As presumed, Elijah doesn't call. What's worse—I've been blacklisted. Nobody in the publishing industry will take my calls, nobody will respond to my emails, and nobody will speak my name.

I've become the editor version of Voldemort.

Throughout the week, I've visited every publishing house in this city and as soon as I utter my name I can't even be looked in the eyes as I'm told to leave. One receptionist pointed her finger toward the door instead of verbally acknowledging my existence.

I'm a pariah, and it sucks.

Thankfully, I have first-rate friends to help me through this.

When he isn't working, Damon's keeping me occupied, both mentally and physically. He pulls me away from the distracting tasks of constant cleaning and reading by offering me a more suitable means of distraction. That means sex. Lots of it. And before I'm given the opportunity to slip into the reality of what my life has become once we both drift down from our post-orgasmic highs, he's sparking up conversation.

Caroline has been bypassing time with her secret lover to make frequent visits before work, even going so far as to show up with Damon last night with bags of groceries. Damon prepared our dinner, of course, but my bombshell paid for it and offered her sparkling conversation. As well as a satisfying bottle of blush wine, which we forced Damon to reluctantly drink with us.

I even had a visit from Bonnie, who—despite missing me in the office—pulled me into a tight hug and expressed how proud she was for me finally sticking it to the man.

They've successfully kept me pre-occupied, preventing my mind from drifting to nasty thoughts of regret, and since I'm headed to Lancerfield for my mother's wedding today, my job is the furthest from my focus.

"You ready for this?" Damon asks over the rush of wind streaming through the open windows.

He's in the driver's seat and we've just made it out of the city in our rental car packed with our suitcase and formal wear.

Am I ready to see my mother after nine years? No. I'd always assumed this day would come, I just haven't prepared for it. What do I say when I come face to face with the woman who mentally and physically abused me my entire childhood? Do I let her touch me? Do I accept a hug if she offers? Will I be able to muster up a fake smile on her behalf?

The questions spiral in my head, creating a dangerous whirlpool I can easily be sucked into. Reaching into my purse, I pull out my bottle of nail polish and lift my bare feet onto the dashboard. It's the distraction I need to keep safely beyond the vicious clutches of my mind.

"Would you judge me if I said I wasn't sure?"

He shoots me an understanding grin. "Nah."

I unscrew the top off my bottle and lean forward to swipe the brush over my big toe. Lilac nail polish covers the area. I hate that I instantly think of my mother's approval when she notices how well I've coordinated it with my outfit.

"But I'm definitely judging you for that." His face scrunches in disapproval. "Couldn't you have painted those at the apartment?"

"Then I wouldn't have been able to dust the bookshelves before we left."

"Because the other eighty-five times you've done it this week weren't adequate enough," he deadpans. "I think you've somehow managed to permanently attach the dust rag, paper towels, and Windex to your hands."

I keep my head pointed down at my feet, hiding my smile. I can't dispute his observation. Cleaning has been my primary solace this week, but it gives me purpose when I suddenly have none. And besides, "You have to keep up with it or else dust and mildew pile up."

I catch his eye roll from the corner of mine. "I think the place can survive one afternoon."

"I beg to differ." I stick the brush back into the bottle so I can face him. "Just this morning, I found two of your pubes behind the toilet when I was cleaning the bathroom. And although I've had the pleasure of familiarizing myself with them, it's still disgusting when they're not attached to your body."

"Maybe I leave them there purposefully to get you riled up." He reaches over to walk his fingers along my thigh, just below the hem of my white sundress. "We have the best sex when you're feisty."

Amused, I pull away from his touch. "Even you're not that big of an ass."

He chuckles, reaching up to push a few stray windblown hairs behind my ear. "We'll see tomorrow at the wedding."

At the mention of the wedding and ultimately my mother, I resume my task with my toes. Time trickles by. The smell of summer fills the car, saturating us in a light innocence. It's refreshing. I apply two coats of polish, feeling calmer with the job completed, but all too soon the silence takes over, giving me too much time to think.

Desperate for another distraction, I ask, "Have you given anymore thought about your situation at Pepolino?"

Despite maintaining steady conversation with me throughout the week, he's kept silent about his work situation. And since we're stuck in a car for another five hours, the timing seems ideal to finally get him talking.

