Damien Blackwood sat in the chair across from her bed—still, composed, a shadow of control wrapped in a dark, perfectly tailored suit. His tie was still knotted, his posture straight. Unmoving. Unshaken.
But his eyes… They burned.
“Ah… Mr. Blackwood. Sir…” she stammered, heart hammering wildly against her ribs.
Her voice cracked as she scrambled to sit up straighter, tugging at the hospital blanket to cover her bare shoulders. The IV in her arm tugged, stinging. Her cheeks burned.
He didn’t speak at first.
Just sat there.
Watching her.
His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped loosely. But there was nothing casual about him. His suit was immaculate, but his eyes —
God, his eyes.
That color—it hit her first. A rich, sinful shade of molten amber, like whiskey kissed by firelight
