Page 7 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)
Unsettling Gaze
Damien stood at the end of the corridor, staring at the sleek directory mounted beside the elevators. The polished silver lettering gleamed under the fluorescent lights, but his eyes quickly found what he was looking for: Lounge—17 th Floor. Of course, it had to be upstairs. He pressed the call button, the faint hum of the approaching elevator filling the quiet space. As the doors slid open, Damien stepped inside, staring at the numbered buttons for a moment before pressing 17. The ride was mercifully quick, leaving little time for second thoughts.
The elevator opened to a much livelier floor. Muted chatter spilled into the hallway, mingled with the clinking of glasses and the soft notes of a piano playing somewhere nearby. A sign reading ‘Welcome Reception’ in sleek, minimalist font directed him toward a set of double doors at the end of the corridor.
Taking a deep breath, Damien pushed them open, stepping into an opulent lounge bathed in warm, golden light. The space was sprawling yet intimate, with plush seating areas arranged around low tables adorned with floral centerpieces. Waitstaff moved gracefully between clusters of people, balancing trays of hors d'oeuvres and sparkling drinks.
And there, near the bar at the far end of the room, stood Nabokov. Even in a sea of impeccably dressed professionals, Nabokov stood out effortlessly—commanding the room without a single word.
Damien’s chest tightened at the sight, his earlier resolve wavering. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to avoid stepping any further into the lion's den. But he squared his shoulders, taking a steadying breath before stepping inside, determined to face whatever the night had in store. He weaved his way through the crowd in search of Nick.
Damien’s eyes scanned the room until they landed on his best friend, who was standing near a high-top table, nursing a glass of wine. Relief washed over him at the sight of his friend, a familiar anchor in a sea of uncertainty. He made his way over, weaving through clusters of people engrossed in quiet conversation.
“I thought you ran away, D,” Nick said with a grin as Damien approached.
“And miss the free food? Nah,” Damien replied, managing a wry smile.
Nick chuckled, gesturing toward the far end of the lounge where the buffet stretched out like a decadent feast from a palace. “Go grab a plate. The buffet is crazy, man.”
Damien nodded, grateful for the excuse to escape the momentary pressure. He made his way toward the buffet, the aromas of truffle, roasted meats, and freshly baked bread growing stronger with each step. Picking up a plate, he surveyed the offerings, his attention divided between the food and his swirling thoughts.
Just as he reached for a delicate tartlet, an arm extended in front of him, brushing his shoulder lightly. The sudden movement made him freeze. The arm, clad in an impeccably tailored navy-blue sleeve, belonged to none other than Nabokov. A subtle yet intoxicating fragrance—familiar now, undoubtedly expensive—lingered in the air between them. Damien’s pulse quickened.
As he turned his head, their faces came startlingly close, and Damien barely pulled back in time to avoid a full-on collision.
“Sorr…sorry,” he stammered, his voice unsteady.
Nabokov’s gray eyes locked onto Damien’s, holding him captive in a gaze that felt both piercing and intimate. The tension between them was palpable, as if the world had shrunk to the space between their bodies. Nabokov’s gaze lingered for just a second longer than necessary, his lips curling into a subtle, knowing smile.
“Food selection isn’t hard to make,” Nabokov said, his voice low, teasing, but with a deliberate weight behind it. His gaze slid over the food, then back to Damien. “Go for the salmon,” he added, his tone so smooth it almost felt like an intimate suggestion.
Damien’s throat went dry as Nabokov’s hand hovered briefly over the platter, selecting a perfectly sliced piece and placing it on his plate with unhurried precision. Without breaking eye contact, Nabokov picked up a fork, speared the salmon, and brought it to his mouth. The way Nabokov ate—careful, measured—felt like another subtle way he was maintaining control, as though every action, every movement, had been choreographed.
Damien stood still, his attention locked on Nabokov as the man savored the bite, eyes slightly narrowed in concentration. The way he ate it—deliberate, sensual—felt like a calculated act of seduction. Damien couldn’t look away, his own plate momentarily forgotten.
