Page 12 of Damon

For a split-second, I forget where I am. The bed is comfortable, the room too quiet. Then reality crashes back, Tony is dead, my family was attacked, and I'm trapped in a safe house with my family’s enemy Damon Lombardi.

The weight sounds continue, rhythmic and steady. I slip out of bed and pad to the bedroom door, pressing my ear against it. The sounds are coming from downstairs, somewhere near what looks like it might be a basement entrance I noticed yesterday.

I should mind my own business. I should definitely not go looking for the dangerous man who's holding me captive.

But I've never been good at should.

I creep down the hallway in my pajamas, an oversized t-shirt and shorts I found in the dresser, probably left by whoever furnished this place. Everything here is generic but expensive, like a high-end hotel that's trying to feel homey.

The weight sounds are definitely coming from downstairs. There's a door at the end of the hall that I assumed was a closet, but when I try the handle, it opens to reveal stairs leading down to what looks like a finished basement.

I should turn around and go back to my room.

Instead, I find myself walking down the stairs.

The basement is set up like a home gym, expensive equipment, mirrors on the walls, rubber flooring. And in thecenter of it all is Damon, doing bench presses with a seriously heavy amount of weight.

He's shirtless and sweating.

And gorgeous as hell.

I freeze on the bottom step.

I've seen guys without shirts before. At the pool, at the beach, even at the club when some drunk college boy inevitably decides he's too hot and starts stripping. But none of them looked like this.

Damon's body is all lean muscle and controlled power, built for function rather than show. His chest rises and falls with each rep, and I notice tattoos that were hidden under his clothes, something dark and intricate across his ribs, words in what might be Latin on his shoulder.

There's a scar running along his left side, thin like a knife wound. Another one on his shoulder that looks older, more jagged.

These aren't the kinds of scars you get from playing football or falling off your bike. These are the kinds of scars that come from the world he lives in. The world my family lives in too, apparently.

He finishes his set and sits up, reaching for a towel, and that's when he sees me standing there like an idiot.

"Morning, princess." His voice is rough, probably from exertion, and there's amusement in his dark eyes. "Sleep well?"

Heat floods my cheeks. "I heard... I thought..." I gesture vaguely toward the weights. "I didn't know you had a gym down here."

"House came with it." He stands up, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way his muscles move under his skin. "You work out?"

"Sometimes. I used to do yoga with my mom." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Before."

Before my bodyguard was murdered. Before everything I thought I knew about my life turned out to be a lie.

Damon nods like he understands what I'm not saying. "There's yoga mats in that closet if you want. Might help with the stress."

"Thanks." I'm still standing on the bottom step like an idiot, trying not to notice the way sweat has made his skin gleam under the fluorescent lights. "I should go back upstairs."

"Yeah, you should." But he doesn't look away, and neither do I.

There's tension in the air between us, something that makes my skin feel too tight and my heart beat too fast. It's the same feeling I had that first night at the club when I caught him watching me, but stronger now.

More dangerous.

"Viviana." The way he says my name makes my stomach flip.

"Yeah?"

"You're staring."