Page 23 of Damián

The door breaks open, and Rafael walks in.

“What the fuck…?” he growls.

In a microsecond, Oliver transforms from the shy, shivering mess that was panting in my arms into a drunk asshole who is way too comfortable clinging to my body. But Rafael’s eyes aren’t on Oliver; they are fixed on me, and his glare is full of disdain.

Oliver pulls me closer and licks my neck. “Sorry, this bathroom is taken,” he slurs at his brother. “Unless you wanna watch or take turns on him, I suggest you get the fuck out.”

“You are a disgrace to this family,” Rafael sneers. “Get this fuckboy out of here. Father’s associates don’t need to see the family slut whoring in the bathroom.”

“Ha! I can tell you at least five names who’ve been right where you are standing while I was down on my knees.”

What? Is Oliver also sleeping with his father’s associates?

Is that how he is getting the intel?

“But as always, you’ve ruined my fun.” Oliver grabs my hand and pulls me out of the bathroom and into the hall, past the two hulking guards.

As we pass the grand staircase, a waiter carrying a tray of full champagne bottles passes by, and Oliver snatches one of the bottles.

He holds it high, pointing it in Rafael’s direction, and screams, “CHEERS, frigid bitch!” while flipping him off.

I bite my tongue, knowing this would be the worst situation for me to burst out laughing. Instead, I follow Oliver as he drags me past the main living room toward a private, golden elevator tucked into an alcove.

“There’s an elevator in your house?”

“Makes it easier to move… stuff.”

We take the elevator to the third and last floor, walk down a long hall, and reach the second-to-last door.

“The door is open, get in.”

I open the door and walk into a bedroom that looks like it belongs in a spread of Architectural Digest. I’ve never seen a bedroom this big, but it is also cold and incredibly impersonal.

The walls are gray, the furniture is modern, and the bed is big enough to sleep a family of five. But there are no personal photos, no messy “I live here” clutter, and no warmth. It feels like a penthouse of a fancy hotel where people only come to pass through, but never to stay.

Oliver closes the door and starts pacing.

“Fuck, that was close. That was too close.”

“Your brother, he seems…” I mumble, unsure of what to say.

Intense? Fucking psychotic?

“I’m sorry about the kiss,” Oliver says. “I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position. And I’m sorry if it was uncomfortable for you… kissing a man, I mean.”

“Uncomfortable?” I let out an incredulous laugh. “Chico, I’m bi. And that? That was nothing.”

He nods but keeps pacing anxiously across the room.

“We just fucked up six months of planning,” he sighs, still angry. “The hell am I going to do?”

“We can meet tomorrow at a café, and I’ll give you the phone.”

“As if.” Oliver stands still and lets out a humorless laugh. “Rafael has me under constant surveillance. I can’t have anyone passing me a napkin without having forty pictures taken as proof.”

“What if it’s a special situation? Like you losing your phone or it needing service? That way it would make sense for someone to hand you a new one.”

“Rafael is not an idiot. He would send someone to pick up the phone for me as a ‘favor’ to his big brother.”