"Well, since you went all Carrie at the book launch last weekend, I think I'm staying put for a while."

I'd been so caught up in my own personal diversions lately, consumed with the threat of realizing what I'd given up, I'd forgotten about his life. My choice not only affected him financially but professionally as well. He's been such a great friend it has me feeling selfish.

"I never apologized for that. You know, for swooping in and quitting my job right after I said I'd support you in finding a new one."

He glances in my direction to notice my frown. "Don't apologize." Shaking his head, he grabs my hand with his free one. "Seeing you verbally kick Elijah in the nuts has been the highlight of my week."

I bite my lip, appreciating his ever present need to make me feel better but wishing he'd just accept my rightfully deserved apology. "Still, now you're stuck at a job with no hope for promotions –"

"Welcome to the restaurant industry."

"While I search for a new career."

When he realizes I'm not letting up, he sighs. "I'm fine staying at Pepolino." His voice is firm, assertive. "You've worked hard your entire life. You deserve this chance. I don't yet."

He's comparing our lives, conveniently focusing on the portion he isn't proud of and clinging to it like a beacon of reason. He may have been enforcing drug payments and stealing cars while I attended college and planned my professional rainbow, but that doesn't mean we both don't deserve fulfilling careers.

"Oh, shut it. You do, too."

Before he's given the chance to fire back an opposition, I say, "You know, we could always work on your resume since we have a few hours ahead of us, depending on traffic. All we need is a few strengths to list and maybe with a little searching you can find a place that will let you start as a line cook."

He takes his hand back, placing it onto the steering wheel with the other. "I'd rather punch myself in the dick than sit here and work on my resume." When I groan, his chest rises and falls in laughter. "How about we make a deal? We fix your life first, then we'll work on mine."

I rub my temples. There's only so much pushing I can do if he refuses to take my help. "Fine, asshole, what would you rather do than brighten your future?"

He grins victoriously. "Switch spots so I don't have to drive this fucking Prius." His index finger jabs into the air. "Oh wait. We can't."

"Driver's licenses are unnecessary in this city." It's why I'd never renewed mine when the time came. It's wasted money. Taxis and the subway are the only source of transportation a girl needs in the big apple. But since he's taking jabs, I decide to hit him with one of my own. There's only a single reason Damon needed a driver's license and it's the reason he ended up behind bars. Well, that, and a few misdemeanors. "Sorry I don't have grand theft auto on my rap sheet and can't be more accommodating."

He smiles at my burn. It's contagious, since there's nothing like his smiles. I'm talking about the real ones, the ones I'm noticing more now that he's relaxed and let his guards fall down. The precious ones that start slowly and then cover everything, casting away all the darkness he holds, blinding me in his light.

It's blinding me now when he says, "We'd have gotten into a lot of trouble if we got that Mustang. I wanted it bad."

He's referencing the steel blue beauty he'd practically dry humped in the rental parking lot. Unfortunately, it was in the insanely expensive line, the one we couldn't—and probably won't ever be able to—afford.

At his eighth mention of it today, I snort. "So you can relive your Jennifer Aniston dream. I know."

"We could have put that dream to shame."

There's a wicked twinkle in his matching blues. They would have went with the car so well. "Here's to missed opportunities."

"At least we don't have to worry about getting a speeding ticket in this shitbox." He jams his foot onto the accelerator, proving his point. The car barely jumps. It's a 2016 model but functions like an eighty-year old on life support. "The horsepower is non-existent and I think your vibrator makes more noise than this does. It's creepy. A car's supposed to rumble."

I laugh at the accuracy. "I like the silence. It makes for easier conversation." Which is precisely what I need for the next five hours as we head to my sorry excuse of a mother.

"Or we could turn on the radio," he protests, leaning forward, reaching for the dial.

I smack his hand away. "Not a chance. You're stuck entertaining me."

"Good thing I'm so good at it." He laughs again when I blow him a kiss, allowing his light to creep through. "I think you like the sound of my voice almost as much as I do."

"And I think that's impossible."

He twists to face me, his smile still in place. "Admit it, you love having me around."

I do. I always do. But it's better like this. In our compact, slow-as-a-turtle car, I don't just see him, I feel him. He's piecing together, forgetting the life he once lived.

