Page 33 of Deliah

He was waiting downstairs, perched on the arm of the charcoal leather sofa like he’d been sculpted for it.

Black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, top two buttons undone.

That gold watch—sleek, heavy, and probably worth more than my childhood home—glistened on his wrist. And the look he gave me when I stepped into view?

Lethal. He stood slowly, eyes raking over me with quiet precision.

“Deliah…” he said, voice low, smooth, and slightly strained. “You look… incredible.”

I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “You pick the dress, plan the night, and still act surprised?”

His lips twitched. “Not surprised. Just impressed.”

I reached the last step, and for a second, neither of us moved. The tension hung in the air—sharp, electric, loaded.

He held out his hand. “Ready?”

I hesitated just a beat before placing my fingers in his.

His palm was warm. Steady. Dominant in the softest, most unshakeable way.

The moment his skin touched mine, something twisted in my stomach.

Not butterflies—no, this was deeper. Hungrier.

Like nerves and desire had wrapped themselves into a knot I couldn’t untangle.

As we walked towards the car, I glanced sideways at him. “So… where exactly are you taking me? Am I about to be murdered or wined and dined?”

He opened the door for me with a smirk. “Just dinner.”

“‘Just dinner,’” I repeated, sliding into the leather seat. “Said every man ever before things went downhill.”

He got in beside me and shut the door with a soft click. The engine purred to life.

“You nervous?” he asked after a beat, not looking at me.

I scoffed, immediately defensive. “No.”

He glanced over, unconvinced.

“Okay… maybe a little,” I muttered.

“Why?” he asked gently.

I stared out the window. “I don’t know. I’m usually mouthy and full of shit. But right now, my stomach’s going nuts, and I’m not even sure why.”

“You don’t have to be anything tonight,” he said calmly. “You don’t have to perform. Just be here.”

I glanced at him again, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t get all therapist on me.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But I know how to recognise when someone’s bracing for impact.”

I looked away. Of course he’d notice. He always noticed.

The restaurant wasn’t flashy, but it was definitely exclusive, tucked into a quiet alleyway in Marbella’s Old Town, lit by soft lanterns and warm amber tones that made everything feel softer.

Sexier. We were led to a private corner at the back—leather booth, crisp tablecloth, candlelight.

The waiter greeted him by name and poured the wine without asking.

He sat across from me, calm and composed.

I, on the other hand, could barely keep still.

My leg bounced under the table, my fingers toying with the edge of the napkin.

He didn’t say much at first. Just watched me. Like he was reading every micro-expression I didn’t know I was making. I was the show, and he was more than happy to watch it unfold. I swirled my wine and finally broke the silence.

“So…”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You going to tell me what the fuck this is now?” I asked. “Or are you just collecting strays and seeing which one follows you home?”

He leaned back, completely unfazed. “Would you be here if you didn’t want to be?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’m still figuring out if I’m curious… or completely out of my mind.”

He smirked. “Why not both?”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re so smug. You always look like you know something I don’t.”

“I do.”

That shut me up for a second. The bastard was always composed.

Always in control. And I hated—hated—how much I liked it.

I took another sip of wine, trying to gather myself.

“I don’t get you,” I said finally. “You flew me out here. Put me in a villa. Bought me this dress. And yet you’ve barely touched me. ”

His eyes flicked to my lips, then back to my eyes.

“You didn’t fuck me,” I continued, louder now. “You didn’t even try. What exactly do you want from me, Damion?”

His gaze didn’t waver, but something in it shifted. Darkened. Deepened.

“Touching you is easy, Deliah,” he said, voice low. “Fucking you? Easier. But you’re not someone I just want to fuck.”

My breath caught. I laughed, dry and defensive. “Wow. Deep. So you’re a romantic now?”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

His voice dropped to something just above a whisper.

“You act like you’re unbreakable, but I see through it.

You test people to see if they’ll leave.

Push them so far, they’ll finally snap and walk.

You crave friction, but it’s eating you alive.

And you don’t even know what it feels like to be properly looked after. ”

The words hit me like a slap I wasn’t ready for. I blinked hard, trying not to let them sink in. “Here we go again with the therapist bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit, Deliah,” he said. “But I do know how to handle you. That’s the difference.”

“Handle me?” I scoffed. “I’m not some wild animal.”

