Chapter 22: Monumental Fuck Up!
Damon clenched his fists and dug his nails into his palms, willing the hunger away, but it wouldn't leave. It pulsed in him like a second heartbeat, whispering that one taste wasn't enough. That it would never be enough.
His eyes drifted back to her, to the fragile line of her throat, to the bruised, half-healed puncture marks he'd left behind. She was beautiful—terrifyingly so in her vulnerability. And she had tasted like heaven. He wanted to go back there and taste more.
He staggered back, pressing his hands to his head as if he could crush the thoughts out of existence. "She's still alive. She's still alive. Don't fucking ruin this."
If he touched her again—if he gave in—it would be over. She would die. And then what? What would he become?
Everything would become a disaster. A real death, not some in-game inconvenience. Blood on his hands in the truest, most irreversible way.
And that couldn't happen.
There would be police involved. There would be investigations. He would be dragged into the mess, along with his entire family. He did not know enough to erase all the evidence. Were there cameras? He would fucking end up locked in a jail cell or worst shot dead at the sight of his fangs.
But if she was alive, then things would become even more complicated. He had seen this woman many times before and she was an extremely cold and rude woman who kept to herself and didn't talk to anyone else.
Someone with a rich background and a proud attitude. A person like that wouldn't let this go just like that. Not without consequences.