It was an almost maddeningly sensual moment, and Damien felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. He didn’t want to acknowledge how Nabokov’s presence pulled at him like a magnet. But there was no denying it; the intensity between them had only deepened in the past few hours. The tension between them thickened, the room fading into an indistinct blur. For a brief moment, it was as though they were the only two people in the lounge, boundby an unspoken connection neither fully understood.
The spell broke when a familiar voice interrupted, warm but commanding. “Mr. Nabokov, I didn’t expect you to still be here. Figured you already left since these sorts of things aren’t usually your cup of tea.”
Damien’s gaze shifted reluctantly to the newcomer. It was one of the executives from the presentations earlier—silver-haired, impeccably dressed, and exuding a mix of authority and approachability.
Nabokov turned slightly, his expression unreadable. “Mr. Bettman,” he greeted with a nod, his voice calm yet carrying its usual weight. “Well, the presentations were, for the most part, solid,” Nabokov said, his voice calm yet deliberate.
His gray eyes shifted, locking onto Damien with an intensity that seemed to pierce straight through him. “But it’s the presenters—some of them, at least—who truly caught my attention.”
Damien’s breath stilled as Nabokov’s gaze lingered, heavy and calculated. “I thought it would be worthwhile to get to know them a little better,” Nabokov added, his words slower now, as if meant for Damien alone.
For a moment, the noise of the lounge faded into the background. Their eyes locked, the air between them taut with unspoken tension. Damien’s pulse quickened, a flush creeping up his neck as he struggled to maintain his composure under Nabokov’s penetrating stare.
Bettman’s warm laugh broke the moment. “Well, that’s good to hear! It’s not often something impresses you, Mr. Nabokov.”
Nabokov didn’t respond, his gaze still firmly on Damien, as though he hadn’t heard a word Bettman said. Bettman’s attention flicked to Damien, a spark of recognition lighting his features. “And you’re the one who presented with Nicolas, right? I don’t think I've seen you before.”
Before Damien could reply, Nick appeared beside him, his drink still in his hand and his trademark bright smile lighting up the space.
“That’s right!” Nick said enthusiastically, clapping Damien on the shoulder like a proud parent. “Damien, this is Mr. Bettman, my boss. Damien’s the genius who’s been helping me with the project.”
“Ah, so this is the famous Damien,” Bettman said warmly, extending his hand with a genial smile. “A pleasure to meet you properly, Damien. Nick’s been talking a lot of about you.”
Damien shook his hand, offering a polite but restrained smile. “Only good things, I hope.”
Nick laughed, the sound bright and genuine, but Damien’s attention drifted to the right where Nabokov stood. His focus, sharp and calculated, was on the conversation—on him. The weight of Nabokov’s gaze felt like a physical touch, and Damien shifted slightly under the intensity.
“Damien’s the reason I’ve managed to pull through on some of these projects,” Nick added, his admiration evident. “He’s been an absolute lifesaver.”
“Oh, stop it,” Damien said, waving off the praise and placing a hand on Nick’s back. “Nick’s the real star here. I just lent a hand.”
Bettman raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Nick mentioned you’re a biochem teacher. A fascinating leap to tech. A man of many talents, it seems.”
Nick, ever the proud best friend, couldn’t help but jump in. “ He’s being modest. Damien double-majored in biochem and math, graduated with honors, and landed a teaching position at Northwood Private when he was just twenty-four. One of the youngest they’ve ever hired .”
“Impressive,” Bettman said, nodding. “A bio teacher, tech whiz, and mathematician. You’re a rare package, Damien.”
Damien let out a modest laugh, though his unease simmered beneath the surface. “I just help where I can. Nick’s the one who deserves the spotlight.”
Bettman’s gaze shifted briefly to Nabokov, including him in the conversation. “Mr. Nabokov, don’t you think someone like Damien would be an asset to our company?”
Nabokov’s gray eyes never left Damien. His gaze was piercing, as if trying to unravel Damien layer by layer.
“Absolutely,” he said, his voice calm and steady. There was no emphasis, no flourish. And yet, Damien’s pulse betrayed him.
Bettman chuckled, oblivious to to the quiet shift in the air . “Brains and charm. Don’t tell me you’re an athlete too because that just wouldn’t be fair.”
