The terrace of the Plaza Hotel was a reprieve from the stifling heat of the ballroom. The night air was crisp, carrying the sounds of Central Park traffic below.
Damon gripped the stone railing, his knuckles white. He took a deep gulp of the scotch he had carried out with him, the burn doing little to settle the chaotic thumping of his heart.
'Mine.'
He had said it out loud. In the middle of a crowd. To his stepson.
Damon squeezed his eyes shut, bowing his head. He was losing control faster than he could have imagined. The jealousy that had spiked when he saw Julian's hand on Leo's waist had been primal, overriding years of discipline and social conditioning. For a terrifying ten seconds on that dance floor, he hadn't been a CEO or a father. He had been a man staking a claim.
"You ran away."
The voice came from the shadows near the French doors.
Damon didn't turn around. He didn't need to. He could feel Leo's presence like a change in atmospheric pressure.
