Bullet ✔️

Chapter 7

Dry and clothed, I walked back into the living room that seemed a lot smaller with Damian's broad frame inside. He sat on the couch, arms stretched out behind him, and just as I was about to apologize again for making him come all the way out here, I noticed his gun on the coffee table.

The walls seemed to close in around me. The bookshelves would kill me—decapitate me, even—before the walls could crush me, but none of that mattered when all I could look at was the matte black weapon on my glass table.

"You okay?" Damian's voice brought my attention back to him, and I nodded, slowly lifting a finger to point towards the table. I couldn't speak, all of a sudden. He leaned forward and lifted it. When I took a step back he raised his arms in surrender, saying nothing. I wasn't sure why it was such a big deal right then, but later I'd realize that the gun to my temple earlier that night spooked me more than I knew.

He put both hands around the gun, my eyes watching his long fingers as it clicked, and a part of it came loose, at the same time as my hands went up to cover my mouth. Then he turned the loose part around, showing it to me, as he said, "It's not loaded. Just a precaution."

"For what?" I whispered, shifting my gaze to him again.

"The men you met—they're not nice," he explained, "I'm staying here tonight, Elina will come tomorrow morning and stay with you, unless you want to go with her back to her house. It's up to you, but you won't be alone until this is dealt with."

"This?" My mouth formed the echo before I could think twice. All I could feel was that cold steel against my temple.

"Yes," he confirmed. Then he put the parts back together and laid the gun down, looking at me. "Did they hurt you?"

His eyes narrowed when I hesitated, and he got up, taking two long steps towards me until his hands were on my shoulders. My eyes stayed on his chest, trying to figure out what I could say that would tell him I was physically fine, when his fingers wrapped around my chin and he lifted my face. His black eyes stared so deeply into mine I could feel them—my stomach flipped and my breath caught in my throat.

"Did they hurt you?"

I shook my head then. "No," I managed to get out, staring at him. "Not physically, but...one of them had a gun to my...here..."

I couldn't form the words, but lifted a hand and put a finger on the spot. His eyes followed my finger. I could see his face change, but I had no idea what it meant. Maybe surprise, maybe anger...it was hard to tell what he was thinking.

"Sorry," he said after a few moments, "I should've asked you if it was okay to bring a gun into your home."

"You meant well."

He nodded, and then he put his arms around my shoulders, twisting me gently, and his lips met with the spot that haunted my mind. Soft and easy. Warm and delicate. Then he whispered, "I hope you'll think of that instead, now, sweetheart."

My eyes closed as I did my best to fight the chill in my spine. The memory of the cold wasn't entirely gone, but his warm lips were doing a great job of keeping my mind occupied. I sent him a grateful smile, but didn't say anything.

The situation only got more bizarre when I kept thinking about it, and then I looked towards the clock on the wall.. I cleared my throat and said, "It's late."

"You should get some sleep." His voice was louder, but still husky and filled with whatever it was that made my body react to him.

When I looked up at him again, his eyes were still on mine, like they never left. Even in the darkness of the night, his black irises seemed to glow with something behind them. What, I didn't know. Determination, maybe, or ambition.