Chapter 3 Closer

Lena barely slept.

The silver envelope still sat on the nightstand, its words etched in her memory like a brand.

I know what you're hiding, Lena. And so does he.

She turned the message over in her mind all night, heart racing, memories she tried to bury clawing at the surface.

Who was "he"?

How did Damien know anything about her past?

And why, despite the unnerving undertone, did part of her still ache for his presence?

The morning light filtered through gauzy curtains. When Lena stepped into the studio again, Damien was already there. Standing by the window, silhouetted by sunlight, a coffee in one hand and a book in the other, as if he hadn't shattered her emotional defenses the night before.

He didn't look up immediately, but when he did, his gaze pinned her in place.

"You didn't sleep."

"No," she said simply.

"I didn't expect you to."

He walked toward her slowly, deliberate, and Lena felt her breath hitch just like it had the first time. Something about him, how he moved, how he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered, unraveled her in ways she didn't want to admit.

"Do you regret coming back?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Why not?" he murmured.

"I wish I knew."

His hand lifted, and for the first time, he touched her fingertips grazing the side of her face with shocking tenderness. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up, leaning into him, into the warmth of his palm, into the intimacy of the moment.

"You're trembling," he whispered.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"I don't want you to be," he said. "But I do want you to feel everything."

His hand slipped behind her neck, pulling her closer until their bodies nearly touched. He didn't kiss her yet he waited, watching her reaction.

She tilted her face up, heart pounding.

Then, slowly, his mouth descended.

His lips brushed hers with barely-there softness, as though testing her permission. When she didn't pull away he couldn't deepen the kiss, and heat bloomed low in her belly. It wasn't rough or demanding. It was intimate. Exploratory. Electric.

Her fingers curled into his shirt, desperate for something to ground her.

His hand slid around her waist, drawing her flush against him.

"I shouldn't be doing this," she whispered when they broke apart, breathless.

"But you are."

"And so are you."

He smiled, just slightly. "You're different from every woman I've ever touched."

"I'm not yours to touch," she said softly, but her voice lacked conviction.

His eyes darkened. "You want to be."

Her cheeks flushed, and her body betrayed her again, pressing closer to him, craving more. She didn't know how he made her feel vulnerable and powerful all at once.

He leaned down again, lips brushing her jaw, then her throat, each touch making her knees weaker.

"Say stop," he murmured.

But she didn't.

Instead, she whispered, "Don't stop."

They moved together like music.

Damien didn't rush. Every touch, every kiss, every caress was measured, meant to coax, not conquer. His mouth found the hollow of her collarbone, his hands slipping beneath the hem of her thin dress. It wasn't sex it wasn't even undressing yet but it felt far more intimate than anything she'd known.

He wanted to explore her in layers, not rush toward release.

She gasped as his thumb traced the inside of her wrist, as though that simple gesture revealed her pulse, her secrets.

"You think you're hiding," he whispered, "but you wear your pain in every breath."

Her eyes burned.

"Tell me what happened, Lena."

Her body stiffened. "You said this was about the present."

"It was," he said. "Until I found your past."

He pulled away slightly, and in that sudden distance, she felt exposed. Cold.

"I need to know who I'm holding," he said.

"I'm not asking you to hold me," she replied, harsher than she intended.

His expression didn't change. "No. But I think you want to be held more than anything."

She turned away, hating how true it felt. How much she did want that. Someone to see her, not just her body, but the bruises beneath the surface.

"Stop pretending this is just a game," she said, her voice shaking. "You found something. Something I buried."

Damien was silent for a moment. Then he walked to a small cabinet and pulled out a file folder.

When he held it out to her, her chest seized.

She recognized the name typed on the front in bold letters.

Aiden Voss.

No. Not now. Not him.

Her fingers shook as she took the file and flipped it open. There it was. A photo. A record. The one she thought she'd burned, deleted, erased from her existence.

"You had me investigated?" she asked, voice sharp.

"Yes," Damien said quietly. "Because I don't let people close unless I know who they really are. You're not just some struggling artist, Lena. You survived something most people wouldn't walk away from."

Her vision blurred. The room tilted.

"You had no right"

"I had every right. I invited you into my world. I put you in a vulnerable position. That makes you my responsibility."

His voice was calm, but something flickered in his eyes. Maybe guilt. Maybe more.

Lena clutched the folder, heart pounding.

"I never wanted anyone to know."

"I know," Damien said softly. "And now that I do... you don't have to carry it alone."

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

"I can't trust you," she said.

He stepped closer again, hands at his sides, not touching.

"Then trust this," he said. "I won't let him hurt you again."

She froze.

"You mean he's still out there?"

Damien's jaw tightened.

And that's when she knew. He wasn't just researching her. He was preparing for something.

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked, voice shaking.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a phone. Turned it toward her.

It was a photo.

A surveillance image.

Aiden Voss older, rougher but unmistakable.

The timestamp was from yesterday.

In New York.

Lena's knees buckled.

Damien caught her before she hit the ground.

"He's looking for you, Lena."