Damien POV
I woke to the sound of laughter—high-pitched, delighted, completely unfamiliar in my penthouse. For a moment, I lay still, disoriented, before memory crashed back.
Aria. Noah. The kiss that had nearly destroyed my sanity before my son's voice interrupted.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. 7:43 AM. I'd barely slept three hours, my body still wound tight with frustrated desire and the lingering taste of Aria on my lips.
The laughter came again, followed by Aria's voice. "Noah, baby, we need to be quiet. Damien might still be sleeping."
"But Mama, I'm hungry!" Noah's voice carried down the hallway. "Can we make pancakes? You said this kitchen was really big."
I was out of bed and pulling on clothes before I could think better of it. Sweatpants and a t-shirt—casual, non-threatening. The kind of father who made breakfast with his family.
Except we weren't a family. Not really. We were three people playing house while a psychopath planned our destruction.