In the process, my own life has become a mess. I'm lost. I've tried not to think about it, but it's definite. The roads I'd set on have ended and I'm stranded with no clear paths in site. But as we charge down I-95 with the windows down, the warm air whipping through my hair, a smile on both our faces as we bicker through our laughter, I realize I don't want to be rescued.

Because I may have lost my way, but I've found him.

I push back words assembling in my throat. Words expressing something I don't have a grasp on yet. Words resembling his, picking one and placing it directly in the center, the same place he's claimed in my life. And instead I say, "You're not the worst company in the world."

We pass the Lancerfield sign six hours later. Like I said, slow-as-a-turtle. Our easy conversation slipped into comfortable silence hours ago, but the scenery has kept me distracted from our destination. There's no ignoring it now that the two have blended. I give Damon directions to our motel, passing the familiar sites of my adolescence as we make a few turns.

It's then the imagery starts.

They come in quick bursts, tiny cracks of lightening leading to the deafening boom of thunder coming next. I see the playground and the monkey bars I fell from when I was eight, the simple scrape along my elbow that terrified my mother. I see the hallways and lockers of my high school, the Lockwood Mansion where most town events were held, the walls of my bedroom, my mother storming into my room when I didn't come down for dinner on time.

Then I don't just see—I feel.

The blow of her hand across my cheek, the dig of her nails into my shoulder, the lash of discipline drilling into my back—they pound into me. Relentless and unyielding.

The anxiety swells, starting in my fingertips as they tap against my bare legs. My feet are affected next, rubbing against stiff carpet on the floor. My legs start to shake.

"You doing okay?"

Damon reads me like an open book. When did he become this in sync with my emotions?

"Yes," I lie, grinding my teeth together, turning toward the window. I don't want him to see the apprehension in my eyes.

He takes my hand, threading his fingers together. The tranquility of his skin caressing my own works until we pull into the parking lot and separate. And by the time we pay and Damon unlocks our motel door, the remaining effects of his touch have worn off completely.

The room is too small. There's a queen size bed, two nightstands, a dresser, and a tiny couch—all tacky and cheap. The walls are painted maroon, tightening the space, and the beige carpet looks itchy. I've lost control. My heart pounds, the beat of it in my ears mimics a clock ticking down. I can't breathe.

Why had I decided this was a good idea? I'd separated from my mother, escaped from her clutches. Now I'm back and for what? So she can scold me for failing? For quitting my job when I had everything going for me? For being the disappointment she always feared I'd be?

I'd had plans of returning so I can rub my successful life in her face while Damon winds her up with his undesirable word choices. But now I hear her words, knocking me down and making me feel pathetic. They assault me from every angle, crushing the life from me. After all this time I'd chosen to relive the pain, thinking I was strong enough to face it. But I'm not. I'm not strong enough.

My hands tremble as they pluck a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and I start rubbing down the fake wooden surface. My movements are frenzied and erratic as I head to the next piece of furniture, but fixing this mess is easier than fixing my own. It's manageable.

Damon's hands come to rest on mine, halting their motions. "You're flaring." His fingers tighten, turning my hands into tiny balls of tension. Despite my attempts, I can't seem to keep them from shaking.

"I can't help it." I turn my face to his, no longer afraid of what he'll find. He's already seen past the surface to everything underneath anyway. He's already seen me.

His eyes glow with empathy. "I know."

His fingers glide along my forearms, pressing and releasing, as he attempts to work the strain from my muscles. It works, moderately. His contact always does.

Guiding his hands to the nape of my neck, he holds me mere inches from his face. "Breathe."

I take a deep breath. The rush of him sweeps into my lungs, slowly overpowering the anxiety. When I take another, it flickers beneath his strength. I resume control of my limbs, they no longer shake. My heartbeat dulls to a steadier rhythm and I no longer feel like I'm spiraling.

"This place makes me feel vulnerable," I confess, unable to hold the truth in. "Being this close to her, it just hit me like an avalanche."

His mouth curls into a smile, as though he knows something I don't. "You're gonna be okay tomorrow."

"How do you know for sure?"

His thumb skims my cheek. "Because I know you."

