock from this side, one boarded window, one rickety wooden chair in the corner, a small metal table with a first-aid kit, a half-empty bottle of water, and a folded towel.
No phone, no clothes, just me, the bed, and the knowledge that whoever brought me here had chosen to keep me breathing.
Gratitude and dread twisted together in my gut. I was really alive.
I tested my arms, and it had no cuffs, no ropes, just the ache of old bruises and the fresh pull of stitches. I could move.
Slowly, painfully. I pushed up on my good arm, ignoring the way the room tilted.
The sheet slipped further. I caught it, and held it in place. I wasn't staying in this bed like a lamb waiting for slaughter.
Then i heard footsteps, soft, and barely audible, coming from the only other door, that looked every inch like the bathroom.
The handle turned.
The door opened.
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RAVEN'S POV
I sat on the rickety wooden chair in the corner, knees drawn up, watching the slow rise and fall of Damien Blackwood's chest.
He looked smaller like this, stripped of the tailored suits, the power, the aura of untouchable control.
Just a man. Pale skin, bruises blooming purple and yellow across his ribs, the neat white bandage on his shoulder already spotting red again.
His face was swollen, lip split, but even unconscious he looked dangerous, dangerously beautiful in a way that made my stomach twist with hate and something darker I refused to name.
My own body ached, exhaustion clawed at me, muscles trembling from dragging his dead weight from the warehouse, from the drive here, from stitching him up with shaking hands.
I needed sleep, needed a shower, needed to think.
I stood quietly, bare feet silent on the cold concrete, and headed for the only bathroom in the tiny space, a narrow cubicle with a tub, a handheld showerhead, and a single thin towel hanging on a nail.
I turned the faucet, water sputtered, then steadied, lukewarm. I stripped quickly, letting my clothes fall in a heap, and stepped into the tub, lowering myself until the water swallowed me whole.
A loud sigh escaped my lips as the heat soaked into my tense muscles.
For the first time in hours the knot in my chest loosened, I scrubbed slowly, mechanically, letting the water rinse away the sweat, the blood, the smell of Damian's cologne that still clung to my skin from carrying. My mind drifted.
Where would I sleep tonight?
The only available bed in the room, Damien was in it. The bastard shouldn't be awake yet, I'd dosed him with enough painkillers to keep him under for another six hours at least. I would rather sleep standing than share that bed with Damien Blackwood.
But i really needed to stretch my body, i badly needed to.
I stayed in the tub until the water cooled, until my fingers pruned and my mind stopped spinning.
I stood, letting the water drip down from my breast to my pussy, i reached for the towel, the only one available, threadbare and pink.
I wrapped it around myself, the towel barely reaching mid-thigh.
I pushed the bathroom door open gently.
And froze.
Damien Blackwood was fully awake.
Eyes open, stormy grey eyes fixed at my direction.
The towel slipped from my grip.
It fell to the floor in a soft heap, leaving me standing naked before him.
Time stretched, one heartbeat and then two.
The air between us crackled, electric, dangerous, thick with something neither of us would name.
His gaze dragged over me, slow, deliberate, hungry Hungrier than I'd ever seen in the club, even when he watched me take a client down my throat.
His jaw clenched, a muscle ticked in his cheek, his eyes darkened, pupils blowing wide.
I didn't move to cover myself. I stood there, chin lifted, letting him look. Letting him see every scar, every curve, every inch he'd never been allowed to touch.
My pulse raced under my skin. Heat pooled low in my belly,unwanted, unwelcome.
His voice came out rough, cracked from pain and disuse.
"You." he said to me.
One word.
I stepped forward, naked, unashamed, closing the distance until I stood beside the bed. Water dripped from my hair onto his chest. He hissed at the cold.
"How did you know? Why are you involved? Who the fuck are you?" he asked, heart beat increasing.
"Easy Mr billionaire, you wouldn't want to die of heart attack, would you?" i replied leaning down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside his head. My hair fell forward, brushing his shoulder. My scent, soap, water, something darker, filled my lungs.
"I don't know how you involved yourself in this, but thats for saving me raven." He said, his voice barely a whisper.
I looked at him, saying nothing to him.
His good hand moved, slow, deliberate, fingers brushing my wrist.
My pulse jumped under his fingertips.
He felt it.
His eyes flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
Darkened. Pupils blew wide.
"What now, Raven?" he asked, voice rougher than intended.
I didn't answer.
I didn't have to.
