Page 23 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)
Tears and Shadows
To say the following week had been an improvement would be a gross understatement. Damien slowly began to put his life back together, piece by piece. He returned to the gym, spending hours punishing his body into exhaustion, finding a strange solace in the ache of strained muscles. On days when he grew tired of lifting weights, he jogged through Central Park, the steady rhythm of his feet against the pavement giving him a much-needed escape from his swirling thoughts.
The workouts helped ease his mind, though they couldn’t completely silence it. He reconnected with Nick after ignoring his calls for days, exchanging tentative plans for a future trip. Nick had mentioned a getaway sometime in August, but Damien couldn’t focus on vacations just yet. His family in Boston, Nick’s trip—everything would have to wait. His top priority was still Craig. He needed to make things right before doing anything else.
Eight days had passed since Damien had last seen or spoken to Craig. Their last encounter—full of tears, apologies, and exhaustion—played on a constant loop in his mind. He wasn’t sure if Craig’s kindness that night could be considered a reconciliation, but Damien clung to it, nonetheless. Craig needed space, and Damien intended to give it to him. It was the least he could do after the damage he had caused.
Time moved in a blur, the days slipping away until Damien found himself out again. The sun hovered low on the horizon as he pulled into the parking lot of a nearby convenience store. He was planning a small dinner to thank Dimitri, who had finally given in to Damien’s persistent invitations. Three packs of Dimitri’s favorite beer rested under Damien’s arm as he exited the store.
He felt his phone buzz in his pocket just as he popped the trunk of his car. A text from Dimitri.
Stopping by my place first to shower. be there soon.
Damien sent back a quick reply and moved to shut the trunk when the low hum of an engine drew his attention. A black Cadillac rolled slowly into the lot, the kind of car that demanded to be noticed.
An unsettling sense of déjà vu gripped Damien. His heart skipped a beat when the back door opened, and a tall, imposing man in a dark suit stepped out, removing his sunglasses.
“Good evening, Mr. Clarke.” The man’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of command in it. “Please, come inside.”
Damien sighed, closing the trunk with deliberate slowness. “I have plans. Tell Alexander I’m busy.”
The man’s expression remained neutral, but his words carried a quiet warning. “Mr. Clarke, get in the car.”
The threat was thinly veiled, and Damien could feel it settling in the air between them. He knew better than to resist—this wasn’t a request.
With a forced, sarcastic grin, Damien clicked the car lock and walked toward the waiting Cadillac. The man followed close behind, his silent presence as heavy as a shadow. Damien slid into the backseat, the leather cold against his skin.
“Where are we going?” Damien asked coldly, though he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.
The man put his sunglasses back on and stared straight ahead. “You’ll find out soon.”
Damien huffed in irritation and leaned closer to the driver, hoping to glean some information. “Where are you taking me?”
The young driver kept his eyes fixed on the road, offering nothing.
“Fantastic. Love the hospitality,” Damien muttered, sinking back into his seat. This was typical Nabokov. Always a power play.
The car came to a halt in front of a diner that looked like it had stepped out of the 1950s. A neon CLOSED sign flickered above the door. Damien narrowed his eyes. Something felt off about this place.
Two men in black suits stood by the entrance, their faces hidden behind dark sunglasses. Their presence radiated quiet menace, but Damien was beyond fear. He was angry. He wanted this game to end.
Inside, the diner was empty—except for one man sitting at the far end, his back to the window. Nabokov.
The Russian billionaire sat comfortably, reading through a stack of papers spread across the table. Classical music played softly in the background, the only sound filling the still air.
Nabokov didn’t look up as Damien approached. He was as flawless as ever, dressed in a pale blue shirt with the top button undone—no jacket, no tie, just effortless elegance. Damien hated how easily the man still managed to steal his breath.
“Good evening, Damien,” Nabokov greeted smoothly, not bothering to mask the satisfaction in his voice.
Damien didn’t return the pleasantry. He wasn’t here to indulge in Nabokov’s games.“Are you really going to keep doing this? Is this your idea of fun?”
Nabokov set his papers aside, his gaze cool and unbothered. “Fun? No. But I have plenty of ideas where you and I can really have fun, Damien.”
Damien scoffed, refusing to let himself sink deeper into Nabokov's cruel games. “You’re a fucking psychopath, you know that? Texting, calling, showing up when I’ve told you to stay the hell away. What would you call it if not harassment?”
A hint of a smile curled Nabokov’s lips. “I’d call it... dedication.”
