The walk up the cellar stairs felt like a long ascent from one reality into another.
Damon followed a few steps behind his stepson, his hand gripping the cold iron railing. His legs felt like lead, heavy and uncoordinated. Every breath he took tasted of dust, aged oak, and the lingering sweetness of vanilla.
He raised a trembling hand, pressing his fingertips to his own mouth. His lips felt bruised, swollen from the aggressive friction of Leo's kiss.
For forty-two years, Damon Blackwood had lived within the unshakeable confines of the life expected of him. He was the patriarch. The protector. He had only ever been with women, only ever played the role of the provider who took control. He had convinced himself that his sickening obsession with Leo was a bizarre, isolated taboo—a sick anomaly born of proximity and stress.
But down in the shadows of the cellar, pinned against the mahogany racks by a body that was flat, hard, and male, the lie had shattered completely.
