ONE BED RULE
1148 Words
The gala was in 6 hours.
And someone just tried to kill us.
I was in the dressing room when the first shot hit.
Glass shattered. Alarms screamed.
The housekeeper yanked me to the floor. “Stay down, Mrs. De Luca.”
Mrs. De Luca.
Right. That was me now.
“Where’s Damien?” I whispered. My hands were shaking.
“Securing the perimeter,” she said. “Don’t move.”
I didn’t.
I counted my breaths. 1. 2. 3.
Thought about Leo in his hospital bed. Thought about the contract.
Thought about how stupid it was to die on day 3 of a 365-day deal.
The gunfire stopped after 4 minutes.
4 minutes felt like 4 years.
When the all-clear came, I was still on the floor.
The door opened.
Damien.
He was covered in blood. Not his black suit torn at the shoulder. Gray eyes wild.
He looked at me on the floor, at the housekeeper over me, and his jaw clenched.
“Are you hurt?” His voice was low. Dangerous.
“No,” I managed. “I’m okay.”
He crossed the room in 3 steps and pulled me up.
His hands were on my arms. Checking. Frantic.
For 2 seconds, Rule 2 didn’t exist.
Then he realized what he was doing and dropped me like I burned him.
“Pack a bag,” he said. Voice flat again. Cold. “You’re not safe here.”
30 minutes later we were in the car.
Not the Maybach. An armored SUV with 2 guards in front.
Me. Damien. Silence.
The gala was canceled. The dress I’d bought with the black card was still in the bag.
“Who was it?” I asked.
Damien didn’t look at me. “Rivals. They think hurting you hurts me.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m nobody.”
His eyes cut to me. “You’re Mrs. De Luca. That makes you a target.”
We drove for an hour. Out of Port Harcourt. Up the coast.
To a house I didn’t know existed.
Smaller than the estate. Still glass and black stone. Still 50 million dollars of paranoia.
But only 3 bedrooms.
“Safe house,” one of the guards said. “We’ll be here until we find the leak.”
“How long?” I asked.
Damien answered: “As long as it takes.”
Night fell fast.
Dinner was silent again. Me, Damien, 2 guards eating in the kitchen.
After, the guard cleared his throat. “Sir. Security protocol. Only 2 bedrooms are secure. The third has a window facing the woods. Compromised.”
Damien’s face didn’t change.
“Then we use the 2 secure rooms.”
“Yes sir.”
The guard looked at me. Then at Damien.
“One bed per room, sir.”
The air went still.
Rule 1: No love.
Rule 2: No touching.
Rule 3: I break the rules.
Damien stared at the guard for a long time.
“Understood,” he said finally. “Aria takes the secure room upstairs. I’ll take the one downstairs.”
I nodded. Relieved.
Until 2AM.
A crash woke me.
I sat up. Heart hammering.
The window in my room rattled. Another shot. Closer this time.
My door burst open.
Damien. Gun in his hand. Shirt untucked. Hair messy.
He looked furious. And scared.
“Get up. Now.”
“What—”
“They found us,” he cut me off. “We’re moving rooms.”
He grabbed my wrist and pulled me down the hall.
Into the downstairs bedroom. His room.
One bed. King size. Black sheets.
One window. Bulletproof glass.
And no other place to go.
He shut the door. Locked it. Put a chair under the handle.
Then he turned to me.
“We’re staying here until morning,” he said. “Don’t argue.”
“I’m not—”
“Aria.” His voice cracked. Just a little. “Please.”
Please.
The Devil’s Son said please.
I stood there, frozen.
Damien ran a hand through his hair. He looked exhausted. 29 and looked 40.
“I’m not going to touch you,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.
But I am not leaving you alone in that room again. Not tonight.”
He walked to the far side of the bed and sat on the edge.
Left 3 feet of space between us.
“Get in,” he said. “Or don’t. But you’re not sleeping on the floor.”
I hesitated. Then I climbed in.
On top of the covers. Fully dressed. As far from him as possible.
The bed dipped when he lay down too.
We stared at the ceiling. 3 feet apart. And it felt like 3 inches.
For an hour, nothing.
Just the sound of guards outside. Just the sound of rain.
Just the sound of two people pretending this wasn’t happening.
“You’re shaking,” Damien said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
A pause.
“Come here.”
My whole body went cold. “What?”
Damien turned his head. Gray eyes in the dark.
“Not like that,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “You’re having a panic attack.
Breathe with me. That’s all.”
He held out his hand. Palm up. On the mattress between us.
An offering. Not a demand.
Rule 2: No touching.
I stared at his hand. Big. Scarred across the knuckles.
The hand that signed the check for Leo.
The hand that held a gun 6 hours ago.
Slowly, I put my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine. Warm. Steady.
And he started breathing. Slow. In. Out.
I copied him.
1. 2. 3.
1. 2. 3.
After 10 minutes, my shaking stopped.
After 20, my eyes got heavy.
The last thing I remember was Damien’s thumb brushing over my knuckles.
Once. Barely.
Like he didn’t mean to.
When I woke up, it was 6AM.
Sunlight.
And I was curled into his side.
His arm was around me. Not tight. Just there.
And his face...
God. His face in sleep.
No cold. No mask.
Just grief. Just a man who looked 10 years younger and 10 years more broken.
He woke a second later.
The moment he realized where we were, he jerked back like I’d hit him.
Sat up. Ran a hand over his face.
“Don’t,” he said. Voice rough. “Don’t say anything.”
I nodded. Because what was there to say?
We’d broken Rule 2.
We’d broken Rule 1, maybe.
Damien stood. Straightened his shirt. Became the Devil’s Son again in 3 seconds.
“Threat’s neutralized,” he said. “We’re going back to the estate today.”
He walked to the door. Stopped.
“Breakfast in 30.”
And he left.
Leaving me in his bed.
With the ghost of his hand still on mine.
- Writer
