Damon
I never took personal jobs on principle. It was something my dad always taught me. You tended to make mistakes, get sloppy, lose control.
But today's outburst was more than just personal. It was Ariadne. She invoked a guttural feeling in me. An anger I had never felt before. Anger, rage, and beating people up was a Christian Ryder speciality and one that I was hardly prone to displaying.
To see someone else's hands on her, hurting her against her will was crossing a line I didn't even know I had. I'd always been a fiercely protective person and never let people touch my family. I'd killed people for even trying. But I never did it myself. My hands were metaphorically always clean.
But touching Ariadne? No one touched her. She was too precious to have common hands on her, too beautiful to have her face twisted in disgust, and too mine for me to stand blithely by while people tested her limits.
The vibrating noises from my pocket forced me to pull out my phone and thumb through the messages.
Francis: I'm taking Bella home. She needs to get off her feet. It's been a long day.
That seemed like something I needed to evaluate further. Bella was my favorite person in the world. I needed to know she was safe and well at all times and Francis knew that—well, he always knew everything—which was why he was texting me.
Damon: Of course.
Francis: She keeps asking for you. Make sure you call her in the morning.
Warmth spread through my chest. Because Bella wanted to see me even after I fucked up with her sister. Because her husband knew her well enough to tell me what to do to make her happy. Because the general existence of Francis and Bella made me believe in the concept of love, and fighting for what you wanted in life. No one fought harder than those two for one another, and in the end, it was worth it after all.
I could only hope it would be worth it for me too.
Damon: I promise. Tell her... you know what.
That I love her.
Francis: She won't be satiated with that. You'll have to tell her yourself.
Damon: Stubborn motherfucker.
Francis: Just a fucker who knows what his wife wants.
Damon: Lucky bastard.
He really was.
Francis: You can be too. Use your words, Damon. You have to speak to her. She needs the words.
In a moment of weakness, I typed our exactly what I was thinking and hit send before I could backtrack.
Damon: I'm scared.
My best friend didn't hold it against me, though I knew he never would. Francis Duval was innately loyal, outrageously intelligent, and someone who I could depend on for my entire life.
Francis: I know. But it'll be worth it.
Damon: How can you be so sure?
Francis: Because I'm proof.
Damon: How long are you going to brag that you snagged the heiress of the East Coast?
Francis: Forever. But don't try to distract me by bringing up my wife, even if she is my favorite subject in the world.
Clever bastard.
Francis: Give her the words, Damon. You'll see how much of a difference it makes.
Damon: I will.
I looked at the other eighteen messages I had from Bella that all had variations of, Talk to my sister and shook my head. I only replied to one of her messages, saying I love you. It was only too easy for me to write back, I love you more, my little diva.
Gray eyes clashed back at me from the reflection in the mirror. I loathed myself. I'd fucked up. I'd fucked up with one of the only people in this world I'd drop to my knees for.
Before I knew it, my fist came hurtling down against the mirror before me, shards piercing through my skin. I hardly felt the pain, seeing as it couldn't be compared to the ache in my chest.
How was I going to fix this? Was it even possible?
The door swung open. I knew it was her without even looking. The smell of roses hit the air moments before her astounded gasp. What previously was the mirror of the men's bathroom in La Mer was shattered all over the floor, thanks to me.
With my hair slightly wet, sleeves rolled up to my elbows, and my dress shirt halfway unbuttoned, I probably looked like a psychopath, washing blood off my fist and jaw.
I looked down for what felt like an eternity before her warm hand curled around my bicep and pulled me away from the sink, placing a First Aid kit on the counter. La Mer did not strike me as a place that had them on standby, but I had no doubt that someone would make one for her out of ashes if she asked nicely and Ariadne only knew how to ask nicely. Despite all her sass, she was unfailingly kind to people because she never thought herself as better than anyone. Never used her money to her advantage. Never used her last name to her power.
She stood in front of me, brown eyes filled with anguish, as though it was sheer willpower holding tears back from falling.
Looking down at my hands, she winced at the blood. Instinctively, I retracted away from her, but she caught my wrist in hers and opened it, taking a roll of gauze out of the red pouch. Wordlessly, she cleaned every bit, applying pressure until the bleeding stopped and carefully wrapped my hand in gauze until it was packed tightly.
There was such a contrast between us, the rough skin on my palms so violently different from the careful, meticulous hands of a doctor who helped kids every single day.
Hesitation flickered through her face before she raised her gaze to meet my jaw, never once looking into my eyes. I stared at hers the whole time. It was a shallow cut caused by Asshole's rings, but she gave it the same amount of care and attention as my hand.