Damien shook his head, laughing nervously. “Not quite. I barely have a six-pack.”
From the corner of his eye, Damien saw Nabokov’s gaze flick downward—brief, clinical, but unmistakable. By the time their eyes met again, Nabokov’s expression was impassive. Yet Damien’s skin burned like he'd been touched. Damien’s cheeks flushed. He looked away.
“But I’m serious, Damien,” Bettman said, his tone earnest. “I’d love to have you on my team. I’m sure you’re doing well salary-wise, but we could easily double that to get someone like you.”
“I really appreciate the offer,” Damien replied, his voice steady but humble. “But honestly, money isn’t what drives me.”
“Oh? That’s interesting,” Bettman said, his brows lifting, clearly intrigued.
“Yeah,” Damien continued, his tone soft but sincere. “As long as I have enough to cover my basic needs and maybe travel occasionally, I’m happy. That’s all I really need.”
Bettman tilted his head slightly, considering his next words, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “It’s rare to hear someone your age say that. So many people these days—especially your generation—seem so materialistic. Social media probably doesn’t help. It’s refreshing to see someone with a different perspective.”
Damien gave a small, bashful smile. His gaze dropped—but rose again, drawn upward like gravity to a singular force.
Nabokov.
The man's eyes hadn’t moved.
There was something in them now, something quiet and unreadable. Admiration? Amusement? Interest? Damien couldn’t tell. But it unsettled him in a way he couldn’t name.
“Well, I don’t need much to be happy,” Damien said, his voice quieter as he held Nabokov’s gaze for a moment longer than he intended.
Bettman chuckled warmly. “I like that. A man with brains, talent, and charm.” Bettman then turned to Nabokov with a smirk and said, “A sharp mind, wit, and an unassuming nature. He sure has the whole package, doesn't he?”
Nabokov didn’t miss a beat. “The absolute package, really,” he said, voice flat but deliberate—like a statement carved into stone. Those four words carried weight, as though they held a meaning that went far beyond what was spoken aloud.
Damien shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how tight his shirt felt around his collarbones. “I’m really nothing special. I'm pretty boring and basic,” Damien said, letting out a forced chuckle, but it came out more like a puff of air.
Bettman chuckled again. “Brains, charm, and modesty. You’re quite the rarity, Damien. Tell me—are you single? I can’t imagine someone like you is.”
Damien blinked, caught off guard, but quickly recovered. “Why?” he said with a teasing smirk. “Are you interested?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, his voice laced with playful sarcasm.
Bettman let out a hearty laugh. “Not me,” he replied, still chuckling. “I was thinking of my daughter. She’s single, and I wouldn’t mind at all if she dated someone like you.”
“Wait,” Nick interjected with a grin, clearly sensing Damien’s discomfort. “I’m single too, and you’ve never offered me to date your daughter. What gives?”
Bettman laughed again, shaking his head. “You’d have to move to Connecticut for that—she lives there. And let’s be honest, if you two hit it off, you’d probably want to be closer to her. I can’t afford to lose one of my best engineers.”
“Nice save, Mr. Bettman,” Nick quipped warmly, and the group chuckled, the tension loosening.
Everyone except Nabokov.
Bettman had the kind of laugh that was infectious, making it impossible not to smile along with him. Damien couldn’t help but admire the man’s warmth and ease. He envied Nick for having such a supportive boss. If only Bettman were Nick’s ultimate superior, Damien thought wryly.
But no, that title belonged to the man standing silently beside them—Nabokov, who watched Damien as though he were trying to decipher a particularly complex puzzle. The man hadn’t said a word since his last comment. But he hadn’t looked away either. There was a stillness to him, a quiet intensity, as if he were imprinting every word Damien had spoken.
It wasn’t admiration. Not exactly.
It was curiosity edged with something more primal—like Nabokov had just recognized something he hadn’t known he was searching for.
“Well,” Bettman said, clapping his hands together, signaling the end of the conversation. “It’s great to see such talent supporting Nick. Whatever path you choose, Damien, I have no doubt you’ve got a bright future ahead of you.”
