THE LETHAL CURVE

CHAPTER FOUR: KINETIC FRICTION

The early morning mist was still clinging to the glass of the kitchen bay window when my alarm went off at 5:45 AM.

I didn't need to lie in bed staring at the ceiling. In my line of work—and in my relentless pursuit of the top spot—sleep was a secondary luxury. I swung my legs out of bed, pulled my hair back into a loose clip, and threw on a long, cream-colored ribbed knit cardigan over my silk pajama camisole and soft grey track pants.

My plan was simple: slip down to the kitchen, brew a mug of dark roast espresso, review the cellular kinetics notes from last night's lab session, and leave for the science building before anyone else in the house was awake.

Especially Damon.

I stepped softly out of my bedroom, barefoot against the cool oak floorboards of the upstairs hallway.

Directly across from my bedroom, Damon’s door stood half-open.

I tried not to look. I tried to walk straight toward the stairs with the cold, unyielding discipline I prided myself on. But my eyes betrayed me, darting sideways into the dimly lit room.

The space was stripped down, clean, and dominated by his presence. A heavy leather duffel bag sat unzipped near a dark wooden dresser, and a row of thick, leather-bound medical textbooks was stacked neatly against the wall. On the far side of the room, Damon was asleep, lying face down across the dark grey sheets of his mattress, a pillow twisted in one arm, the duvet pulled halfway down his bare back.

The sight of his broad, corded shoulders and the smooth, olive skin of his back framing a sharp spine sent an unexpected, violent pulse of heat straight to my stomach.

I tore my eyes away, my chest tightening as I hurried down the wooden stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs over a sight that lasted less than two seconds.

Get it together, Elena, I berated myself, stepping onto the cold tile of the ground-floor kitchen. He's an obstacle. He's your rival. Nothing more.

I walked over to the Italian espresso machine sitting on the dark marble island. I filled the water reservoir, locked the double-shot portafilter into place, and hit the brew button. The low, rhythmic hum of the machine began to fill the quiet room, the dark, rich aroma of ground coffee beans filling the air.

"You're making a mess of the grind size."

The raspy, sleep-roughened voice cut through the silence like a blade.

I flinched—just enough for my hand to twitch on the edge of the marble counter—before spinning around.

Damon was leaning against the wooden doorframe of the kitchen pantry.

He looked like absolute sin.

His dark hair was completely messy, sticking up in soft, chaotic waves from sleep. He wasn't wearing a shirt—just a pair of low-slung dark grey sweatpants that hung low on his waist, revealing the sharp, defined cut of his V-line and the broad, sculpted expanse of his chest. His dark eyes were heavy, hooded, and tracked over me with an unhurried, dangerous intensity that instantly stripped the oxygen from the room.

"Do you ever wear clothes in this house, Mercer?" I snapped, my voice coming out slightly sharper than I intended as I crossed my arms tightly over my chest, pulling my cream cardigan closed.

A slow, lazy smirk spread across Damon’s lips. He didn't answer right away. He simply pushed off the doorframe, walking barefoot across the cold tile toward the island.

Every step he took was slow, measured, and effortlessly dominant. The early morning sunlight cutting through the blinds caught the sharp angle of his jaw and the subtle muscle movement across his shoulders.

"It's six in the morning, Vance," Damon growled softly, stopping on the opposite side of the marble island, less than three feet away from me. "I live here. I cook here. I sleep here. If my lack of a shirt bothers you... you can always close your eyes."

"It doesn't bother me," I lied coldly, holding his gaze with everything I had, refusing to let my eyes drift down to his chest. "It’s just unprofessional."

"Unprofessional?" Damon let out a low, rough chuckle that sounded like velvet dragged over gravel. He reached across the counter, grabbing an empty ceramic mug from the hanging rack. "We're in our kitchen, Elena. Not Dr. Hayes's lecture hall. You can drop the ice-queen act for five minutes."

"It isn't an act," I said, stepping closer to the espresso machine as it finished pulling the shot, steam rising into the cool air. "It's called focus. Something you clearly lack if you think showing up to an 8:00 AM seminar half-asleep is going to earn you the fellowship."

Damon didn't take the bait. Instead, he walked around the edge of the island, closing the distance between us until he was standing directly behind me while I poured the espresso into my glass mug.

The heat radiating off his bare torso was overwhelming. It washed over my back like a furnace, carrying the warm, intoxicating scent of dark cedar, clean skin, and morning sleep.

"I don't need to stay up until three in the morning highlighting textbooks to stay ahead of you, Vance," Damon purred, leaning down so his mouth was level with the shell of my ear. His chest almost touched the back of my cardigan. "My mind works faster. My data is cleaner. And deep down... you know it."