The tenderness of the motion and his confidence in me has my heart faltering. It's loosening, desperate to reach the heart of a man who doesn't believe he has one. But I've felt it, seen its effects, same as I do now. It's just trapped behind a cage of barbed-wire people from his past have constructed.

Damon's father, Enzo, Elijah—my mother. They don't realize how their actions affect those around them. Some have broken this man, the one with the ability to fix me in moments like this caused by the others. It's cruel and unfair. We deserve more than this.

We deserve to be whole.

I release a frustrated breath. "I hate that I can't go in there waving my perfect job in her face."

"Then lie."

He offers the option as if it's the obvious choice.

"I don't want to have to lie. I want her to be proud of who I am, not of some fabricated version."

At the end of the day, she's still my mother. The deeply rooted need to make a parent proud is something I can't shake. Even if she doesn't deserve it.

All she'll see tomorrow is the daughter who ran away to live a life she thought was better, only to return with nothing to show for it. I don't have a job. I threw it away because of my pride, wasted four years of college to most likely work at a retail chain or restaurant. I can't afford to pay my rent. And I live with a man I'm stumbling into love with, one whose heart is off the table.

My choices and goals have all shifted and I'm uncertain what I'm doing anymore.

I shake my head, overwhelmed by the mess I've made. "Even more so, I want to be proud of who I am."

His brows dip in mystification. "You're not?"

"Partially, yes." Because there are more than just facts to this situation. There's self-worth and intuition that one day this will all work out. There's proof Damon's not detached like he claims himself to be. And there's hope I'm not foolishly destroying everything for no reason. It's just scary being uncertain, utterly terrifying losing trust in your own decisions.

"I'm proud I stood up for myself. But the other parts, I don't know."

"Come here." His hands find my shoulders to maneuver me in front of the mirror above the dresser. He settles behind me, a blistering wave of heat against my back.

"What are we doing?"

His hands fall to my waist. The grip he has on me is tight, like a boa. I see our reflections and compared to him, I look so delicate, fragile. If I let him, this man could shatter me. But then I see his smile as it presses against my cheek, all light and no dark. The last thing he ever wants to do is break me. He's said it himself.

"I want you to see yourself the way I do—beautiful, resilient—" his voice lowers to a whisper against my skin, "—fucking perfect."

His words seep through, consuming me. They're crisp white in a sea of black. Pressing his lips against my cheek, his right hand descends my stomach.

"You survived your mother's abuse, physical and emotional." His fingers skim the skin of my inner thigh, catching my breath in my throat. "You broke free."

My heart pounds as he lifts the hem of my dress and cups my sex. Lust blossoms between my thighs, pulsing and hungry, eager for his friction.

"You stood toe to toe with one of the most powerful men in your industry and told him to fuck off." He slides his middle finger against the lace of my panties, dipping it slightly into the crease. Want vibrates through my bones.

His lips lower, adhering to my neck, tasting, flicking, as his hand glides to play with the top of my panties. Sweat beads on my forehead, but I shiver.

"And you somehow made me a one-woman man."

His admission lands deeper than the finger he sinks into my wet heat. Relief rockets up my spine. It goes slack, same as me, as I fall against his chest. He doesn't falter. He drags his finger back out before dipping two in, stretching me, satisfying me. Tiny breaths fly from my mouth, as well as a moan.

He's eager against my ass, but the rest of him reveals nothing. His soft lips still play with my skin, his tongue still tantalizes my pulse point, his fingers still slide against me. Even his thumb gets involved. It winds against my clit, fast and vicious.

I get lost in the sensation. More so, I get lost in the fact this man is mine. Only mine.

"You're built of fucking steel," he whispers between kisses. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise."

Right now I feel extraordinary. My back arches, my head drops; I'm close. I press myself against him, inviting him for more, but he doesn't take the bait. This is my moment.

He slips his fingers from my entrance to stroke my clit, forward and backward. The tension swells in me. When he takes my bundle, rolling it between his fingers, I purr like a kitten.

"Do you feel that strength?"

I do. It coils inside me. He pumps his fingers, faster and faster. I pulse beneath his fingertips, my blood pounding against his intricate touches. He's strumming me like a fiddle. Two more slips and I sing.

He strokes me through my orgasm. "That's it. Release your stress. Feel it crash and liberate you."

