Page 74 of Damián

CHAPTER 9

DAMIÁN

Saturday

I wake up the next day after my date with Oliver and Zara, completely naked and curled next to a towel.

Wow…

It’s been a while since I’ve slept the second I sat on the bed. Even more since I slept this deeply and was unable to move when it’s past—wait… what time is it?

I grab my phone off the nightstand.

Given my track record with casual hookups, I usually wake up the next morning after cumming together to at least one or two texts from them, and I expected Oliver to be no different. But when I tap the screen, there is absolutely nothing.

Not a single notification from him.

Okay, that’s a first…

I let out a groan, flop backward onto the mattress, and yank a pillow directly over my face to block out the blinding sunlight coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows that cover most of the walls of my bedroom.

Note to self: buy thicker curtains.

On any normal day, by this hour, I would already be done with the gym, walking into HQ, freshly showered, fully debriefed, a warm croissant in hand, and probably annoying Law with the help of the twins. But since my undercover assignment started, my schedule for most days is pretty free… sleep it is!

I close my eyes and go right back to sleep.

When I finally drag myself out of bed two hours later, I take a hot shower and spend the rest of the day unpacking the last boxes I have.

…I know.

It’s been over a month since I moved in here, and everything should’ve already been unpacked, but I’ve been… well, distracted.

Although if I am being honest with myself, I’ve also been dragging it out because I hate this place, and that’s mostly because absolutely nothing in this creepy, modern mausoleum is my style.

Everything is made of square edges and bright, shitty colors.

Take the kitchen stools, for example.

What the hell are those? They look as stiff and uncomfortable as a pile of rocks.

Quién mierdas designed them? An orthopedist in need of new clients?

A sadist? …Satan?

I sigh, pulling three of my favorite fantasy series out of the last moving box left and arranging them between two floating shelves. Then, I add a hanging plant at the very top, and right next to it, I place a tiny astronaut figure that Carlitos gave me.

Once I’m finally happy with the result, I grab the thick, super heavy quilt my mom knitted for me years ago and toss it over the stiff couch to give it at least a bit of a cushion, then lie down.

I look around; everything is finally unpacked, the apartment is spotless, and I have nothing left to do when it’s barely 7:00 p.m.

Ahhhh… I’m so bored.

Which is weird. I am never bored.

I always have something to do, someone to meet, or somewhere to go, but this mission is insane. And I’m not talking about insane as in how dangerous it is, which it definitely is, but the sheer level of surveillance.

Just by cleaning the windows, I was able to see one car and four pedestrians checking my building. It’s not even two months, and I already feel like a zoo animal, constantly being watched, unable to do a single thing.