(Damien's POV)
The night air still carried the brine of the sea, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat. I'd let her turn away from me once already, but the way she looked—guarded, lips pressed tight around a truth she wouldn't give—had been eating at me ever since I'd killed the engine. I wasn't done.
"Evelyn." My voice was low, deliberate. She froze but didn't face me. "I'll ask you again. How did you know who I am?"
Her shoulders tensed. "I told you—"
"You told me a story," I cut in, my patience razor-thin. "Not the truth."
She finally turned, her eyes glinting in the moonlight, but instead of answering, she did something I didn't expect—she took a step back. Then another. Her gaze didn't drop from mine, but I could see the shift in her. Fight or flight.
And she'd chosen flight.
I should have been ready. I wasn't.
She spun on her heel and bolted. Her hair caught the light, that messy bun bouncing with every stride as she cut across the gravel toward the car. The sound of her shoes on the stones was sharp, frantic.
I swore under my breath and moved. My shoes bit into the ground as I followed, the cold air slapping against my face. She wasn't fast enough to outrun me, but the fact she was running at all… it lodged somewhere deep in my chest. People didn't run from me. They either obeyed or broke.
She reached the car, yanked the driver's door open, and slid inside. I caught the glint of her hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline. The engine roared to life before I reached her.
She was really going to try and drive off.
Not happening.
I stepped in front of the hood, planting myself squarely in her line of sight. The headlights washed over me, cold and bright. I stood there, calm, daring her. She knew I wouldn't move—and I knew she wouldn't hit me. That was the difference between us. She didn't have it in her to cross that line.
Her hands tightened on the wheel, and for a second I could almost see the war in her head. Then I moved. Not away. Forward.
She didn't even have time to react before I was at her door. I yanked it open, ignoring the way she gasped, and bent down so we were eye to eye. Her breath was fast, uneven. Fear, defiance, both tangled up in a way that made my pulse thrum harder than I liked.
"Out," I said.
She didn't move. Of course she didn't.
So I reached in, my hands sliding under her legs and around her back in one smooth motion, lifting her like she weighed nothing. She let out a startled sound—more shock than protest—but she still grabbed at my shirt as I carried her around the hood. Her body was warm against mine, every small shift of hers brushing against me in a way I was trying too damn hard to ignore.
I set her down in the passenger seat, leaning in just long enough to make sure she was belted in. She refused to look at me. Her profile was sharp, her jaw tight, eyes fixed on some imaginary point outside the window. The little act didn't fool me. She was shaking, not from cold, but from whatever the hell was burning between us.
Without a word, I rounded the car, slid into the driver's seat, and shut the door. The air inside was thick with whatever we'd left unspoken by the sea. I could still smell the faint trace of her shampoo—something soft and maddening against the salt and leather.
The engine purred under my hand as I shifted into gear. I didn't look at her right away. If I did, I wasn't sure if I'd demand my answer again… or drag her back into the kind of silence that doesn't let you breathe.
She was a distraction. The kind that didn't just tug at your focus—it buried hooks deep enough to make you wonder if you'd ever be free again. And yet, with her sitting there, wrapped in tension and defiance, I knew I wasn't letting her out of my sight tonight.
Not until I had the truth.