(Damien's POV)
She's on the bed.
I'm on the floor.
The carpet is soft beneath my palms, but there's nothing soft in the air between us — it's taut, stretched to the point of snapping. Her chest rises and falls too fast, her eyes locked on mine like she's afraid if she blinks, I'll vanish.
Or maybe she's afraid I won't.
I hadn't expected her to push me — not physically. The little thing's stronger than she looks. My jaw still feels the phantom press of her hands, that moment where her anger outweighed her fear.
Her voice shakes when it comes, but it still cuts straight through me.
"I ran," she says. "I ran because I didn't want to be seen as the savior of my sister's man."
My teeth clench. Your sister's man. The phrase tastes wrong in my head.
She swallows hard, words tumbling out faster, like if she stops, she'll never start again.
"And even worse… they might have said it was Clara Rothwell who saved you. That she was the one who pulled Damien Kane from the water, that she was the hero. And I—"
She breaks.
The sound of it hits me harder than any insult she could've thrown.
Her hands twist into the blanket beneath her, knuckles white. "When I saw the fisherman… I didn't want the story to get twisted. I didn't want her to own even that part of you. So I…" She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. "I put you up enough so he could see you, and then I ran."
Tears slide down her cheeks, unchecked. She's not looking at me anymore — she's staring at her knees like the sight of me is too much to handle.
My chest feels tight. Too tight.
I should be furious.
I should tell her what a stupid, selfish thing that was.
I should remind her that her little act of pride could have killed me.
Instead, I'm staring at her like she's the only thing in the room that matters.
Her hair is a little messy from where she shoved me, a loose strand curling against her cheek. Her lips are parted, her breathing uneven. She's beautiful in a way that isn't polished or planned — raw, unguarded, real.
I push up from the floor slowly, the tension between us shifting with the movement.
She looks up at me, eyes red but still defiant.
"You could have let me die," I say quietly. Not accusing. Just stating it.
Her chin lifts the slightest bit. "I couldn't."
I take a step closer to the bed. "But you left."
Her throat works as she swallows. "I… I thought I was doing the right thing."
"The right thing," I echo, my voice low, "was staying."
Her breath hitches, but she doesn't move away when I brace my hands on either side of her, caging her in without touching.
She's trembling, but not from fear. I can feel the pull between us, the way her eyes drop to my mouth and dart away again, like she's afraid of what she'll do if she lingers too long.
"I don't think you realize, Evelyn…" My voice is rough, dangerous. "What it does to me knowing you were there. That you saw it all. That you touched me when I was closer to death than life… and then you ran."
Her breath leaves her in a shaky exhale, and she looks like she's about to cry again.
I lean in just enough that my words ghost against her skin. "You've been a distraction since the first second I saw you. Addictive. Dangerous. And now I find out you've been holding onto this?"
Her lips part, but nothing comes out.
I don't kiss her. I don't touch her. I just hold her there, our breaths mingling, letting the weight of everything settle in.
The waves of emotion in her eyes — guilt, pride, hurt — are enough to keep me rooted in place, even when every instinct tells me to pull her closer.
Not yet.