"You liked how I tasted, didn't you, Damon?"
Damon's chair shrieked against the hardwood. He shoved away from the table, blindly gathering empty wine glasses and dessert plates. The crystal clattered together in his trembling hands. He didn't look back. He practically bolted for the kitchen.
Water blasted over the porcelain plates in the sink. He loaded the dishwasher with frantic, jerky motions, bracing himself. He waited for the soft tread of footsteps behind him, for Leo to corner him against the marble counter and press the advantage.
But the kitchen remained empty.
From the foyer, the faint, unhurried creak of the grand staircase drifted down. Leo was heading up to his own bedroom. A calculated retreat. Leaving Damon alone to simmer in his own ruin.
Damon dried his hands on a linen towel, the fabric rough against his damp skin, and forced himself to walk upstairs.