Damien’s blood boiled. “God, you’re fucking insufferable. I hate your fucking gut,” he whispered, venom lacing every word.
Nabokov’s smirk widened. “Do you?”
Damien glared at the man who had tormented him for too long. He saw it now, the twisted glint in Nabokov’s eye—the man took perverse pleasure in watching Damien unravel. The realization only deepened Damien’s frustration, but instead of lashing out, he did the opposite. A cold, calculated smile spread across his face, one that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’d love to stay, really,” Damien said lightly, masking the storm within. “But I have to cook a nice dinner for a dear pal of mine.”
The soft smile stayed on his lips, but his eyes were sharp as a blade.
Nabokov shrugged with infuriating nonchalance. “Well, in that case, you can leave.”
Damien blinked, thrown off balance by the simplicity of the response. His hand hovered near the bottle of wine on the table, as if waiting for the punchline to drop. He knew better than to believe Nabokov would let him go that easily.
“You’re serious?” Damien asked, narrowing his eyes.
Nabokov went back to his scattered papers, resuming his reading as if Damien’s presence no longer mattered. The indifference was more cutting than any insult.
“You can go, Damien,” Nabokov repeated, not looking up from the page.
Damien stayed rooted to the spot, a growing knot of disbelief tightening in his chest. He knew this game—knew that leaving would mean giving Nabokov the upper hand. He wasn’t about to let that happen.
“So,” Damien said, crossing his arms and leaning slightly toward the billionaire, “you brought me here just to waste my time?”
Nabokov’s eyes lifted from the paper slowly, with the kind of deliberate care that made Damien’s skin crawl. His gaze was as steady as a hunter sizing up prey.
“No,” Nabokov replied smoothly, his voice dipping into something dangerously intimate. “I brought you here because I wanted to see you. Spending time with you was the first thing I wanted to do when I got back from Ireland.”
The raw simplicity of the confession sent a shiver through Damien, though he refused to let it show. Instead, he smiled bitterly and slammed the bottle of wine onto the table with a dull thud. The sound echoed through the empty diner like the crack of a warning shot.
“If you think cheesy lines will make me stay,” Damien spat, “you’re sorely mistaken.”
Nabokov leaned back into his seat, utterly unbothered, as if Damien’s anger were nothing more than white noise. “Go ahead. I’m not holding you back. You can leave.”
Damien stared, his mind racing to find a hidden meaning behind Nabokov’s disarming response. This wasn’t adding up—there was something he was missing.“You’re giving up already?” Damien mocked, a sharp grin spreading across his lips. “I thought you were more persistent than that, Alexander.”
A slow, crooked smile curled at the edges of Nabokov’s mouth, and for the first time, Damien felt a chill settle over his skin.
“Maybe,” Nabokov mused, his voice warm with amusement, “you enjoy the chase more than I do.”
Damien scoffed, snatching the wine bottle and gripping it as if it were a lifeline. This conversation was spiraling into absurdity, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop playing along. If words wouldn’t work, maybe it was time to enact the backup plan he’d kept tucked away—a desperate gambit, but it was all he had left.
“Thank you for the lovely evening, Alexander,” Damien said, his tone dipped in venom. His eyes were as cold as winter frost.
He turned on his heel, intent on walking away, the bottle of wine in hand—one he had no shame in stealing from Nabokov. The man had practically coerced him into coming to this sketchy dinner spot, wasting precious time Damien would never get back. The least Nabokov could do was part with a bottle of undoubtedly expensive wine—one that would pair perfectly with the meal Damien had planned to cook for Dimitri.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Nabokov said casually.Nabokov’s voice, as smooth as silk, slid through the air behind Damien.
Damien stopped, already regretting it, but something in the man’s tone forced him to look back. There was an edge to Nabokov’s words—a baited hook that Damien knew better than to bite yet couldn’t resist.
“How much did your laptop cost?” Nabokov asked, as if discussing the weather.
Damien blinked, thrown off-balance by the strange question. “What?”
“The Mac,” Nabokov clarified, tilting his head slightly. “How much did you pay for it?”
Damien frowned, his confusion deepening. This had to be a trick—a way to prolong their encounter.“Three thousand,” Damien answered cautiously. “Why do you—”
“Three thousand,” Nabokov echoed thoughtfully, cutting him off. A strange, detached expression crossed his face, as though he were cataloging the information for some future use.
Damien’s stomach sank. A slow realization crept over him like a chill down his spine.“Wait—” Damien narrowed his eyes. “My Mac. I think I left it in your office, right?”
