I may have fallen asleep in Damien’s arms, but I have awakened alone.
At least now I know the source of the nightmare. It is the same fear I have faced every day and every night for almost two weeks. The fear I try to hide beneath a plastic smile as I sit beside Damien day in and day out as his attorneys go over his defense in meticulous detail. As they explain the procedural ins-and-outs of a murder trial under German law. As they practically beg him to shine a light into the dark corners of his childhood because they know, as I do, that those secrets are his salvation.
But Damien remains stubbornly mute, and I am left huddled against this pervasive fear that I will lose him. That he will be taken from me.
And not just fear. I’m also fighting the damnable, overwhelming, panic-inducing knowledge that there isn’t a goddamn thing in the world I can do. Nothing except wait and watch and hope.
But I do not like waiting, and I have never put my faith in hope. It is a cousin of fate, and both are too mercurial for my taste. What I crave is action, but the only one who can act is Damien, and he has steadfastly refused.
And that, I think, is the worst cut of all. Because while I understand the reason for his silence, I can’t quell the selfish spark of anger. Because at the core of it all, it’s not just himself that Damien is sacrificing. It’s me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the tears to remain at bay. My anger is unfair, and I know it. But I’m just so damn scared.
I take slow, even breaths, and after a moment, I feel calmer. I realize that I am splayed across Damien’s side of the bed, and I breathe even deeper, as if his scent alone can bolster me and erase my fears.
But it isn’t enough. I need the man himself, and I peel myself away from the cool comfort of our bed and stand up. I’m naked, and I bend to retrieve the white, lush robe provided by the Hotel Kempinski. Damien brushed it back off my shoulders after our shower last night, and I left it where it fell, a soft pile of cotton beside the bed.
The sash is a different story, and I have to dig in the rumpled sheets to find it. Last night, it had bound my wrists behind my back. Now, I tie it around my waist and tug it tight, relishing the luxurious comfort after waking so violently. The room itself is equally soothing, every detail done to perfection. Every piece of wood polished, every tiny knickknack or artistic addition thoughtfully arranged. Right now, however, I am oblivious to the room’s charms. I only want to find Damien.
The bedroom connects to an oversized dressing area and a stunning bathroom, but though I check briefly in both, I do not see him, and I continue through to the living area. The space is large and also well-appointed with comfortable seating and a round worktable that is now covered with sheaths of papers and folders representing both the business that Damien is continuing to run despite the world collapsing around our ears, and the various legal documents that his attorney, Charles Maynard, has left for Damien to study.
The room is exactly as we left it last night, even down to the two crystal high ball glasses on the coffee table that held the whiskey we’d sipped while we sat talking on the couch, my feet in his lap and his fingers casually stroking my leg. My skin tingles from the mere memory of his touch, and I cannot help but smile. Despite the circumstances, the night was sweet. This is our last night before the proceedings officially begin, and by some unspoken agreement we said nothing about the reason that we are here in Munich. There was only the two of us and the fire that is forever between us. A fire that started with only the soft glow of coals during dinner, and then exploded into a pyrotechnical display when he finally took me to bed.
Was that really only a few hours ago?
For that matter, can it really be true that Damien’s trial will begin only a few hours from now?
The thought makes me shudder, and although it is far too obvious that I am alone in this massive suite, I glance once more around the room, as if by the force of my will alone I can make Damien appear before me.
No such luck.
Frowning, I wander to the table and then to the bar, hoping to find a note. But there is nothing. I pick up the receiver on the house phone and dial zero. Almost immediately there is an accented voice on the other end. “How may I help you, Ms. Fairchild?”
Relief crashes over me. “He’s down there?” I whisper, though I know the answer must be yes. Why else would the concierge assume that I am the caller, and not Damien?
“Mr. Stark is in the Jahreszeiten Bar. Shall I have a phone brought to his table?”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll get dressed and come down.”
“Sehr gut. Is there anything else I can do for you?”