Complete Me (Stark Trilogy 3)

“Do you know what’s happening?” I whisper.

“No.” His forehead is creased, and he looks as confused as I feel.

The tall judge begins to speak in slow, controlled German, and although Herr Vogel and Maynard and Damien stay perfectly still, the other attorneys at the defense table begin to shift in their seats. They weren’t privy to what was said behind closed doors, and from my perspective, they look like men about to explode.

Behind us, the spectators in the gallery begin to whisper. The gloom that has filled this space has lifted. I don’t understand how or why, but I am sure that something shocking is happening. Shocking, but good.

I glance at Ollie, afraid that I’m seeing too much, but he meets my eyes and holds up his hand. His fingers are crossed, and in that one moment, I could kiss him. Whatever his issues with Damien in the past, right now he is on Damien’s side. He is on my side.

And then suddenly the judge is finished, and he’s standing, and he’s filing out of the room with the other judges behind him. As soon as the door behind them has shut, the courtroom explodes into a cacophony of sounds, some cheers, some shouts, but some boos and catcalls. One of the attorneys takes pity on me. He turns and faces me. “The charges,” he says in a thick German accent. “The charges have been dropped.”

“What?” I say stupidly.

“It’s over,” Ollie says, pulling me into a hug. “Damien’s free to go home.”

He releases me and I stare at him, my body cold with shock. I’m scared to believe it. Afraid that I haven’t heard right and someone is going to tell me that I’ve misunderstood and the trial will be recommencing any moment now.

I turn to face Damien, but his back is still to me. The prosecutor now stands in front of him, speaking earnestly, but in such a low voice that I cannot make out the words. Maynard stands beside Damien, his hand on Damien’s back, the gesture almost paternal.

“It’s true?” I ask the German attorney. “You really mean it?”

His smile is broad, but his eyes are soft with understanding. “It is true,” he says. “We would not joke about such a thing.”

“No, of course not. But why? I mean—” But he turns away in response to a question from another attorney. Then I see that the prosecutor has moved away from Damien, and a wave of pure joy sweeps through me and I no longer care how or why.

“Damien,” I say, and my voice sounds light. His name feels delicious on my lips, and I want to capture this moment and hold it close to me. This singular instant when I got back the man I feared that I had lost.

He begins to turn, and I anticipate how he will look when I see his face. His eyes alight with joy, his features stripped of the worry that has been weighing on him since the indictment came through.

But that is not what I see. Instead of warmth, I see a chill in his eyes. And there is nothing joyous in his expression. Instead, it is flat and cold and desolate.

I frown, confused, and reach out for him. “Damien,” I say, leaning over the bar to take his hands. His fingers close tight around mine, as if I am a lifeline in stormy waters. “Oh, God, Damien. It’s over.”

“Yes,” he says, but there is a harshness in his voice that sends a shiver through me. “It is.”

Damien holds my hand, but says nothing during the ride back to the hotel. He is shell-shocked, I think. Probably unable to believe that the nightmare is really over.

We are alone—the attorneys having hung back to take care of all the administrative stuff that goes on once a trial reaches its conclusion, and I can only assume that there is even more to do when the conclusion is unexpectedly premature. I let the silence linger until we pull up in front of the hotel, but then I can’t take it anymore.

“Damien, it’s finished. Aren’t you happy about that?” Personally, I’m about to explode simply from the joy of knowing that Damien is free and safe.

He looks at me, and for a moment his expression is blank. Then his face clears as he smiles. It’s not huge, but it is real. “Yes,” he says. “About that, I couldn’t be happier.”

“About that,” I repeat, confused. “What else is there? What’s going on? Why were the charges dismissed?”

But now the valet has opened the door, and Damien is sliding that direction. I mutter a sharp curse and follow. Damien reaches for my hand to help me out, then twines his fingers in mine as we walk the short distance to the hotel entrance.

I’m so wrapped up in my storm of joy and confusion that it takes me a minute to realize that the walkway is lined with reporters, and that the hotel staff are making a human barrier to let us pass.

Damien was news when he was on trial for murder. Now that the charges have been dropped, he’s an even bigger story.

The concierge greets us with a stack of messages that I take since Damien seems utterly uninterested. They are all congratulations, and the concierge himself adds his own. Damien replies politely, thanking the man, and then steers us both toward the elevator.

“I thought we could stop in the bar for a drink,” I say. It’s a lie. I hadn’t thought that at all. But I’m trying to get some sort of reaction from Damien, and at the same time I’m hating myself for manufacturing a scenario where he’ll be forced to actively make a choice.

“Go ahead if you want.”

“Alone?” I feel a bead of sweat trickle from my underarm down my side. I’m starting to panic.

“Ollie will be along any moment. I bet he’d be happy to have a drink with you.”

“I don’t want to have a drink with Ollie,” I say, proud of myself for keeping my voice calm, when all I want to do is scream. Because the Damien who would willingly park me at a happy hour table with Ollie McKee is not the Damien I know and love. I take a step closer to him. “Damien, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I just need to get up to the room.” The elevator car arrives, and as if in proof of his words, Damien steps inside.

I follow, then frown as my gaze takes in his face. For the first time I see the beads of perspiration at his hairline. I see his bloodshot eyes and pale, waxy skin. “Jesus, Damien,” I say, reaching out to press my palm against his forehead as the elevator whisks us up to the Presidential Suite.

He turns away. “I don’t have a fever.”

“Then what the hell is it?”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. “I’m just upset.”