Page 14 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)

The View

Throughout the bowling night, only Damien’s body was present; his mind wandered elsewhere. If his team—consisting of Eric and Andrea, Samuel’s fiancé—had lost, it was entirely his fault. He hadn’t scored a single point, missing every shot, his thoughts far removed from the game. Thankfully, no one commented on his unusually poor performance.

Despite the night passing without incident, Dimitri's absence hung over them, thoughDamien was relieved when no fights broke out. But the night ended with Julia—Eric’s wife—already planning another couples’ night. Damien exchanged exasperated glances with Samuel and Eric, united in their silent dread of yet another forced social event.

When Craig left for his night shift, Damien felt both relief and a sense of impending dread. Craig hadn’t brought up Nabokov, not yet. But Damien knew it was only a matter of time before the subject surfaced, and the questions came. Questions such as Why the hell is Nick’s boss showing up to see you? Late at night. At my place. When you don’t even work for him. Again—at my place. How did he even know where to find you? Yeah, Damien needed to come up with a damn good excuse. Fast.

The only reason he’d managed to avoid an interrogation so far was likely because Craig still remembered Damien had been helping Nick with his work project. Hard to forget, considering that had been the spark that lit their worst fight yet.

But that excuse only covered so much. It didn’t explain the rest. The questions Craig hadn’t asked yet but inevitably would.

I’m fucked. Completely fucked.

As Damien drove home, the buzz of the evening slowly faded, replaced by the thoughts he had been pushing aside all day.By the time he pulled into the parking lot and stepped into his apartment, the weight of his dilemma settled fully on his shoulders.Should he accept Nabokov’s dinner invitation or find a way to refuse it? Not that the Russian man had really given him much choice. No matter how Damien tried to rationalize it, he couldn’t understand why someone like Nabokov—a man who had seemed disgusted by the knowledge of Damien’s relationship with Craig—would want to share dinner with him.

Maybe it was just a power move. A way to show control, Damien reasoned, clinging to this idea. Because if that were the case, it wasn’t personal. If Nabokov wasn’t truly interested in him, Damien could resist him—easily.

Now alone, Damien knew it was time to act. Against his better judgment, he decided to call Nabokov instead of texting. A call was quicker—a way to end this nonsense once and for all. He told himself it was the safest option.

The phone barely rang three times before Nabokov’s voice answered, deep and assertive. “Nabokov.”

Hearing that voice made Damien instantly regret calling. It was too late to back out now. “Hey, uh… it’s Damien.”

He cringed at how awkward he sounded, trying to keep his tone casual, though he knew he was failing miserably. “How are you?” Really? How are you? Ugh, kill me please.

“Good. How are you?” Nabokov replied, his voice smooth and distant.

“Uh… good,” Damien stammered, mentally kicking himself. Why did he sound so pathetic? Ten seconds into the call, and it already felt like the most awkward conversation of his life. A text would’ve been so much easier.

After a long, uncomfortable pause, Damien tried to get the words out. “I… I was just thinking—”

“You’re on your way?” Nabokov interrupted, cutting straight to the point.

Damien blinked. Of course, Nabokov wouldn’t beat around the bush. He scrambled to keep control of the conversation.

“Well… actually, it’s getting a bit late. Maybe we should push it to another time?” He winced as the words left his mouth. He hadn’t planned to postpone the dinner—he was supposed to refuse it. Why did it sound like he was trying to reschedule with a friend?

“Are you working tomorrow?” Nabokov asked, his question catching Damien off guard.

“No...” Damien frowned. “Why?”

“Good,” Nabokov said smoothly. “Then I don’t see a problem. I’ll be waiting for you.” His tone left no room for argument.

Damien fell silent, his carefully rehearsed refusal slipping away. What was it about this man that made saying no so impossible?

“Damien?” Nabokov’s voice softened slightly, though the undertone of command remained. “I’ll see you in an hour, yes?”

Damien swallowed hard, knowing he was already defeated. “Y-yes.”

“Good. Drive safely.”

