The next morning, sunlight streamed across Sierra’s room, but it brought no warmth. Her body still hummed with the memory of Damien’s touch, the weight of his command, the sting of almost being caught.
She told herself she would stay away. That she had to. But when she went downstairs for breakfast, he was already there sitting at the table with a newspaper in one hand and a steaming cup of black coffee in the other.
The picture of control.
Her mother was bustling in the kitchen, humming softly as she plated eggs and toast. To anyone else, it would look like a perfectly normal morning. But Sierra felt the heat of Damien’s gaze even from across the room, hidden behind the pages of his paper.
She sat, her pulse quickening.
“Sleep well, sweetheart?” Vanessa asked, sliding a plate in fron