Nick beamed, pride clearin his expression, but Damien barely registered it. Nabokov’s presence loomed, the tension between them thick and unspoken.
Damien managed a polite smile and murmured a soft “thank you,” all while Nabokov’s gray eyes remained locked on him, unrelenting in their intensity.
Bettman turned to Nick. “I’m going to be in meetings all morning tomorrow, so why don’t we do a quick review of your presentation now?”
Nick lit up. “Of course! D, do you mind waiting for me in my office?”
“No problem,” Damien said.
Bettman shook Damien’s hand firmly. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Damien. I hope we see more of you soon.”
Damien nodded, a polite smile fixed in place. “Likewise.”
As Bettman and Nick walked off, Damien suddenly felt the air shift. He turned to find Nabokov still standing there, his gaze unwavering.
“About...” Damien started, finally gathering the courage to address the coffee incident, but the words died on his lips as a sharply dressed man and woman approached Nabokov.
“Mr. Nabokov,” the woman began, her tone respectful as she launched into a discussion about an upcoming merger.
A few more people joined the circle, all vying for Nabokov’s attention. Yet, despite the growing crowd around him, Nabokov’s eyes never left Damien. The intensity in his gaze held Damien captive for a moment longer, a silent promise or challenge lingering between them.
Finally, Damien tore his gaze away, retreating to the buffet table under the pretense of filling his plate. His appetite was nonexistent, but his nerves needed a distraction. He avoided the smoked salmon, a petty rebellion, and slipped out of the lounge with his plate of food balanced carefully in one hand.
The hum of conversation and laughter faded into the background as he walked down the hallway, looking for some semblance of quiet. He found an empty corner near a tall, sleek window overlooking the city skyline and leaned against the cool glass.
His gaze drifted to the food on his plate—a colorful array of delicacies that he barely had the appetite to touch. He picked at a few items absentmindedly, letting his thoughts wander back to the lounge.
Specifically, to him.
Nabokov’s intense gaze lingered in Damien’s mind, replaying like a scene on a loop. The way his gray eyes had locked on him, so piercing yet unreadable. The subtle curve of his lips when he’d spoken, almost as though he’d found some private amusement in Damien’s discomfort. And that voice—calm, measure, and laced with an unshakable confidence.
What the hell am I supposed to do about him? Damien thought, stabbing a piece of shrimp with his fork.
Apologizing seemed like the logical next step, but the thought of returning to the lounge, weaving through the crowd, and standing face-to-face with Nabokov again made his stomach churn. What if the man dismissed him? Worse, what if he didn’t?
He exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the unease. “Just do it,” he muttered under his breath. “Get it over with.”
But he stayed where he was, leaning against the window, his gaze unfocused as he tried to steel himself for the conversation. The food on his plate remained mostly untouched, his appetite nonexistent.
After a few more minutes of internal debate, Damien straightened up. “Alright,” he whispered to himself, setting the plate down on a nearby counter. “Bathroom first. Then I’ll go back and talk to him.”
The bathroom was easy enough to find. Damien splashed cold water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His green eyes stared back, wide and slightly restless. He took a deep breath, brushing his damp hands through his hair to calm himself.
Steeling himself, he left the bathroom and retraced his steps back to the lounge. But as he scanned the room, his stomach tightened. Nabokov was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t at the spot where Damien had last seen him.
Damien’s jaw clenched. He’d taken too long. He wasn’t sure if he felt disappointed or relieved. Either way, the moment had passed.
Exhaling sharply, he turned on his heel and headed for Nick’s office instead. He pulled up Nick’s message with the office number, but as he walked, his confidence wavered again. The building was a maze, and each turn only seemed to lead to more unfamiliar hallways.
“Where the hell is it?” he muttered under his breath, scanning the frosted glass doors for a sign of Nick’s name.
He turned another corner, his thoughts still preoccupied with the apology he never got to give. And then, out of nowhere, he collided with someone.
“Sorry, I—” Damien started, looking up, and his breath caught.
Nabokov stood before him, his tall frame blocking the hallway. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but those gray eyes burned with an intensity that made Damien’s heart stumble.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. And shit .