The line went dead, leaving Damien staring at his phone, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Again, Nabokov had managed to manipulate him into doing something he didn’t want. It was maddening. Damien hated how easily the man could disarm him with a few words. And yet, deep down, part of him knew—he let it happen.

As Damien changed into something more presentable, he told himself this wasn’t about attraction. This was about control. Nabokov was just testing his limits—trying to get under his skin. If Damien kept telling himself that, he could ignore the way his pulse quickened when he thought of the man. He could ignore the way Nabokov’s lingering gaze had made him feel exposed. Vulnerable.

Before heading out, a message buzzed on Damien’s phone:

Security is aware you’re coming. I’ll be on the roof waiting for you .

The absurdity of the message made Damien’s stomach twist. Why the roof? His mind conjured ridiculous scenarios—was Nabokov planning to push him off the edge? Or worse, was this some elaborate homophobic setup disguised as a dinner?

Shaking off the intrusive thoughts, Damien drove to Nick’s workplace. He told himself it was paranoia—that his instincts were overreacting. But deep down, he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that something about this meeting was… off.

When Damien reached the rooftop, he spotted Nabokov standing near the edge, his silhouette sharp against the glow of the city skyline. Damien’s nerves spiked at how close the man stood to the edge, his posture relaxed, as if he owned the view.

“Hey,” Damien called out, his voice tentative.

Nabokov turned, a small smile curving his lips. “Good evening, Damien.”

There was no menace in his tone, no sign of hostility. Yet, Damien couldn’t ignore the tension simmering beneath the surface. Why had Nabokov gone to such lengths for this dinner? It didn’t make sense. If the man really was disgusted by Damien’s relationship, why invite him here at all?

And that was the crux of Damien’s cognitive dissonance—the contradiction that gnawed at him. If Nabokov were truly homophobic, he wouldn’t be doing any of this, right? But that look on his face, the disgust when he learned about Craig… Damien couldn’t forget it. He clung to it, using it as a shield—a way to justify resisting whatever pull Nabokov had on him.

Nabokov gestured toward a sleek dining table, transformed into a feast worthy of royalty. The spread was an opulent showcase of Asian-inspired delicacies—each dish plated with meticulous elegance.

Polished slate boards bore rows of pristine sushi, their vibrant fillings offset by curls of cucumber, pickled ginger, and glistening roe that sparkled under the ambient light. At the center, a tower of sashimi—tuna, salmon, and yellowtail—lay artfully arranged on crushed ice, each cut so fine they looked like edible gems.

A bamboo steamer released fragrant wisps of steam, unveiling delicate dumplings: shrimp har gow, truffle shumai, and pork jiaozi, each adorned with edible flowers. Bowls of dipping sauces—soy, sriracha, and freshly grated wasabi—were placed nearby for customization.

Further down, a lacquered bowl cradled a miso-glazed black cod, its caramelized exterior giving way to tender flakes atop sautéed greens. Surrounding it, sides of sesame seaweed salad, golden vegetable tempura, and fried rice crowned with a runny egg added layers of color and texture. Even the pickles—rare, jewel-toned and delicately arranged—spoke of excess and intention.

Two crystal wine glasses waited at the head of the table, filled with chilled, rare sake—clear as spring water, with notes of cherry blossom and pear. Nabokov’s silent invitation was clear: indulge, savor, and be swept away.

“I may have gone overboard,” Nabokov said with a hint of a smile, watching Damien take it all in. “But I wanted tonight to be... memorable.”

Damien forced a smile, though his stomach churned with unease.“It’s… a bit much for two people, don’t you think?” Damien murmured, trying to keep his tone light as he took in the sashimi, delicately plated with edible flowers, bowls of aromatic soup, and a selection of sushi and tempura, each dish more elaborate than the last. Every detail seemed calculated, a silent statement that left Damien both impressed and wary.

Nabokov shrugged with that effortless confidence he wore so well. “I like options.”

Damien couldn’t help but wonder if Nabokov’s actions were part of a twisted game—a way to keep him off balance. Or maybe, the man just enjoyed watching him squirm.

