Close Quarters
1756 Words
POV: Lana Sterling
--
His breath ghosts over my ear as he corners me, and every nerve in my body ignites in alarm - or is it desire?
--
The alley behind the Celestial Ballroom looks nothing like the glittering gala I ditched five minutes ago. No chandeliers here - just a single flickering street‑lamp that splashes weak light onto damp brick walls scarred by graffiti. My heels click on broken paving stones, echoing off the narrow passageway. I force myself to breathe slowly, but the pounding in my chest is thundering, reckless.
I told myself I was after a lead. Something solid on Damien Blackwood - the shadow‑king of the city’s underground. I needed more than rumors and whispers to nail the feature my editor’s waiting on. Instead, I’ve landed in the crosshairs of the man himself.
He follows like a storm cloud - silent, dangerous. I feel him before I see him, heat rolling off his body as he melts out of the darkness and cages me between cold brick and his tailored frame. My muscles lock; my n*****s tighten beneath the silk of my gown, treacherous proof that fear isn’t the only thing sparking inside me.
Damien’s voice slips through the night, low and almost intimate. “Who are you digging for?”
I snap my chin up, refusing to be cowed by proximity or the masculine scent of him - expensive cologne mixed with something darker. “The truth,” I shoot back. “And nothing can stop me from finding it.”
His eyes burn like obsidian under the lamplight, unreadable but far from empty. The rough pad of his thumb brushes a curl from my cheek. The boldness of the gesture steals my breath.
“You think you know what truth is, Little Sparrow?” he murmurs, voice caressing the nickname like a secret. “Truth is a blade. Hold it wrong, and it cuts you first.”
My palms are damp. “You threatening me?”
“Warning you.” He leans closer, hip grazing mine. “That’s different.”
I swallow around a knot of heat and frustration. Damien sees everything - my trembling lashes, the quick pulse at my throat, the way my chest lifts with each defensive breath. His gaze lingers, unapologetic, on the peaks tightening against my dress. Damn him.
“You’re standing on dangerous ground, Lana.” He says my name like a promise. “Someone begged me to leave you alone. I’m beginning to question my restraint.”
A thrill ripples through me. “So don’t restrain yourself.”
His pupils flare. For one wicked second I think he’ll kiss me, crush his mouth to mine in a collision of silk and sin. My heartbeat ricochets against bone, begging for impact even as my reporter’s brain screams about ethics, objectivity...all that s**t that crumbles the moment his breath skims my lips.
My voice comes out husky. “You cornered me, Blackwood. Now what?”
He presses a hand to the wall beside my head. The other lands lightly on my waist, fingers splaying over the curve of my hip as if testing whether I’ll break. Energy crackles between us - electric, volatile. I arch involuntarily. His eyes darken further.
“Now,” he says, “I ask you a question you’d rather die than answer.”
I steel myself. “Try me.”
“Who sent you?”
My skin prickles. If I give up my source, I burn a bridge I can never repair. But if I lie? Damien will know. He reads people the way I read headlines - scouring for hidden meaning, devouring tells.
I lick my lips - a nervous tic - and his gaze tracks the motion like a predator clocking prey. Heat coils low in my belly.
“I work alone,” I say finally. “Always have.”
He studies me, thumb stroking lazy circles into my side. “Bullshit.”
I glare. “Then prove it.”
Damien’s mouth lifts in a crooked, infuriating half‑smile. “You drive a hard bargain.” He inches closer, enough that we share breath, enough that my breasts brush his chest with each shaky inhale. “Maybe I’ll compensate you in...other currencies.”
My knees nearly buckle. “This isn’t a negotiation.”
“Everything’s a negotiation.” His hand drifts up, fingertips flirting with the sensitive underside of my arm. Goosebumps race across my skin. “Even desire.”
My laugh is brittle. “Desire has nothing to do with it.”
“Liar.” He says it softly, like a confession, before dipping his head. His lips hover above my pulse, so close I feel the heat of them. Every rational thought surrenders to visceral awareness - his scent, his body, the velvet darkness around us.
I choke on the tension. “Damien...people could see.”
“Let them watch.”
Shock stabs through me - equal parts fear and appetite. He’s goading me, testing boundaries I didn’t realize I had. And damn it, I’m failing every test. A damp ache pulses between my thighs, humiliatingly easy to provoke.
“If your goal is to scare me off, you’re wasting your time,” I whisper.
