Daddy's Worst Nightmare

I go still with shock and he lifts his chin, that masculine jaw tight enough to crack, letting me study him closely. “Damian. I-I went back and looked for you when I was old enough,” I whisper, heat pressing against the backs of my eyes.

“I know,” he says gruffly. “I’ve known every step you’ve taken.”

My fingertips run down the side of his face, eager to memorize. “I wish I’d known you were out there. I’ve needed a friend so badly.”

“A friend?” He levers me up with his hips, grinding that hard ridge against my sex, and his eyes turn molten. “I’d have been no friend to you, sweetheart. I still won’t be one.”

My guardian angel being unkind is so unexpected, I flinch. “But…”

“I’m going to be a lot more than your friend, Arya,” he explains, searching my face with growing concern. “Do you understand what that means? Or have your ridiculously inept parents not explained what happens when two people love each other.”

Confused, I shake my head.

He drops his forehead to my shoulder, unwinding my legs from around his waist with unsteady hands. “Jesus Christ,” he rasps. “I must be scaring the shit out of you.”

“You could never scare me,” I protest, trying to pull him back. Closer.

There’s a knock on the door of the cabana. “All clear, boss.”

“We’ll be out in a minute,” he shouts back, refocusing all that intense, restless energy on me. “We’re going to have a little farewell meeting with your parents, sweetheart. Then I’m taking you home.”

“Wait. Permanently?”

When he said you go where I go I’d been in kind of a stupor. Elated to see him again after so long.

But the possessive way Damian wraps me in his jacket and scoops me up into his arms makes me wonder if this is the last time I’ll ever see my home. It also makes me wonder why I’m not even the slightest bit sad about it.

Still… “I-I don’t think they’ll just let you take me, Damian.”

Laughing, he kicks open the door of the cabana. A dozen men wait for us outside by the pool, some of them splattered in blood. “Sweetheart, I might not be the kind of criminal who kidnaps a minor, but I am a criminal. A goddamn good one. And I don’t have problems getting what I want. Especially when it’s what I want most in this world.”

2

Damian

Control yourself.

It’s easier said than done when I’m finally, finally, holding Arya in my arms. Watching her in that blue bikini from the rooftop’s shadows was hell on my cock. Although truthfully, my body has been in a constant state of turmoil since hers started changing. Since her tits grew a little too big for her B-cups, but she kept right on wearing them. Tormenting me.

I would love to put her on the edge of her idiotic father’s desk and make him watch as I untie her bikini top and suck on her nipples. Make her whimper again. Entice her thighs to open, welcoming me home. Make the fucking fool who didn’t guard Arya well enough watch as we lose our virginity to each other.

He’d deserve it. For not recognizing the treasure that was his daughter.

Six attempts on her precious life—six—before this motherfucker decided she was valuable enough to keep her under lock and key.

Even if her life wasn’t in constant danger because of her father’s profession, I would have watched her, though. As obsessive with this girl as I am, I had no choice. As soon as I had the means, I bought a condo right across the street from their home, my bedroom window directly facing Arya’s, so I could track her movements closely, be aware of the rare times she left the building. And if that failed, if I happened to be out on the rare occasion she left, the tracking device in her phone would have signaled me.

Call it wrong, call it illegal. I don’t give a fuck.

She’s been mine since she handed me that orange eleven years ago—and I’m about to officially claim her. Finally. I’ve waited so long to share my home with her. To have her shaking and moaning beneath me. To see her smile before the sunrise. So goddamn long.

The way she went soft when she realized my true identity, the boy from the subway steps, will knock the breath out of my lungs forever. Every time I think about it.

Up ahead, I see some bodies lying motionless near the poolside. “Put your face in my neck, sweetheart,” I say quietly, gratified when she does as she’s told.

With my men following us closely, weapons ready just in case, I carry Arya down a flight of stairs and into a private corridor that leads to her parents’ penthouse, not bothering to wait for an invitation before striding inside. The idiot mother and father are in hysterics, shouting at a police operator, who is on speakerphone. I nod at one of my men and they divest Arya’s mother of the phone, smashing it against the wall. The rest of them leave to search the penthouse for any remaining guests that aren’t dead or didn’t flee to safety.