As they sat down to eat, Damien avoided Nabokov’s gaze, keeping his attention on the view. The city lights were dazzling, a beautiful distraction from the tension building between them.

“You’re quiet,” Nabokov remarked, pouring wine into Damien’s glass.

“Just… admiring the view,” he replied, though he knew that Nabokov would see through his thin pretense. He took a sip, hoping it would quiet the nervous energy swirling inside him.

But Nabokov’s sharp gaze lingered on him, and Damien could feel it—like a touch just beneath his skin, a warmth that pulled his focus no matter how hard he tried to resist. Finally, unable to bear the intensity of it, he glanced over and sighed, “What?”

Nabokov’s lips curved slightly, his expression unreadable. “Nothing.”

Damien arched an eyebrow, sensing the unsaid words hanging between them. “Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Just admiring the view,” Nabokov replied, his voice soft yet deliberate, the words sinking beneath Damien’s defenses.

Damien’s pulse quickened, caught off guard by the simple statement. He shifted in his seat, suddenly feeling both seen and cornered.

“The view’s that interesting, huh?” he asked, attempting a light tone that betrayed his underlying tension.

Nabokov tilted his head slightly, his gaze unflinching. “It is when you’re in it.”

Damien forced a laugh, though it came out a little shaky. “I didn’t realize I’d become part of the decor,” he said, attempting to shrug off the tension he felt wrapping around him.

Nabokov’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, something that looked too close to sincerity. “You’re not.You’re more than that.”

The simplicity of the words disarmed Damien. He could feel his defenses slipping, just enough to let doubt creep in—the doubt that maybe, just maybe, Nabokov was sincerer than he was letting himself believe. But then, he reminded himself, this was Nabokov. The man who seemed to delight in keeping him on edge, playing games with his head.

Damien cleared his throat, his gaze dropping to his wine glass as he traced the rim absentmindedly.“So,” he began, forcing a casual tone, “is this some kind of sport for you? Getting under people’s skin?”

Nabokov leaned back, an amused glint in his eyes. “Do I get under your skin, Damien?”

“You know you do,” Damien muttered, his frustration slipping out before he could stop it.

The corner of Nabokov’s mouth lifted, and for a brief moment, there was a hint of satisfaction there, as if he’d just confirmed something he already knew. “Good,” he said softly.

Damien’s heart skipped, his stomach twisting as he tried to process Nabokov’s words. It didn’t make sense—none of it did. Why would someone like Nabokov, someone who could have anything he wanted, bother to focus on him, a man who, by all logic, should be inconsequential in his world?

After a moment, Nabokov’s voice cut through the quiet: “Is that why you stare at me like I’m some kind of puzzle?” His tone was measured, as if he was simply stating a fact. “What are you hoping to figure out?”

The question was different this time—subtler, but no less probing. Damien’s heart stumbled.“I’m not,” he lied, gripping the stem of his wine glass.

Nabokov leaned in slightly, his expression a mix of amusement and something darker. “Of course you are. But the real question is...what will you do when you find the answer?”

Damien tried to force a chuckle, but it came out weak and unconvincing. “You think too highly of yourself, Alexander. I’m not trying to figure out anything.”

Nabokov’s lips curled into a subtle smirk, the kind that felt both playful and predatory. “Then you lie to yourself as easily as you lie to me.”

Damien’s breath caught. He hated how effortlessly Nabokov got under his skin, pulling truths Damien wasn’t ready to face.

Nabokov’s gaze stayed steady, his amusement lingering just beneath the surface. “It’s interesting how hard you’re working to convince me—and yourself—that I mean nothing to you.”

Damien shifted uncomfortably, suddenly wishing the chair beneath him would swallow him whole. “I have a boyfriend, remember?” he muttered, hoping that would put an end to this bizarre conversation. “It’s not complicated.”

Nabokov tilted his head slightly, as if assessing Damien like a piece of art with hidden layers. “Then why do you look at me like I’m complicated?”

Damien bristled, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “I don’t—”

“You do,” Nabokov cut in smoothly, his voice calm yet certain. “And you hate that you do.”

