He shakes his head. “It was awkward and horrible, but at the same time it was great because for the first time ever we were the ones in control. We were turning the tables, messing up his plans. And I felt like the king of the fucking world knowing that we’d beaten him.”
“But he found out,” I whisper. “He came into the room. Told you he’d beat you if you stopped. That you’d cheated him and he was going to film it.”
“I—couldn’t anymore. Not with him there. But he—”
He cuts himself off with a shudder, his hand tightening painfully around mine, and I remember the ring in that damn photo and feel sick.
“I’m sorry,” I say, wanting to cry for the boy he was but so proud of the man he became. “I’m so sorry.”
“I should have been stronger.”
“Damien, no.”
“Fought back more. Fought my father. Fought Richter. Fuck.”
He scrubs his hands over his face, then looks up at me. “He sold it,” he says, and my stomach twists. “Somehow blurred out our faces, but he sold that goddamn video. I thought the original was gone. I never believed he’d keep one that could identify us, but I guess like some of the pictures, he wanted them for himself, the sick fuck.”
I say nothing. What is there to say? But I hold his hand, hoping he understands that whatever he needs, I will give him.
He’s lost in the past, though, his expression haunted. “That wasn’t the only time. Sofia and me, I mean,” he whispers. “Twice more that her father never knew about. It was our rebellion, and it was comfort, too.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say. “And Damien, I’m glad you had each other.” Despite the hell Sofia put me through, I mean that with all my heart. “Why only twice? Was that when—I mean, it stopped after Richter died?”
He nods, but says nothing, and I don’t press to know more.
When he does speak, he’s looking down at our hands. “That first time—when we touched—damn me, Nikki, I was only a kid, but I wanted it. We both did. Richter fucked us both up so badly.”
He pulls away from me and stands, still naked, his body lean and firm, and he looks like an angry god. He paces, his fingers combing through his hair, mussing it so that it matches the wild look in his eye. “I wanted to escape so badly. If only I had. If only I’d gotten us both away and we’d just run. Instead, we ended up giving him exactly what he wanted. His perverted fantasy to sell to the highest fucking bidder.”
“No.” I stand, too. “No,” I repeat as I move to him, then pull him to a stop.
“If I’d been smarter. Stronger. If I’d just—”
“Dammit, Damien, stop. You were a kid. Brilliant and talented, but still a kid. You were both young. You were both suffering at the hands of a vile and horrible abuser. You needed each other. I know it as well as you do.”
He stops, then reaches for me. Then very, very gently he traces the pad of his thumb along the curve of my jaw. “I never needed her the way I need you. Not even in those darkest days.”
Despite everything, I glow with pleasure from his words. “I know that, too.”
“I wish…” he begins, then trails off.
“What?”
“I wish she’d been as strong as you. I think she might still be alive if she had been.”
“I wish she was still alive, too,” I say, then see a hint of humor coupled with doubt in his eyes. “I do,” I say, because I mean it. Sofia tormented me over the years, but there were moments when I genuinely liked her, and I do think she was getting better. “I don’t blame Sofia for anything,” I say. “You know I don’t. I blame Richter. I blame your father. But I have never blamed you or Sofia. I pity her. And I pity the child you were, but not the man you grew into. You know that right?”
“I do,” he says. “And I’m done wallowing. We’ll get past this, and I will find the son of a bitch who’s threatening to release that video.”
“Even if it gets out,” I tell him, “we’ll survive. We can endure this.”
“But we shouldn’t have to. And once it’s out, it won’t go away. It’s bad enough the other Richter photos are out there somewhere. One day, the kids will see.” He shudders. “God, Nikki. The kids are going to learn all of this.”
“They will,” I say, because anything else would be a lie. “And one day we’ll explain it all to them, and they’ll understand, too, because they love you just as I do.”
He slides to the floor again and pulls me into his lap, his back against a concrete pillar. “I hope so.”
“They will,” I say, and my certainty rings in my voice. There’s love and trust in our house. Not like it was for either Damien or me when we were growing up.
I frown as a vision of Jeremiah Stark appears in my mind.
“What’s wrong?”
“Do you think it was your dad?”
His forehead creases. “As far as I know, he never had access. And God knows I can’t see what his end game might be. But,” he adds before I can interrupt, “I don’t trust Jeremiah any farther than I can throw him. I’ll poke around a bit.”
He wraps his arms around me and shifts my body so that I’m sitting between his legs. “You’ll figure it out.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I love you,” I say simply. “And that answer is always the right one.”
By the time I finish my hair and makeup and step out of our bathroom in my robe, Damien is fresh from a second shower and sitting on the foot of the bed in his towel, looking for all the world like a man with nothing more on his mind than the NASCAR racers going around and around the televised track. And that thought makes me very, very happy.
“You look comfortable,” I say, veering off my original path to the closet so I can head over and kiss him.
“I was flipping channels just to make sure the tape hadn’t leaked. Then I stumbled on this.”
By “this,” I assume he means the race, but I’m not sure why it drew his interest. Damien might love a fast car as much as the next billionaire, but he’s not much for watching sports; he’d rather be the one playing. Damien, after all, is a man of action.
“We only have about an hour before the guests arrive,” I remind him. “Jackson and Syl and the kids will probably come early, so don’t spend too much time searching channels. Charles is on it, right? He’ll let you know if something leaks.”
“I know,” Damien says, but he continues to flip channels as I move to our huge closet/dressing room to change. By the time I come out, now in a pale pink dress and matching flats, he’s tuned back to the race again.
“Since when did you become a NASCAR fan? Stark International doesn’t sponsor a team, does it?” I don’t think so, but my husband’s enterprises are wide and varied, and maybe it’s not been on my radar.
“No, but I was approached by Ashton Stone a few years ago about that very thing.”
“Stone,” I repeat, trying to place the name. It’s only when I hear the announcer say something about Stone that I remember. “Oh, right. He’s a driver. He won the Daytona 500 a while back.”