“Yes,” Nabokov confirmed, his voice maddeningly neutral.
“Well, do you have it with you?” Damien asked, his irritation growing. Something was off, and Nabokov’s calm only made it worse.
“No,” Nabokov answered simply, without a flicker of emotion.
Damien felt his temper rising. “When will you give it back, then?”
Nabokov leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as if settling into a game only he understood. “I don’t plan to return it. I’ll sell it to the highest bidder.”
Damien stared, dumbfounded. “You’re going to sell my Mac?”
“That’s right,” Nabokov replied matter-of-factly.
The sheer absurdity of the situation hit Damien like a slap. He shook his head, trying to contain his frustration. “It’s my Mac, Alexander. I never gave you permission to sell it.”
Nabokov shrugged, a flicker of boredom passing over his face. “It’s not yours anymore. You left it behind—so now it’s mine.”
Damien’s hand clenched on the bottle of wine, the weight of Nabokov’s manipulation pressing down on him. The man had a talent for pushing Damien just to the edge of reason—and enjoying every second of it.“I didn’t leave it. I forgot it,” Damien argued, but his words sounded weak, even to his own ears.
Nabokov gave him a lazy smile, as though indulging a child throwing a tantrum. “Same thing. Finders keepers”
Damien chuckled darkly, the sound devoid of humor. This whole conversation was a farce—a dance meant to leave him spinning.“So, what are you planning to do with the money, huh? Buy a donkey or something?”
“Now that you mention it, that’s not a bad idea,” Nabokov said with a playful smirk.
Damien rolled his eyes, done with the game. It was time to call it for what it was.“Listen, you know where I live,” Damien snapped. “I want my Mac delivered to me tomorrow.”
Nabokov’s eyebrow arched, his amusement barely concealed. “Or what?”
Damien let out a sharp laugh. He was running out of patience, and Nabokov’s insufferable calm was pushing him to the brink.“You really are out of ideas, huh? Kidnapping me wasn’t enough—now you’re holding my laptop hostage and blackmailing me with it?”
Nabokov leaned back, completely at ease. “It’s not blackmail. I just thought I’d keep you updated on what I’m doing with your things. If you’re unhappy, you can always report it to the police.”
Damien threw his hands up in exasperation. “Yeah, I’m sure they’ll take me seriously when I tell them a billionaire stole my laptop.”
Nabokov’s smirk grew. “Well, it’s not theft. But you can give it a shot.”
Damien shook his head, bitterness welling up in his chest. “You’re punishing me, aren’t you? Just because I want to stay faithful to Craig.”
“I can’t punish you for something you didn’t succeed at,” Nabokov said softly, his words cutting deep.
Damien’s laugh was brittle, on the edge of breaking. “And let me guess—you take no blame in any of this?”
Nabokov’s gaze sharpened, his smirk fading into something darker. “Blame me? For craving you?”
Damien’s patience snapped, and with a surge of fury, he hurled the bottle of wine to the ground. Glass shattered, wine splashing across the floor in crimson streaks.
“You don’t want me!” Damien shouted, his voice hoarse with rage. “You only want the thrill of chasing something you can’t have!”
Nabokov stared, unmoving, as if the outburst were exactly what he had been waiting for. And that was what terrified Damien the most—Nabokov’s unyielding gaze, watching him as if he already owned every piece of him.
Damien’s outburst left a tense silence in its wake, the shattered glass and spilled wine spreading like a red stain on the moment. Nabokov remained still, his expression eerily calm, as though the chaos meant nothing to him.
“Actually,” Damien continued, breathing hard, rage simmering beneath his skin, “that's all this is to you, isn’t it? I'm just a prize, a forbidden fruit you can’t have. The second you get what you want, you’ll toss me aside like I never mattered.”
Nabokov tilted his head, observing Damien with that unsettling, calculated gaze. The kind of gaze that saw through masks and into the cracks of a person’s soul.
“You’re only right about one thing,” Nabokov said softly. “It’s true that I enjoy working for the things I want. But Damien—” he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a near-whisper— “you should know me better than that. If you think I’ll lose interest once I have you... you underestimate me.”
Damien’s stomach twisted, a cold knot forming in his chest. He was out of his depth, drowning in a battle of wills that he knew he couldn’t win.
“You know what?” Damien muttered, stepping back with a bitter smile. “Keep the fucking Mac. Burn it, crush it, I don't care. Tonight, I'm going to the police to file a restraining order against you.”