The air between them thickened, and Damien’s heart pounded so loudly it felt as though the sound would betray him. He downed another sip of wine, trying to mask his discomfort.

“You’re delusional,” Damien said quietly, but the words lacked conviction.

Nabokov leaned back in his chair, his smirk deepening as if he had already won whatever game they were playing. “You can tell yourself that as many times as you want, Damien.” He paused for effect. “It won’t change the truth.”

Damien’s chest tightened, and the lingering question— What is the truth? —hovered unspoken in the air between them. He hated this. Hated how Nabokov unraveled him piece by piece with just a few words, leaving him exposed in ways no one else had managed before.

“You’re toying with me,” Damien said finally, his voice low, an attempt to make sense of the swirling confusion within him. “And for what? Am I just… a distraction?”

Nabokov’s expression shifted slightly, something almost like irritation flickering in his eyes. “Is that what you think this is?” he asked, his tone sharp, cutting through the tension. “That I’m bored and you’re here to amuse me?”

Damien held his gaze, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. “Isn’t it?”

A brief silence settled between them, the weight of it almost suffocating. Then, Nabokov leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying an undeniable intensity. “You’re not a game to me, Damien.”

The words struck Damien with a force he hadn’t expected. He wanted to believe him—god, he wanted to—but there was that nagging voice in his head, reminding him that this was a man who could say whatever he wanted to get his way.

“Then what am I?” Damien asked, his voice coming out more vulnerable than he’d intended.

Nabokov’s gaze softened, his hand reaching across the table, resting inches from Damien’s. “I don’t know yet,” he said quietly. “But I’d like to find out.”

Damien’s breath caught, his heart racing. He could feel the sincerity in Nabokov’s words, feel the unguarded honesty that seemed to slip through the cracks in the man’s usual controlled demeanor. But just as he felt himself softening, letting that warmth seep into him, he reminded himself of his reality—his boyfriend, his life outside of this strange, magnetic connection.

With a shaky breath, Damien pulled his hand back, forcing a small smile. “I… I don’t know what you want from me, Alexander.”

Nabokov’s eyes darkened, a flicker of frustration passing over his face. “Maybe,” he said, his voice low, “I want to make you feel something you haven’t felt in a long time... the way you make me feel something I haven't felt in a long time.”

Damien’s pulse quickened, the truth of those words piercing through his defenses. He refused to give in. He couldn’t. He couldn’t let Nabokov see how deeply his words had hit him. The man seemed to know exactly where to press to unearth parts of him he’d buried long ago. But Damien wasn’t about to let himself unravel—not here, not now.

“Whatever you think I’m missing,” Damien said carefully, his voice a bit steadier than he felt, “you’re wrong. I’m not looking for… whatever this is.” He waved his hand dismissively, though it felt hollow even to him.

Nabokov studied him, his gaze unyielding. “You might not be looking for it,” he replied, his tone as smooth as velvet, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t need it.”

Damien’s stomach tightened. He hated how Nabokov could turn his walls to dust with a single look, a single phrase. It was as if the man could see right through him, past all his careful denials and deflections. Damien had spent years building a life that was safe, secure—and this… whatever this thing with Nabokov was, threatened to tear it apart.

“You know nothing about what I need,” Damien replied, his voice sharper than he intended.

Nabokov’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that seemed to hold both understanding and amusement.“Maybe not yet,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “But I know there’s something here, something you can’t ignore.”

Damien’s heart pounded. He wanted to push Nabokov away, to tell him he was wrong.He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. The words wouldn’t come. He searched for them, but they were lost somewhere in the rapid thrum of his pulse, in the undeniable pull that Nabokov had on him.Damien pushed his plate aside, suddenly losing his appetite. “This is pointless,” he muttered, standing abruptly.

“You’ve already lost,” Nabokov said softly, not even bothering to look up.

Damien froze mid-step, heat rushing to his face. “Lost what?”

Nabokov finally met Damien’s gaze again, his eyes glimmering with quiet triumph. “Your resistance.”

