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41 Chapter 43
Chapter 43–Intoxicated Whispers, Sobering Truths
“I want to know… why you’re really here, I demanded, my voice slurring slightly as I struggled to maintain my balance. “What’s your true… purpose with me?”
Damien looked at me with those penetrating eyes, a mixture of amusement and concern on his face. “My purpose?”
“Yes!” I jabbed a finger into his chest, nearly toppling over with the effort. “People like you don’t just… appear out of nowhere to help people like me. You’re planning something, aren’t you?”
He caught my wrist gently, steadying me. “And what kind of person am I, Hazel?”
“You’re dangerous,” I whispered, my alcohol–soaked brain spilling thoughts I’d normally keep locked away. “Too powerful. Too rich. Too… everything. Men like you don’t waste time on ordinary women unless there’s an angle.”
A shadow crossed his face. “Is that what you think? That I’m using you?”
“Aren’t you?” I challenged, my vision swimming slightly. “Maybe you want my business? Or… or maybe you’re working with Julian to humiliate me somehow?”
Damien guided me back to the sofa, his touch gentle but firm. “Sit before you fall.”
I plopped down heavily, glaring up at him with what I hoped was a fierce expression. “You didn’t answer my question.”
He sat beside me, maintaining a respectful distance. “Hazel, I have no intention of harming you. Quite the opposite.”
“Then why?” My voice cracked with sudden emotion. “Why are you being so nice to me? No one’s this nice without expecting something in return.”
“Perhaps I simply enjoy your company,” he said quietly,
I snorted, then hiccupped. “See? That’s weird. Men like you don’t ‘simply enjoy‘ the company of women like me.”
“Men like me?” A hint of a smile played on his lips.
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“Yes!” I gestured wildly at his entire being. “Look at you! You’re… perfect. Like some 11 of superhero or something. And I’m just…” I trailed off, suddenly feeling small.
“You’re just what?” he prompted.
“A pushover,” I muttered. “The woman whose fiancé left her for her dying sister. The girl who’s always getting taken advantage of.”
Damien’s expression hardened. “You’re considerably more than that, Hazel.”
“And how would you know?” I challenged, swaying even while sitting. “That’s another thing! Why do I feel like you know more about me than you should?”
Something flickered across his face–a brief hesitation that my drunk brain somehow managed to catch. “We’ve met before, Hazel. A long time ago.”
I squinted at him, trying to focus. “What? Where?”
“Willow Creek,” he said simply. “When we were children.”
I stared at him blankly, my alcohol–soaked brain unable to process this information.
“No… I don’t remember that.”
“It was brief,” he acknowledged. “But memorable, at least for me.”
I shook my head vigorously, which was a mistake as the room began to spin. “See? This is why I’ve been avoiding you!”
His eyebrows rose. “You’ve been avoiding me?”
“Of course I have!” I threw my hands up dramatically. “You’re too… too bewitching! Every time I’m around you, I feel like I’m getting pulled into your orbit, and it’s dangerous.”
“Bewitching?” Damien repeated, looking genuinely amused now.
I nodded emphatically. “Yes! It’s not fair! How am I supposed to think straight when you’re all…” I gestured vaguely at him again. “Like that!”
“Like what exactly?” There was a definite tease in his voice now.
“Beautiful,” I whispered, my/inhibitions completely dissolved by alcohol. “You’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”
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A strange expression crossed his face–something warm and intense that made my heart skip. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower. “Hazel-”
+18
Without thinking, I reached out and traced my fingers along his jaw. “How are you even
real?”
He caught my hand in his, his touch warm against my skin. For a moment, we just stared at each other, the air between us charged with something I couldn’t name.
Then, driven by liquid courage, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his.
For a heartbeat, he remained perfectly still. Then, with a soft groan, he kissed me back. His lips were firm yet gentle, moving against mine with restrained passion that made my head spin even more than the alcohol. His hand came up to cradle my face, his
touch so tender it made my chest ache.
The kiss deepened, and I felt myself melting against him, my body recognizing what my mind had been fighting–that there was something undeniably powerful between
- us.
And then, without warning, my stomach lurched violently.
I pulled back, clapping a hand over my mouth. “Oh no-”
Damien’s eyes widened in recognition. In one swift motion, he scooped me up and carried me to the bathroom, getting me to the toilet just in time as my stomach emptied itself of everything I’d consumed that evening.
Through my misery, I was vaguely aware of Damien holding my hair back, his other hand rubbing soothing circles on my back as I retched pathetically.
“I’m sorry,” I whimpered between heaves, utterly mortified.
“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “Just breathe.”
When the worst had passed, he helped me clean up, bringing me water to rinse my mouth. My limbs felt like lead, and my head was spinning in a much less pleasant way
now.
“Come on,” he said softly, supporting most of my weight as he guided me to my bedroom.
He helped me onto the bed, removing my shoes but otherwise leaving me fully
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dressed. I was barely conscious as he pulled the covers over me.
“Stay,” I mumbled, reaching for his hand.
He hesitated, then squeezed my fingers gently. “Get some rest, Hazel.”
That was the last thing I remembered before darkness claimed me.
I woke to the sensation of a thousand tiny hammers pounding inside my skull. Groaning, I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow as fragments of the previous night flashed through my mind.
The club. Dancing. Drinks–so many drinks. Victoria laughing. A creepy guy. Julian showing up. And then…
“Damien,” I gasped, sitting up so quickly that my stomach threatened to rebel again.
Had he really been there? Had we actually kissed? Or was that just a vivid,
alcohol–induced dream?
I looked down to find myself still wearing last night’s clothes. My mouth tasted terrible, and my head pounded mercilessly. Reaching for my phone on the nightstand, I winced at the brightness of the screen.
11:42 AM. Six missed calls from Victoria.
I also had several notifications for tagged photos and videos from the party. With growing horror, I opened one to see myself dancing on a table, singing enthusiastically and very off–key to “Single Ladies.”
“Oh god,” I groaned, dropping the phone like it had burned me.
With tremendous effort, I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled toward the kitchen, desperate for water and painkillers. As I passed through the living room, I paused, scanning for any evidence of Damien’s presence. The sofa cushions were perfectly arranged. No sign that anyone had been there.
So it had been a dream after/all? The thought brought a strange mixture of relief and disappointment.
In the kitchen, I headed straight for the cabinet where I kept my pain relievers. As I
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reached for a glass, my eyes fell on something on the counter that made me freeze.
A handwritten note, in elegant script:
“There’s hangover tea and congee in the kitchen. Eat something when you Don’t go hungry. Damien Sterling”
wake
- up.
O
My hand trembled as I picked up the note, rereading it twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. My gaze darted to the stove, where a covered pot sat waiting, and then to a tea set arranged beside it.
He had been here. It wasn’t a dream.
Which meant everything–the accusations, the confessions, the kiss–had been real.
“Oh my god,” I whispered, sinking to the floor as the full weight of my drunken behavior crashed down on me. “What have I done?”
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