“Scare you?” His laugh is a low, dangerous rumble. “No, Lana. I think fear stopped being the dominant flavor in your blood about two minutes ago.”
I hate that he’s right. “Arrogant bastard.”
“Only accurate.” His lips brush the shell of my ear. “You came looking for monsters. Found one. Question is - can you stomach what you discover?”
My chest heaves. I shove a hand against his firm chest - not to push him away, but to steady myself. The heat beneath his shirt is lethal. “I can handle you.”
“For both our sakes, I hope that’s true.”
Silence hangs, vibrating. He seems poised to say more, but the sharp crunch of gravel at the mouth of the alley breaks the spell. Footsteps approach - slow, deliberate. Damien’s head snaps up. In an instant the hunter in him surfaces; his body positions between me and the intruder, muscles coiled.
I seize the moment’s distraction, slipping a recorder from my clutch. My fingers tremble around the device’s cool metal, but I hit record anyway. Evidence.
A shadow detaches from the alley entrance - a tall figure in a trench coat, face hidden beneath the brim of a hat. Street‑lamp light glints on something metallic in his hand.
Damien hisses under his breath. “Stay behind me.”
“Who is it?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. His right hand slides inside his jacket. I hear the soft rasp of leather against steel. He’s armed.
My pulse rockets. I should run. Instead I press my back to the wall and keep the recorder aimed, fighting shake. I’m a journalist to my marrow. Danger is currency.
The stranger stops a dozen feet away. “Mr. Blackwood,” he calls, voice muffled by city noise. “You’re needed.”
“Not now.” Damien’s reply carries lethal calm.
“Urgent.” The stranger lifts the object - it’s a phone, screen glowing like a ghost. “From the Tower.”
Damien curses. Whatever’s on that phone matters. He throws a glance over his shoulder at me - frustration, protectiveness, maybe regret, flickering across his face.
“This conversation isn’t finished,” he growls.
He strides to the stranger, snatches the phone, scans the screen. A muscle ticks in his jaw. Then, without warning, he tosses the device back, grabs my wrist, and pulls me down the alley toward a side exit.
“Where are we - ?”
He squeezes. “Somewhere safe. Questions later.”
I twist free, plant my feet. “Damien - let go.”
He stops, eyes blazing. “You heard those footsteps. Whoever dispatched him won’t hesitate to send worse. You want your damn truth?” He leans in, lips a breath from mine. “Stay alive long enough to learn it.”
And then he releases me.
Without his hand anchoring me, the alley feels colder. He turns, stalking toward a sleek black car idling at the curb - a driver holds the door. Damien glances back once. Lightning arcs between us, unsaid words and unspent desire. He climbs in; the door slams; the car peels away, taillights bleeding red into the night.
I stand alone, heart roaring. My recorder red‑lights, still running.
I press a shaking finger to stop. When I slide it back into my clutch, something else glints inside - a slim, unlabeled USB drive I definitely didn’t pack.
My stomach drops.
Damien.
I lift the drive to the lamplight. No markings. Just opportunity - and maybe a trap.
Sirens wail faintly in the distance. Somewhere beyond these walls, the gala’s music drifts like a fading dream. But here in the alley, I hold the first tangible link to Damien’s secrets - and maybe the key to destroying or saving him.
I stuff the drive into my bra, close to the hammering of my heart, and back away from the alley. Every sense is raw. The city feels different now - darker, hungrier.
As I reach the sidewalk, my phone buzzes with an anonymous text:
- DON’T PLUG IT IN ALONE. -
I spin, searching shadows. No one. Damien? The stranger?
Adrenaline surges. I tuck the phone away and raise my chin to the night. I wanted answers; looks like the universe handed me an entire puzzle - edge pieces cut with blood and desire. And I’m hooked.
But first? I need to make it home alive.
I turn toward the neon wash of Midtown, each step shaky, each breath sharp. Somewhere behind me, the alley holds the echo of Damien’s breath against my ear.
--
The slick squeal of tires makes me whirl just in time to see the same black car halt half a block away. The rear window glides down.
Damien’s silhouette appears, his voice rolling through the night like thunder: “Lana - get in, or you’ll be dead before dawn.”
The window slides shut. The door stays locked.
My pulse thrums. One decision - run toward him or away - will rewrite everything. My fingers curl around the hidden USB. Midtown’s lights flare. Somewhere, danger lengthens its shadow.
And I have five seconds to choose.
- Writer