“I never said you were. But you’re a woman who’s never been truly seen—not without expectations. Not without someone waiting to cash in on your vulnerability.”

My chest was tight. My throat even tighter.

“I’m not some poor little broken girl,” I snapped.

“I know,” he replied. “You’re fierce. Smart-mouthed. Stubborn as hell. But underneath it all, you want one thing.”

I crossed my arms, defensive. “Enlighten me.”

“To feel wanted. And safe.”

Silence. He was right. I hated that my walls were cracking, and I could feel the emotion behind my eyes, burning. He didn’t press. Just waited. Calm. Still. Safe.

“What do you really want from me, Damion?” I asked softly.

He answered without hesitation. “I want to take care of you. In every way. The way you need—not the way you ask.”

I laughed, bitter and aching. “You think I need taking care of?”

“I think you’re tired of being the strongest person in every room. And I think you’re dying for someone to finally say, ‘You can let go. I’ve got it.’”

I looked away, blinking fast.

“Why me?” I whispered. “You barely know me.”

He reached across the table and gently took my hand. Warm. Steady. Intentional.

“Because from the second you said you were going to ruin me,” he said, “I knew you’d already ruined yourself for anyone who wasn’t ready to love the chaos.”

I looked at him—and in that moment, I saw it. All of it. Desire. Control. Devotion. I think he wanted to fuck me, maybe he did. But more than that—he wanted me. All of me. And that made me feel more alive than I had in years.

My heart was still racing, but I needed to breathe. Needed to dial it back before I combusted in the middle of a candlelit restaurant. So I shifted the tone, leaning back and cocking my head.

“So… what do you actually do for work?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “And don’t give me some vague, sexy, ‘I move money’ answer. I need details.”

His lips twitched. “You want the boring version or the real version?”

“I want the ‘are you in the mafia’ version.”

He laughed. A real one. Deep, low, and annoyingly attractive. “No, Deliah. I’m not in the mafia.”

I squinted. “Hmm. That’s exactly what someone in the mafia would say.”

“I trade currencies,” he said, still smiling. “Mostly futures, some indexes. Started when I was about nineteen. Blew a few accounts, learned the hard way, and eventually got good.”

“So… you make money by clicking buttons.”

“I mean… technically? Yes.”

I gave him a slow blink. “Wow. And here I am, grinding my way through life like a peasant.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple. You have to know what you’re doing—timing, discipline, risk. Most people lose.”

“But you don’t?”

“I did,” he said simply. “At first. But I’ve made some good investments over the years. And a few of them paid off. Well.”

I looked at him over the rim of my glass. “Well enough to rent a villa with a view of the sea and a wardrobe full of designer skincare?”

He gave a small shrug. “I like nice things. I work for them.”

I smirked. “So do strippers.”

He didn’t flinch. “Exactly.”

I set my glass down, eyes gleaming. “So if we ever got married, would I have to sign a prenup?”

He smirked again. “Are you proposing?”

“I’m just preparing for my future,” I said sweetly. “I like to know what kind of tax bracket I’d be falling in love with.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, that glint back in his eye. “If we ever got married, Deliah, the only thing you’d be signing is a deal to never leave the house in anything but red.”

“Bit controlling.”

“Bit honest.”

I let out a laugh, loud and real. God, it was annoying how easily he got under my skin. Like he had a cheat code to all my defences.

I shifted in my seat, more relaxed now. “So what about the others? The rest of the Boiler Boys. I always saw them at the club. Never you.”

His expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. “I’m not a fan of strip clubs.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That a moral stance or a control thing?”

“Neither. I just don’t enjoy paying for attention.”

“Hmm,” I hummed. “See, I always thought you were the type to demand attention. And get it.”

He looked at me then, that intense, deliberate stare that made my stomach twist. “I don’t have to demand anything,” he said calmly.

Cocky. Factual. Deadly accurate.

I shook my head. “So you just… never came? Even when the lads dragged Tommy out on his birthday and got him so drunk he tipped a girl a €100 just for licking his shoulder?”

That got another laugh. “I remember the story. And no. I didn’t go.”

“Why not?”

He paused. “I prefer intention,” he said. “If someone wants me, I want them to want me. Not pretend for a few euros and a glass of champagne.”

I tapped my nail against my glass. “You’re either the most emotionally evolved man I’ve ever met… or the most dangerous.”

He tilted his head. “Can’t I be both?”