I stand back in front of my closet and push the clothes to the side. I’ve got nothing comparable to that dress in here. Except…
I dig past my winter jacket and find the plastic-covered outfit against the back wall. I tug down the zipper and smile at the contents.
Yes, I think this will work.
Chapter 17
Damien
Bed.
That’s all I want.
Bed. Maybe a thick piece of Sue’s chocolate cake from the kitchen.
It’s been a long day—a long week. Forging the sword for Morgan had taken a lot out of me. The magical pieces like Morgan’s ring and sword require a huge amount of physical and mental energy to create. I need sugar and sleep.
Sue and Davis have cleaned the kitchen when I stop in for a hunk of cake. I carry it out on a plate, licking the icing off with my finger. As I head toward the front stairs I notice someone by the doors.
My jaw drops.
“Have mercy,” I mutter. Morgan spins in my direction, making the fringe on her black dress swing.
“Damien,” she says. “Yo
u scared me.”
“Sorry.” I swallow the piece of cake that has suddenly become lodged in the back of my throat. “Damn, you look, fuck, Morgan. I’ve never seen you like this.”
A primal urge crashes over me like a wave.
Aware of the way I’m looking at her, Morgan bites down on her upper lip and something in me nearly cracks in two.
“I’m just waiting for my cab,” she says.
“A cab? You’re going out?” Like that? I almost add, but don’t.
“I’m meeting Anita, my critique partner.” She looks at me defiantly and God, I want her even more. Lights flash out front and the cab horn blares its arrival.
“Have fun.”
She flashes me a smile. “Thanks.”
I reach for her and grab her by the arm. I tilt my head and she does the same and we kiss, slowly. “You look fucking stunning.”
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“Be careful.”
She nods and kisses me once again, her lips hot with fire against mine. She slips out the door and I’m left standing in the foyer with my cake in hand. I look up and Sam stands at the top of the steps.
“Does he know?” I ask.
Sam nods. “Already gone.”
We haven’t told Morgan yet that she can’t leave the house alone—it’s not that we don’t trust her—we don’t trust the Darkness, which will take any opportunity to slip through the cracks.
“Did you see that dress?” I climb the stairs.