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“Don’t hold your breath.”

I leave the kitchen soon after, heading back up the spiral staircase. To my quiet room and the emptiness. Once I reach the door to my room however, my eyes flick to the right. To Damien’s room. He’s still away on business. He said he’d be back today but maybe that’ll be later.

Curiosity burns within me. I want to know what his room looks like. He’s my husband to be. Might as well figure out how he lives. Plus, the best insight to a person is their bedroom. I glance around the empty hall before pivoting quietly, making my way down the corridor.

My heart races as my fingers curl around the handle and I push it open. And then I immediately freeze, a squeak escaping my mouth.

Damien stands at the foot of the bed, shirtless, his tattooed back to me. His broad shoulders are pulled taut as he reaches for a shirt draped over a nearby chair. But at the sound of my entrance, he whirls around immediately on alert.

My eyes drop down to his torso. All hard lines and shadows, muscle and menace carved into flesh. His skin gleams in the low light, and for a moment, all I can do is stare.

Then he turns. Our eyes lock. And I forget how to breathe.

He’s built like something out of a nightmare and a dream. Tall and lethal, but undeniably beautiful in that brutal kind of way. His chest is inked in tattoos and faint scars but it’s the bullet wound on his upper left arm that grabs my attention. Or at least I think it’s a bullet wound. The scar is jagged and raw looking. Somehow, it adds to his dangerous appeal.

I stare for way longer than is appropriate. The hard lines of his stomach. The tension coiled in his stance. I wonder how it would feel to be beneath him. To be the recipient of all thattightly wound energy and strength. I wonder how hard he would fuck me. If it would hurt.

“Now who’s entering rooms without permission?”

His voice is low but not angry. He actually looks amused. I jolt like I’ve been caught stealing something. Swallowing roughly. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are bright red at the moment. Damien continues to stare at me like he can tell what I’ve been thinking.

God I hope not.

That was a temporary brief moment of insanity.

“I-” my voice cracks. I clear my throat. “I didn’t know you were back yet.”

He raises an eyebrow, “I arrived an hour ago. I went to find you and was informed you were baking with Renata and Sofia. Now, mind telling me what you’re doing in here?”

"I need a reason to entire my husband's room?" I ask out of pure pettiness.

"No." He says, his eyes locking on mine, and my entire body melts beneath his gaze.

I take a deep breath, struggling to steady myself “I was curious. About your room,” I say, forcing my chin up. “I didn’t think you’d be in here. Half-naked.”

“You seemed to be enjoying the show,” he murmurs, his smirk forming like a devil drawing breath. He steps forward slowly.

“I wasn’t,” I retort even as my cheeks flush.

I back up without meaning to. He stops just short of me, close enough or his body heat to brush against my skin. Close enough that I catch the scent of him.

He watches me like he’s trying to read something in my eyes. We’re entirely too close to each other right now. His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second and the air thickens. My breath catches and then he leans in.

His fingers graze my wrist, featherlight, like he’s giving me the chance to pull away, but I don’t, I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I just look up at him, eyes wide, heart thundering.

His mouth hover just over mine. Close enough that I feel the warmth of it. The temptation of it. But he doesn’t kiss me.

Instead, he lifts a hand and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek, his knuckles grazing my skin.

“Next time, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “Knock.”

Right.

I blink and reality slams back in. I take a stumbling step backward, nearly dropping the plate of cookies. I don’t look at him as I turn and all but flee from the room, my skin flushed and my heartbeat betraying me with the worst part.

The worst part is I wanted him to kiss me.

Something is definitely wrong with me.