Damien's kiss deepened.
Not chaotically. Not frantically. But with a focus that betrayed just how long he'd wanted this.
Three weeks.
Three weeks of holding back the way her green eyes had gutted him the first time they met. Three weeks of measuring his words, of watching her from a careful distance, of waiting—waiting—for her to be ready.
Because back then, she hadn't been.
Back then, she'd looked at him—Damien Elford, bloated with indulgence, dulled by bitterness—and flinched. Not overtly. But he saw it. That split-second of distaste. Of judgment. Of disbelief that someone like him would dare to look at someone like her.
And it cut.
It burned so deep he didn't even feel the heat—just the hollow aftermath of something vital being scorched clean away.
But he hadn't let it kill him.
He let it forge him.
