Page 57 of Deliah

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.”