But he does nothing. Nothing except thrust his fingers into my hair and hold me tight.

“Damien.” His name feels ripped from me, and I force my head up, then crush my lips against his in a bruising kiss. He responds immediately, his mouth hard and demanding under mine, his hands on the back of my head forcing me closer. The kiss is brutal. Violent. Our teeth clash, he bites down on my lip, I taste blood, and I don’t care. On the contrary, I feel as though I am soaring, set aloft by the passion in his touch, by the desire coursing through him.

His body is hard against mine, and one hand has moved down to cup my ass. He holds me hard against him, and I can feel his erection straining against his slacks. I grind against him, almost melting from the white-hot relief that boils within me. He’s back, I think. He’s back.

But it’s only an illusion, because suddenly he’s shoving me away, his eyes wild and lost, his breathing hard. He reaches to steady himself on the back of a chair and tilts his face away from me. But it’s too late, I’ve seen too much, and what I saw in his eyes was horror.

I stand frozen, not by fear, but by the knowledge that right then I am impotent. He has shut me out, and I don’t know the way back to him.

“Don’t,” I whisper. It is the only word I can manage and I have to force it past my lips.

I think that he will ignore me, but he looks up, and I gasp from the gray pallor of his skin. Immediately, I am at his side. I brush my palm over his cheek. His skin is cold and clammy.

“I’m calling the hotel doctor.”

“No.” He looks right at me and I see pain in his amber-colored eye, but the black one is as empty and distant as the night. He moves to the sofa and sits down, his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands.

“Damien, please. Can’t you tell me what’s going on? Can’t you talk to me?”

He doesn’t move. “No.” That simple word slices through me, not quick and neat like sharpened steel, but hot and raw and brutal. A serrated blade across unprepared flesh. I could do it, I think. Just one quick motion. I could do it, and I could follow the pain back here. Back to Damien. I need the anchor. I need—

No!

I flinch and look away; if he looks up, I do not want him to see the direction in which my thoughts have traveled. I do not want him to see the effort it takes not to move. Not to bolt to the bathroom and dig into his brown leather shaving kit. Not to unscrew the top of his safety razor and remove the fresh blade, so small yet so sharp. So sweetly tempting . . .

I focus on breathing—on finding my center. I’ve come to rely on Damien’s strength, and now I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be able to do this alone again.

He shifts on the sofa so that he is lying back, but his eyes are open and he reaches a hand out for me. I go and kneel at his side, holding tight to him, my heart swollen to bursting. I am terrified—so afraid that happiness is only fleeting and that the universe is in the process of self-correcting, and is transforming our story from a romance into a tragedy.

“I love you,” I say almost desperately. What I mean is, “You’re scaring me.”

He draws my hand up and softly kisses my knuckles. “I’m going to take a nap.” His lids are heavy.

“Yes. Of course.” It’s an excuse that makes sense, and I pounce upon it and clutch it tight. After all, we didn’t get much sleep last night, and I know that he did not sleep well even when we returned. I know, because I didn’t either, and every time I woke up he was either awake and staring at the ceiling or tossing in the bed. He was calm only when he held me close.

It’s that memory that soothes me. I do not know what is going on with Damien right now, but at the heart of it all, I know that he needs me as much as I need him.

I give his hand a squeeze before releasing it. I slide off his shoes, then grab a blanket and gently spread it over him. His eyes are already closed, his chest rising and falling in time with his breathing.

I start to tiptoe from the room into the bedroom, but as I do, I hear the familiar buzz of his phone. I curse and sprint back to the couch, because I do not want the phone to wake him.

I find his phone in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, and I pull it out. I don’t recognize the number, and I press the button to answer, planning to take a message.

“Damien Stark’s phone,” I say softly as I move away so as not to wake him. I hear something that sounds like a sharp breath, and then nothing. “Hello?”

And then there is simply the dead silence of a dropped call. I frown slightly, but don’t think much of it. Then I switch the ringer off and leave his phone on the worktable where he can easily find it.

I go into the bedroom and take off the conservative Chanel suit I wore to court. I change into a bright yellow dress, hoping that the cheery color will improve my mood. I keep the pearl choker, my fingers drifting to it as I recall the texture of Damien’s fingertips as he fastened it around my neck that morning. I lie on the bed and try to sleep, but sleep is not coming and my mood is not improving. Finally, I can take it no longer. I have to have answers, and I can think of only one way to get them.

I pull out my own phone and send a text—It’s Nikki. I need to see you. Are you in the hotel? Can I meet you?

I hold my breath as I wait for the reply, hoping he will answer and not simply ignore my plea. So much time passes that I’m beginning to think that’s exactly what he’s going to do. Then the reply comes, and I sag with relief.

Room 315.

I gather my things and hurry to the elevator. I want to get there before he changes his mind. I stand by the elevator call button, my finger repeatedly jabbing the down arrow even though the light is already illuminated. Finally it comes, and I join a teenage couple who stand next to each other, his hands in her back jeans pocket and vice versa. The sight makes me smile, and I turn away, afraid that the simple public display of affection is going to make me cry.

I get off before them on the third floor and take a moment to get my bearings. Then I turn and hurry down the hall until I’m standing at the door to suite 315. I knock and wait, then sigh in relief when Charles Maynard opens the door and ushers me in.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I say. “Damien is—well, he’s asleep.” It’s a euphemism for “he’s a wreck,” and I think Maynard knows it.

He gestures toward the sofa. “Sit down. You want a drink? I just walked in the door when you texted. I was considering ordering a late lunch.”

“I’m fine,” I say as he walks to the wet bar and pours himself a very large Scotch.

“You must be relieved,” Maynard says, which is probably the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said to me.

“Of course I am,” I snap, with more irritation than I intend.

He glances at me over the Scotch bottle. “Sorry. That sounded patronizing.”

My shoulders sag. “I came here because I don’t understand what happened. And I need to know. I need to know because Damien—”

But I can’t finish the sentence. I can’t say—even to this man who has known Damien since childhood—that for some reason this non-trial seems to have broken him.

At the same time, I can’t leave. Maynard is my only chance for answers, and I cannot leave this room without some.