Page 51 of Damon

"You're protecting me."

"Because it serves my family's interests."

The dismissive response stings. "Right. Business."

"Everything's in this world is business, Viviana. The sooner you understand that, the better."

We fall into silence after that, both of us probably thinking about what happens when "for now" ends. When the threat is eliminated and I go back to my life and he goes back to his.

The thought makes my stomach hurt.

At two o'clock, Tommy arrives to pick up Damon. I watch from the window as they drive away, then spend the next hour trying to distract myself with television, books, anything that doesn't involve thinking about him.

It doesn't work.

By four o'clock, I'm restless and annoyed with myself. This is ridiculous. I'm eighteen years old, not some helpless child who can't function without a man around. I should be grateful for the space, the chance to think clearly without Damon's presence clouding my judgment.

Instead, I miss him.

To distract myself, I decide to cook dinner. Something more elaborate than sandwiches. I find chicken in the freezer, vegetables in the fridge, pasta in the pantry. Chicken alfredo. Comfort food.

The cooking helps. There's something soothing about the routine of it, the familiar motions of chopping and stirring and seasoning. For a little while, I can pretend I'm a normal girl making dinner for... for what? My boyfriend?

The thought is more than a little alarming.

Is that what Damon is? We've slept together once, had one intense conversation about obligations and consequences, and now we're tiptoeing around each other like teenagers with a crush.

But he's not my boyfriend. He's the man holding me captive for my own protection. The enemy's son who happened to save my life. The dangerous stranger I can't stop thinking about.

I'm so lost in thought that I almost don't hear the sound. A soft scraping, like a branch against glass. I look up from the stove, listening.

There it is again. Coming from the living room.

I turn off the burner and move quietly toward the sound. The living room windows face the forest, and in the fading afternoon light, I can see movement in the trees.

My heart starts racing before I remember what Damon said about the guards being out there. The movement is probably one of his men doing their job.

Still, something feels different about this. The figure I glimpsed seemed too close to the house, moving too carelessly.

I grab my phone anyway. Better paranoid than dead.

But before I can dial, I hear the front door open.

My blood turns to ice. I rush toward the hallway, expecting to see Damon, but the footsteps are wrong. Too light, too careful.

"Hello?" I call out, hating how scared I sound.

No answer.

I back toward the kitchen, phone in hand, but I don't hear anything else.

Maybe I imagined it. Maybe the stress of the past few days is making me paranoid.

I wait another few minutes, listening to the silence, then slowly make my way back to the front door. It's closed and locked, security system armed. Everything looks normal.

But the feeling that something's wrong won't go away.

I'm still standing there, debating whether to call Damon, when I hear his car in the driveway.