My hands tightened around the warm glass mug until my knuckles turned white.

I spun around to face him, my front pressed almost completely against his bare chest, my chin tilting up sharply to glare into his dark, hooded eyes.

"Your data isn't cleaner," I breathed, my breath fanning out across his collarbone. "Your statistical model on the kinase inhibitors last night missed the secondary cellular pathway. I spent an extra hour correcting your oversight."

Damon’s smirk vanished, replaced by an intense, dark focus. He took a single half-step closer, trapping me between his large frame and the edge of the marble counter behind me. He reached out with one broad hand, his long fingers gripping the edge of the counter right beside my hip, his bare shoulder blocking out the morning sunlight.

"I didn't miss the pathway," Damon rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous, heavy register that made my knees feel terrifyingly weak. "I ignored it because the metabolic yield was under two percent. It was noise, Elena. You waste time analyzing noise because you're terrified of making a mistake."

"I don't make mistakes," I whispered fiercely, my pulse thumping wildly in my throat.

"No?" Damon murmured, his eyes dropping slowly to my mouth before lingering on the exposed skin of my neck where my cardigan had slipped slightly off one shoulder. "Then why is your heart racing right now?"

My breath hitched.

Before I could fire back, he reached out his free hand, his warm, rough fingers gently brushing against the bare skin of my shoulder, sliding the strap of my silk camisole back into place with agonizing slowness. His fingertips lingered on my collarbone for a second longer than necessary, sending a lightning strike of chaotic electricity straight down my spine.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Elena," Damon growled low against my cheek. "Trying to keep me at a distance while living five feet away from my bed."

"I'm not playing anything, Mercer," I managed to say, though my voice sounded thick, stripped of its usual razor-sharp edge. "I'm winning."

A dark, lethal spark flared in Damon's eyes. He opened his mouth to respond, his face dipping down inches closer to mine—

"Morning, folks!"

Leo’s loud, heavy footsteps came thundering down the wooden stairs, breaking the thick spell like an iron hammer.

Damon didn't jump. He didn't panic. He simply pulled his hand back smoothly, reaching past me to grab a jar of protein powder from the top shelf of the cupboard with calm, unhurried precision.

I scrambled to grab my coffee mug, turning toward the window and taking a hot sip that nearly burned my tongue, my cheeks flushing with a sudden, betraying heat.

Leo strolled into the kitchen, wearing a gray Harkness sweatshirt and messily tied sneakers, holding his car keys. He looked between the two of us, taking in Damon’s shirtless frame and my tense, stiff posture by the counter.

"Man, Damon, put a shirt on," Leo laughed, grabbing an apple from the bowl on the island and taking a crunching bite. "My sister's trying to drink her morning coffee in peace without seeing your workout routine."

"She doesn't mind," Damon said smoothly, shooting me a dark, wicked side-glance as he scooped protein into his shaker bottle. "We were just discussing our metabolic yield strategy for Hayes's afternoon lab."

"Right, right," Leo said, shaking his head with a grin. "You two and your yield strategies. Look, I'm driving down to the athletic facility early for morning practice. You guys taking one car to campus?"

My head snapped around. "No."

"Yes," Damon said at the exact same time, his deep voice effortlessly cutting over mine.

Leo blinked, looking between us. "Well, figure it out before eight. I don't want either of you missing the morning lecture and blaming me." He tossed his apple core in the bin, grabbed his sports bag from the hallway, and headed out the front door, shouting over his shoulder, "See you guys at noon!"

The front door slammed shut.

Silence descended over the kitchen once more—heavy, suffocating, and thick with unresolved static.

I set my mug down on the counter, my dark eyes locking onto Damon as he shook his protein bottle with rhythmic, effortless control.

"I am taking my own car," I said firmly, grabbing my satchel from the barstool.

Damon set his shaker down, his dark eyes meeting mine with absolute, unyielding authority.

"The alternator on your sedan was squealing when you pulled into the driveway last night, Vance," Damon said softly, his voice carrying a quiet, undeniable logic that made me freeze in my tracks. "You're going to get stranded on the highway before syllabus week is over. You're riding with me."

"I can handle my own car," I argued, my jaw tightening.

"I know you can," Damon purred, stepping out from behind the island and walking toward the hallway stairs to finally put on a shirt. "But we have a shared project now. And I don't let my partner show up late."

He paused at the base of the stairs, turning his head to look back at me over his broad shoulder, a dark, victorious smirk touching his sharp jawline.

"Ten minutes, Elena. Don't make me come upstairs and get you."