I jerk in his hold, little spasms of relief that have me clenching and releasing. He doesn't loosen his grip around my waist as I pant his name, over and over—like a chorus. And when the tension finally dulls from my body, he stills against my back.

My body is sated and all thoughts of tomorrow have vanished. I'm content. The buzzing anxiety is long gone. All because of Damon and his skilled fingers. And his empowering words.

His hands slip from my waist and my panties, and just when he finishes licking me from his fingers, I tilt around to face him. It's time to return the favor.

"I see you that way, too," I say, feeling that strength within me. I reach for the button of his jeans to unclasp it. "Beautiful." His zipper comes down. "Resilient." I move my lips to his neck, my tongue darting out to taste his salt. "Fucking perfect."

"Beautiful?"

I pull back and push his jeans over his hips, letting them pool on the floor. "Impeccably."

He chuckles as I peel his t-shirt over his head to reveal his bare chest. I skim my fingertips over his taut skin.

"It hides the dirt inside."

At his self-deprecation, I halt my motions. My thumbs rest in the indentations of his hips, keeping him in place. He may find his view of himself humorous, but I don't. Because I see what he doesn't. I don't see a criminal. I don't see someone who gains pleasure in hurting others. I don't see someone making wrong choices because they're easier.

I see Damon.

The one who prepares me food when I'm angry or disappointed. The one who cleans when I'm not around because he doesn't want me to see how much my happiness means to him. The one who invited himself to Alaric's book launch to stand by me as I made the most difficult choice of my life. The one who's trying to follow through on building a better life. And the one who just made me feel inspired by my own force and achievements.

Lifting onto my tip toes, I place my lips against his. "You're beautiful in there, too."

He rises his hand to tangle it in the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me back slightly. "I think you're still hazy from that orgasm."

I frown at his deflection. It's impossible to make him see the person I do when I look at him, but I'm determined to make him feel what I do. That's only achieved if he opens himself up to it.

I run my finger along his bottom lip. "No sarcasm." Peering up at him, my voice is a whisper. "Just be vulnerable with me."

"Elena." He sighs, tilting his head to the side as remorse drips down his face. "I don't know how."

He does. He's just forgotten over the years he's spent building fortresses. He needed to protect himself then. He doesn't with me.

"Yes, you do." With an encouraging smile, my hands slide to his boxer briefs and tug. They drop to the ground, freeing his erection. I peel my dress over my head and let it fall to floor beside his clothes. Next come the panties and the bra so we're both bare, exposed to the other.

There's nothing shielding us now.

Damon's gaze rakes over my skin, captivating every delicate inch humming for his contact. It's on my breasts when I reach forward and push my hand against his chest. He falls against the bed, allowing me to crawl above him. With a knee on either side of his waist, I dip and coax my lips to his.

"Just relax." I breathe him in, reaching between us to wrap my fingers around his cock. His hips jerk to life, plunging him into my tiny fist. His enthusiasm makes me grin. "Let me take control."

His eyes narrow. "You're pushing it."

When his hands lift to grip the curves of my waist, I squirm out of his hold and squeeze his length between my fingers, making him groan. "I promise you'll enjoy it."

He licks his lips. "I don't doubt it."

"Good." I spiral my hand around his shaft, working him from base to tip. "No more hands."

"Or what?"

I lean forward and suck on his bottom lip, pumping my hand. His lips part, deepening the kiss. His tongue meets mine. They clash, vicious and eager, and when I feel as though he's suitably desperate, I run my thumb over the head before releasing him.

"Or I'm done." I pull back, showcasing my triumphant smirk. "And you can take care of yourself."

Fire blue eyes glare at me from below. "You're ruthless." I wink at him, wiggling my hips, allowing him to feel me wet and ready for him if he just complies. He smiles and lifts his hands above his head. "And it's hot as hell."

"See, that wasn't so hard."

He rolls his eyes but remains silent. I kiss him softly on the mouth, letting him melt into me, before I make my way down his jawline and chest.

I cherish him, worship every inch of exposed skin. I kiss the calluses on his palms, blemishes left of the life we're slowly peeling away. I kiss the flesh above his mangled heart as it beats against the touch of my lips. I kiss the crease of his chest, descending down the center to where he's aching for my touch the most, and just as I reach it, I lift up slightly to blow.