The words hit Damien like a blow, and his pulse quickened, but he refused to let Nabokov see the effect they had on him.He scoffed. “I don’t know what kind of person you think I am, Alexander, but I’m not a cheater. I would never cheat on Craig,”Damien spat.

His voice lacked its usual conviction, cracking just slightly, betraying the thin veneer of confidence he was desperately trying to hold onto. His eyes flicked down to Nabokov’s lips, before snapping away, an involuntary spark of desire coursing through him. He shifted as if to leave but his feet refused to move, as if the simple act of walking away felt heavier than the entire conversation.

Nabokov’s gaze never wavered, as though he could see right through him. “Are you sure about that?”

Damien's breath caught in his throat, the question hanging between them like an invisible thread drawing them closer. He wanted to leave, to escape, but his body felt rooted in place. It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight of Nabokov’s presence, the power in his stillness, in the quiet way he controlled everything around him.

Damien swallowed hard, struggling to keep his composure. “I don’t know what sort of power you think you have but you’re not going to break me, Alexander.”

But there was doubt now, gnawing at the edge of his thoughts, and he couldn’t help but wonder—what if he could?

Nabokov didn’t respond, at least not with words. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips—like a man who already knew how this night would end. His silence was louder than any challenge.

Damien clenched his fists at his sides, battling the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him. Part of him screamed to walk away—to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Russian man. But another part, the reckless part, whispered that leaving would only mean admitting defeat.

“Leaving already? And without having dessert?” Nabokov’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, smooth and taunting. “That doesn’t sound like the Damien I’ve come to know.”

Damien inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. “You don’t know me,” he snapped, though even he wasn’t sure he believed it anymore.Nabokov’s gray eyes gleamed with something dangerous—like a hunter watching prey that didn’t know it had already been caught.

“Maybe not,” he admitted, his voice dipping lower, “but I will.”

The rooftop felt smaller, the air heavier with every passing second. Damien’s heart raced, the heat of Nabokov’s gaze crawling beneath his skin. This is a bad idea, a voice in Damien's head warned. But he stayed, rooted to the spot by something far stronger than reason—something dangerously close to desire.

Damien scoffed, trying to mask his growing unease. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”

Nabokov’s smirk widened, slow and deliberate. “Not yet,” he replied. “But the night is still young, right?”

Damien’s throat tightened, knowing deep down that leaving wasn’t an option—not really. Not when the pull between them was this strong, this impossible to ignore. And not when walking away would only confirm the very thing he was desperate to deny: that he was caught in Nabokov’s web, and there was no escaping now.

Before he could say another word, Nabokov stood, his movements fluid and unhurried. Damien felt the pull of the moment—he should leave, should walk away before this strange dance with Nabokov spiraled further out of control. But when Nabokov took a step closer, his gray eyes gleaming with both amusement and something darker, Damien’s feet stayed rooted. His heart pounded, but not with fear.

“You know,” Nabokov said, his voice velvet-smooth, “I have something more exciting than dessert waiting for us downstairs.”

Damien raised an eyebrow, trying to sound casual. “More exciting than dessert?”

Nabokov’s smirk deepened. “That depends on how competitive you are.” He turned slightly, gesturing toward the door that led back inside. “Come on. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Damien wanted to laugh off the invitation, to pretend that it was nothing more than a harmless game. But the weight of Nabokov’s words—and the promise lurking beneath them—was impossible to ignore. A part of him wanted to leave, to stop whatever was building between them before it could go any further. Yet, the challenge was too tempting to resist.

Nabokov was already moving toward the door, and, without thinking, Damien followed. The cool night air faded as they stepped inside, the soft click of the rooftop door behind them sealing them in together. The hallway was quiet, dimly lit, and Damien could still feel the tension coiling between them like a spring waiting to snap.

They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing in sync on the polished floor. When they reached the elevator, Nabokov pressed the button, the soft glow of the panel lighting up beneath his finger.Damien hesitated, glancing sideways at Nabokov, who stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable. The tension wrapped itself tighter around him with each second that passed.He realized with a shiver that this night was far from over.

And with Nabokov, nothing ever went as expected.