Chapter 23: A Dangerous Game

The kiss had changed things.

Not that either of them would admit it.

Not yet.

Phoebe pretended nothing had happened. That she hadn't clung to him, kissed him like she needed him to breathe. She kept her distance—at least, she tried to.

But Damon wasn't making it easy.

If anything, he was everywhere.

At her office, waiting outside her meetings. At her apartment, dropping off dinner as if it was normal. At events, standing too close, his presence wrapping around her like a second skin.

And she let him.

That was the dangerous part.

She didn't stop him.

Even when she knew she should.

---

The charity gala was supposed to be a simple night out. A distraction.

Except it wasn't.

Not when Damon arrived, effortlessly handsome in a black tux. Not when his gaze found hers across the ballroom, dark and unreadable.

Not when her father was there—smiling, shaking hands, acting like he hadn't cut her off.

Phoebe swallowed back the bitterness and turned away.

"Leaving so soon?" Damon's voice was low in her ear before she even saw him.

"I need air."

"I'll join you."

She sighed but didn't argue.

Outside, the air was crisp, carrying the city's nighttime hum. But just as she exhaled, relaxing, a voice shattered the moment.

"Phoebe?"

She stiffened.

Not him.

Nathaniel Montclair—her father's latest business associate and the man she was supposed to marry before she made her escape.

Damon tensed beside her.

Nathaniel smiled, all charm and confidence. "It's been a while." His eyes flicked to Damon. "And I see you've found… company."

Phoebe's heart pounded.

Damon's arm was around her waist before she could react, fingers pressing possessively against her hip.

"Funny," Damon said smoothly. "I don't remember you being relevant enough to warrant her attention."

Nathaniel's smile faltered.

Phoebe should stop this.

Should step away.

But she didn't.

Because the warmth of Damon's hand, the quiet way he was claiming her in front of her past, made something inside her ache.

"You haven't changed," Nathaniel finally said, gaze narrowing. "Still reckless. Still making the wrong choices."

Phoebe's nails dug into her palm.

Before she could speak, Damon's voice dropped to a dangerous level.

"The only wrong choice here is thinking you ever had a chance with her."

Silence.

Tension crackled in the air.

And suddenly, Phoebe wasn't sure if this was a game anymore.

Because the way Damon was looking at her…

Like he wasn't pretending at all.

Like he actually meant it.

And that realization?

It was terrifying.

---

Phoebe didn't know who moved first.

Maybe it was her. Maybe it was him.

All she knew was that one second, they were standing there—tension thick, the night pressing in around them—and the next, Damon was leading her away.

Not back inside.

Not toward the crowd.

But to the car.

Away.

Neither of them spoke.

Not when they drove through the city. Not when he pulled up outside his penthouse. Not when she followed him inside like she belonged there.

And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe, for the first time in a long time, she wanted to belong somewhere.

She just wasn't sure if she could.

---

Phoebe kicked off her heels, sighing as the warmth of his penthouse wrapped around her. She turned toward Damon, but he was already at the bar, pouring himself a drink.

"You didn't have to do that," she said quietly.

Damon downed his whiskey in one go. "Do what?"

"Defend me. Make a scene."

He set his glass down with a quiet clink. "Was it a scene?"

She exhaled sharply, moving toward him. "You know what I mean."

He finally looked at her then, his gaze unreadable. "And you know I don't regret it."

Her chest tightened.

Because that was the thing about Damon.

He never did anything he didn't mean.

But it still didn't make sense.

"You're acting like you—" She hesitated.

"Like I what?"

Like you care.

Like this is real.

She couldn't say it. Wouldn't.

Instead, she shook her head, turning away—except Damon caught her wrist, pulling her back against him.

Her breath caught.

The heat of his body. The firm grip of his hand. The way his heartbeat pounded against hers, too fast, too much.

And just like that, she was back there again.

Back to that night.

The one where she kissed him first.

The one where she lost control.

The one where he didn't pull away.

Damon's grip tightened, his voice dropping lower. "Say it, Phoebe."

She swallowed. "Say what?"

"That you wanted me to stop."

Her chest rose and fell, unsteady. "Damon—"

"Say you didn't like it."

She tried to pull back, but he wouldn't let her.

Wouldn't let her run.

"Say it," he murmured.

She couldn't.

Because it would be a lie.

Because she had spent every second since that night thinking about it.

And he knew.

Knew she was losing this battle.

Knew she was his for the taking if he just pushed a little harder.

But he didn't.

Instead, he did something worse.

He let her go.

Stepped back.

And the loss of his touch felt like a wound.

Phoebe's hands curled into fists. "You're playing a dangerous game."

Damon's lips twitched, but there was no humor in his expression. "So are you."

And the worst part?

They both knew how it would end.