I'm fascinated by the yearning in his eyes when mine flick up to meet his. They're pleading. Damon doesn't beg during sex, usually takes what he wants, insistently claims what he wants. But he's holding back for me. And this look, well, it's enough to unhinge me.

Fueled by his desire, I wet my lips and take him in my mouth.

"Fuck, Elena." He growls, the muscles in his arms tightening as they fist the headboard. I work him up and down. My tongue slips along the underside. He fills my mouth, full and hard, as I sink all the way to the hilt. I drag my lips to the tip, teasing the head. Deep, guttural sounds vibrate from his throat, accompanying the look of pure ecstasy on his face that empowers me.

I pick up my motions, plunging him deep into the back of my throat, skimming my teeth along his sensitive skin. It's then he reaches forward and fists his hands into my hair. I raise a challenging brow, which he returns with a grin. It's so darn adorable, I don't protest.

I suck, nip, and tantalize, working him into a frenzy. My hands hold his hips in place while my lips draw around him. I think the word fuck leaves his mouth thirty times, each one accompanied by a slight pull on my hair as he clings to my efforts and the release they're edging him toward.

It turns me on. The throb between my thighs is a fierce wish I can't ignore.

When I can't fight the yearning any longer, I pull my lips from him. "Condom."

Glancing at my outstretched hand, Damon shakes his head. "Not a chance. It's my turn now."

He grabs my hips, maneuvering us so I'm beneath him. His body is a powerful force above me, all strength and scorching heat. I want to feel that power inside me.

"I like your lips, they drive me crazy," he says, reaching over to grab a condom from the luggage he placed beside the bed. It's conveniently contained in the side pocket for easy access. He rips the wrapper, rolling the condom on before nestling himself between my thighs. He pauses then, reaching to stroke my cheek, his tongue whispering along my lips. The actions hold such astounding affection it makes my heart swell.

"But I like this more." He presses his lips against mine the same time he anchors himself in me, making me cry out. It's caught by his mouth. His left hand finds mine, linking our fingers above my head, and although the contact is new, it's a welcome addition.

"Me too." My blood sizzles in my veins. Every inch of me is alive when we connect like this.

He pulls out, excruciatingly slowly, making me quiver, before slamming back in. It happens a second time, a third. My fingers tighten around his, digging into the back of his hand as the sensation forces my eyes to roll into their sockets. With this speed I feel every magnificent inch of him as he fills me. It's pleasure to the unbearable degree.

"Eyes open," he demands, fighting off laughter as my eyes take another dip into my head. I focus them on him, feeding off his energy and saturating myself in the decadence occurring between my legs. My heart beats in my chest, an echo of the rhythm he's set.

I stretch and drag with his motions, gripping him, begging for more. And when I lift my legs to wrap them around his waist, Damon releases my hand, pulling his torso back so his hands can shift to my butt. I busy mine with the comforter. It clenches around the fabric when he grips me hard, using the hold to sink deeper. He dives in and pulls out, reaching deeper with each mind-blowing union of our hips.

"Yes." I pant, doing my best to meet him with each searing thrust. He slides along my walls and pounds against my clit. He's working me into fever pitch and I'm already so close. A few more strokes, a few more waves, and I'll be crashing over the edge.

But then he shifts. He releases my butt and follows me down as it hits the bed. He leans over me, need blazing in his eyes. It's a flawless reflection of mine. I roll my hips, building the friction again, when he latches on to white knuckle my hips and aid my motions. We set the new pace together, united like never before. We're seamless.

He revolves me in sensual motions along his shaft. "Come on. I need to see you lose yourself."

What he doesn't realize is I already have. I've lost myself in him.

His face rests above mine, our noses brushing with each churn of my hips. He doesn't kiss me like I expect. He watches me, gazing down with reverence that steals my breath. It's the most intimate we've ever been.

I'm aware of the precise moment my heart falls. The emotions he refuses to admit out loud pour from his piercing eyes and I finally see him–every piece, every vulnerability typically shielded beneath his confident façade. And as he lands another thrust so deep that blinding colors filter through my vision, I can't stop it. It falls for him. It falls completely.

I come undone instantly.

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