I found Damien asleep on the couch just after sunrise.
For a moment, I simply stood there staring at him.
The penthouse was quiet except for rain tapping softly against the windows, Ashbourne glowing pale silver beneath storm clouds. The city looked softer at dawn. Less dangerous.
Almost innocent.
Which was ironic considering half the violence in Ashbourne probably traced back to the man asleep in front of me.
Damien lay stretched across the massive black couch wearing dark sweatpants and a charcoal shirt half unbuttoned at the collar. One arm rested over his stomach while the other hung loosely toward the floor, fingers relaxed for once instead of curled tight with tension.
He looked exhausted.
Not just tired.
Worn down.
And suddenly the reality of it hit me harder than before.