Brushing an anti-bacterial wipe over my jaw, she cleaned the blood off my face gently and I watched her every move until she finally stepped back, picking up stray bits of paper and tape and threw them in the garbage. She shook her head at the floor and turned her back on me.
"Ariadne," I said, her name barely making it out of my mouth. Desperation was evident in my voice but at that moment, I couldn't fucking care. If I had to get on my knees to beg her to just look into my eyes, I'd drop without a second thought.
She froze in her tracks and then, in a flash, erased the distance between us, pounding her fists on my chest.
"Why did you do that?" She hit me with no real intent to hurt. I took a step back, letting her. Repeating her question over and over, she pummeled into my chest until my back was flat against the cool tiles of the wall. I let her drill into me until she was exhausted, silent tears finally pouring out of her eyes.
This wasn't just about me punching the guy and I knew it.
It was about my general stupidity and the words that had left my mouth before I had a chance to control them.
She continued her tortured assault until she grasped my shirt in her fists and collapsed onto my chest, trembling. I flipped us so her back was against the wall and cupped her jaw in my hand, pulling her face up to meet me.
"He touched you," I said calmly. She shook her head, leaning back against the tiles.
"What if something happened to you?" She asked.
I stilled.
Not once had anyone ever been genuinely concerned about my safety. I was my father's son.
Anthony Hale was a name that was well known. One that was synonymous to violence, power, and respect. He was The Boss. No one fucked with him, or anyone of his blood.
People feared me. They ran from me. They bowed down to me.
It was a given. No one touched me. And the comfort that came with that was that no one worried about me, either. Expect, of course, Ariadne.
A jolt of guilt traversed through me at her unease.
"I never meant for you to see that side of me. I never meant to show you that."
"I don't care about that," she sniffled.
"But I do."
"You never lied. You were always honest."
"I hurt you. I hurt you with what I said. That I didn't have time for you. That you were a mistake."
"It's the truth."
"It's not. I was stupid. I was scared because whatever I feel for you, Ariadne–It's real. It burns. It hurts. It makes me happy and sad and everything in between. I makes me feel in ways I didn't know I was capable of fucking experiencing."
I pressed my forehead against hers, desperate to make her believe the words coming out of my mouth.
"I'm sorry."
A moment passed. Two. Three.
"I'm scared," she whimpered.
"I am too," I admitted. Because I'm in love with you.
Taking her face in both my hands, I stroked the tears away from her face and pressed my lips against hers softly and pulled away, giving her the chance to leave if she wanted to.
Thankfully, she didn't.
Eyes closed, she hunted for my mouth, and I crashed down on her, moving my tongue against her lower lip and parting them. My mouth exploded with her flavor, salty from her tears at first before delving into the sweet sugar cube taste I had the pleasure of experiencing once. She threw her arms around my shoulders, and I wrapped her legs around my waist, hoisting her to my eye level and pushing her firmly against the wall. At the momentary disconnect, she growled and bit my lower lip gently, pulling me back into her. Her hands ran through my hair and pulled softly as I made my way down her jaw and to her neck, tracing my tongue lower and tasting every part of her, as if she only ever belonged to me.
Because she fucking did.
When we broke away, she dropped her head into my shoulder, panting loudly and I kissed her neck.
So much of me wanted to just shut up and take her to bed.
But, for Ariadne, I'd use my fucking words.
"I have made a lot of mistakes in my life, princess. But you were not one of them. And you never will be. You are anything but."
In response, she wrapped her arms tighter around my neck and held me there. I heard her speak, muffled into my shirt. "You always saw me."
"Always."
I set her down, still grasping her waist tightly in my hands. She touched my cheek and fixed her dress, walking away from me without another word.
My heart dropped all the way to the fucking floor.
"I don't know how to do this, Damon," she said, stopping at the door. "You and me. We don't work. Your world can't co-exist with mine."
I exhaled a ragged breath, running my hand through my hair. There was so much truth in every word–it was the exact reason I stayed away from her for 28 years–and yet, I felt so selfish. I wanted her.
Safety be damned. No one would fucking touch her. I would make sure of it.
I needed her.
"Let me try," I pleaded. "Just give me one fucking chance. One more opportunity to show you that we can. I just want to exist with you. Be with you. Whatever that means." My voice came out so gentle it startled me.
I'd said it. I'd used my words.
Silence had spoken, and my heart pounded violently as I tried to decipher if it would be enough. If I would ever be enough for her.
She turned around slowly and met my eyes. Dread and fear filled me up with her impending words.
Instead, she just extended her hand for me to take.
So, I did.