Beneath His Sheets

Sixteen

The night had been a disaster for both of them—another car ride that pushed them past their limits, forcing out truths neither of them were ready to say but couldn’t hold back anymore. Grace was still sobbing when they reached the estate.

And to make everything worse, the moment Grace and Damien stepped out of the car, there were people waiting. People who mattered… and people who didn’t.

Madam Eve.

Rina.

And Damien’s father.

All three stared at them, their confusion obvious. Grace quickly lowered her head, trying to hide her swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks. She bowed and muttered an excuse before slipping away.

Damien, however, kept his posture rigid, his expression cold and unreadable.

“What are you doing here?” he said flatly.

“Rina,” Madam Eve said, her voice clipped, “prepare tea and bring it to the gazebo. Please.”

Rina hesitated, clearly wanting to stay and witness whatever storm was about to break in Damien’s life. But she obeyed and slipped away reluctantly.

The gazebo felt colder than the surrounding night. Lantern light washed over the table, catching the sharp angles in Damien’s face as he stood there, arms crossed. His father took the opposite seat, settling in like he belonged on this estate—as if decades of betrayal didn’t stain the very ground under his feet.

Damien didn’t sit.

“What are you doing here?” he asked again, voice flat, stripped of anything human.

His father ran a hand across his jaw. “It’s complicated.”

“That’s usually code for something stupid you’ve done.”

A thin smile. “It’s not what I’ve done this time. It’s what’s being done to me.”

Madam Eve shifted slightly, but remained silent, watching the two men like she was sitting front row to a tragedy she’d seen too many times.

Damien’s father continued, “Word is out. Someone wants me gone. Permanently.”

He tapped the table, slow. “A price on my head. You know how that works.”

Damien didn’t react, didn’t blink. “Still not my problem.”

“It becomes your problem when they start sniffing around the family name.”

His father’s eyes met his, sharp and knowing.

“You and I may not like each other, but we share blood. And blood draws attention.”

Damien leaned in, voice lowering. “You lost the right to use that word.”

His father ignored that. “I’m not asking for much. Just enough money to keep myself off the radar. Lay low. Keep the wolves fed until they get bored.”

Damien let out a quiet, humorless breath. “They won’t get bored.”

“And I won’t stop coming back here,” his father said softly. “Not until I get what I need.”

That was it—the threat. Wrapped in exhaustion, but still razor-edged.

Damien’s voice dropped into something cold enough to freeze the air.

“You will stop.”

His father tilted his head. “And if I don’t?”

Damien straightened, face unreadable. “I will make sure you do.”

A long silence settled between them. Heavy. Final.

His father searched his son’s expression for even a flicker of hesitation.

He found none.

Damien’s hands rested behind his back, posture military-still.

“I’m not here to clean up after you,” he said quietly. “Not again. Not ever.”

His father let out a low breath—almost a laugh, almost a defeat. “You’re your grandfather’s heir, alright.” He pushed up from his chair. “Cold enough to kill me yourself.”

Damien didn’t deny it.

His father stopped just short of stepping out of the gazebo. He looked back—not with remorse, not with guilt—but with a strange mix of resignation and recognition.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I used to wonder which part of me you inherited.”

His eyes dragged over Damien, assessing, almost proud.

“Now I see it. The part that survives.”

Damien didn’t move.

His father gave a small, crooked smile. “You can pretend you don’t care if I live or die. Maybe you even believe it.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug.

“But you and I both know—if I fall, someone’s going to come looking. And eventually…” His gaze sharpened.

“…they’ll reach your door.”

Madam Eve took one deliberate step forward.

“That is enough.” Her voice was soft but carried steel sharper than any blade. “You will not bring your filth or your enemies into this estate. And if you do—”

“Madam Eve,” he said with a mocking bow, “always a pleasure.”

She didn’t blink. “Leave. Now.”

He chuckled under his breath and walked out into the night, disappearing down the stone path without another word, like he was already fading into whatever darkness was hunting him.

Inside the estate, the air felt stale and too warm. Damien tugged at his collar, pacing once before stopping in front of a window. His reflection stared back—eyes darker than usual, posture rigid, the tension still vibrating through him.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, but it didn’t help. He wasn’t shaking—Damien never shook—but his breaths were too deep, too controlled. He looked like a man containing a storm with both hands.

The confrontation hadn’t broken him.

But it had cracked something.

Grace carried the tray with both hands, the teacup rattling softly against its saucer despite her best effort to steady it. Madam Eve had told her to bring Damien something warm—to help him “calm down,” though the words sounded like she meant contain him.

She paused outside his door, inhaled once, then knocked.

No answer.

She pushed the door open gently.

Damien stood near the window, half-undressed from the day, half-changed into nothing calmer. His shirt was undone at the collar, sleeves rolled unevenly. His hair—usually immaculate—was mussed in a way she had never seen. His breathing was too controlled. Too deep.

He turned when he heard her enter, already trying to stitch himself back together.

“Madam Eve said you might need—”

“I’m fine.”

He said it too fast, too flat.

The lie hung in the air.

Grace stepped in anyway.

She placed the tray on the table. Her fingers brushed the porcelain, lingering because she didn’t know what else to do with her hands. When she finally looked up, Damien was watching her—trying to look composed, failing miserably.

His jaw was tight. His eyes, colder than usual, flickered with something raw beneath them. His posture was straight, but only because he was holding it that way, not because he felt steady.

Grace swallowed hard.

“You don’t look fine.”

Damien opened his mouth—maybe to deny it, maybe to rebuild the wall—but the words didn’t come. Not tonight. Not with the weight of the confrontation still clinging to him like smoke.

She moved toward him carefully, as if unsure how close she was allowed to get. He didn’t step back. He didn’t say anything.

That was answer enough.

Without a word, Grace reached out—hesitation trembling at her fingertips—and touched his sleeve. Just a touch. Light, unsure.

Damien exhaled sharply, like something inside him loosened without permission.

She stepped closer, sliding her hand up his arm, then very slowly, very gently, wrapped her arms around him.

It was the softest embrace. One he could have broken out of easily.

But he didn’t.

He stood still for a moment, stiff as stone—then his head dipped forward, resting against her shoulder, breath warm and exhausted against her neck.

Grace closed her eyes, holding him tighter. Not saying a word. Because what could she say to a life like his? To the kind of father he had? To the fight he never asked for but kept inheriting?

So she didn’t try.

She simply held him.

And that—quiet, solid, human—felt like the only thing that had helped him all night.

After a long silence, his hands finally came up to her back, resting there with a care she wasn’t expecting. Not possessive. Not desperate.

Just steady.

Just needing.

And she stayed.