The Engagement Brunch

The private dining room at the conservatory smelled of crushed lilies, roasted espresso, and old family money.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling glass arches, bouncing off polished silver teapots and white linen tablecloths. Ethan’s mother had chosen the venue to show off, arranging eighteen chairs around a single massive mahogany table for the combined family brunch.

I sat near the middle, dressed in a high-collared ivory sleeveless knit dress. It looked modest, elegant, and completely respectable for a Sunday afternoon with future in-laws. But beneath the soft ribbing, my skin was still tender. Every time I shifted in my chair, the deep muscular ache between my hips flared, an electric reminder of the four times Damon had pulled me apart just twenty-four hours ago.

Beside me, Ethan smelled of strong peppermint mouthwash and stale sweat, his eyes bloodshot behind his designer frames.

"You're quiet today, Robin," Ethan’s mother, Eleanor, observed from the head of the table, cutting into a poached egg with surgical precision. "Usually you're fussing over Ethan’s schedule. He said he had to fetch his own dry cleaning this morning because you were busy."

Ethan gave a tired, patronizing chuckle, nudging my elbow. "She was just in a mood, Mom. You know how brides get when the dates get closer."

Before I could offer a polite slice of venom, Victoria spoke up.

She was seated directly across from Ethan, wearing a baby-blue cashmere sweater that exposed her delicate collarbones. Her blonde curls were pinned up in an innocent sweep, but her eyes held a smug, sleepy gleam.

"Ethan works far too hard anyway," Victoria cooed softly, resting her chin on her hand as she looked at him. "He deserves a little extra rest. In fact, he looked so utterly exhausted when he dropped by my place to return my laptop on Friday night. I had to practically make him drink chamomile tea before he drove home."

She looked at me across the table, offering a wide, guileless smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"I hope you don't mind, Robin. I just worry about him burning out."

It was a brazen, deliberate needle. A direct dare tossed over the butter dishes to see if I would flinch. She was staking a claim, waving her secret access to my fiancé in front of twelve oblivious relatives while playing the caring little cousin.

Two days ago, the sheer disrespect would have made my throat close with tears.

Today, it was just pathetic.

"Not at all, Victoria," I said, lifting my mimosa and taking a slow, unbothered sip. "Ethan has always needed a great deal of managing. I’m glad you’re willing to handle the menial errands."

Victoria’s pastel smile froze at the edges, a flicker of shock flashing across her face. Ethan frowned, his head whipping toward me, surprised by the cold bite in my tone.

Before he could speak, the heavy brass door of the dining room clicked open.

The low chatter around the table died down instantly.

Damon walked in.

He didn't wear a stiff suit like Ethan or the older board members. He wore charcoal tailored trousers and a fitted black cashmere crewneck with the sleeves pushed up over corded forearms. His dark hair was combed back with sharp precision, his square jaw clean-shaven, his posture radiating that same dark, dangerous stillness that commanded the room without an ounce of effort.

My breath locked behind my ribs.

My pulse surged violently, a hot, liquid thrum pooling between my thighs so fast my vision blurred. I stared down at my silver fork, gripping the handle until my knuckles turned white.

Don't look up. Act like he doesn't exist.

"Damon, you're late," Eleanor said, though her tone lacked the biting sharpness she usually reserved for everyone else. No one in the family dared cross Damon, not even his older half-sister.

"Traffic," Damon replied smoothly. His voice was that exact low, gravelly rasp that had growled against the shell of my ear while he wrecked me on his living room floor.

He moved along the perimeter of the table. There was only one vacant seat left—the high-backed chair directly across from me, next to Victoria.

He pulled out the chair and sat down with effortless grace.

Victoria brightened instantly, sitting up straighter and tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Uncle Damon! We were wondering if you were going to make it."

Damon didn't look at her. He offered a curt, indifferent nod to the table, unfolded his white cloth napkin, and placed it across his lap. He didn't look at me, either. For five straight minutes, he ignored my existence completely, listening with bored politeness as Ethan’s father launched into a long speech about the company's real estate portfolio.

I started to breathe again. I forced my posture to relax, telling myself the "no feelings, no recognition" rule was working. We were professionals. We were strangers sharing a dirty secret.

Then, under the heavy white tablecloth, something touched my bare skin.

It was firm, heavy, and deliberate.

The sleek, leather toe of a designer dress shoe slid between my ankles.

My heart slammed against my ribs like a hammer. My back went rigid against the chair.

I looked up. Damon was casually taking a sip of black coffee, his eyes fixed on Ethan’s father, his expression completely blank, as if he were half-asleep with corporate boredom.

Under the table, the shoe moved higher.

The edge of his heavy leather shoe pressed against the outside of my left ankle, slowly gliding up the bare skin of my lower calf. The leather was smooth and cool, but the heavy, possessive pressure behind it was scorching hot.

I choked on a breath, clamping my lips shut to swallow the gasp before it left my mouth.

Damon didn't stop. He turned his foot slightly, sliding his leather shoe along the inside of my calf, deliberately urging my crossed legs apart. His long leg bridged the narrow distance under the wood, heavy and inescapable.

Stop it, my mind screamed, the sheer terror of twelve family members sitting inches away making my blood turn to pure adrenaline. Stop it right now.

I tried to pull my leg back, tucking my heels beneath my chair to escape the contact.

Damon’s leg followed.

He extended his long limb further, planting the side of his foot firmly against my bare calf, applying a steady, commanding pressure that pinned my leg against the wooden rung of my own chair. He held me completely captive beneath the white linen.

"I’d like to propose a toast," Ethan’s father announced suddenly, pushing back his chair and raising a crystal glass of champagne.

Chairs scraped. Glasses clinked.

Ethan stood up beside me, beaming with unearned pride, his hand coming down to squeeze my bare shoulder. "Stand up, babe," he murmured.

I couldn't move.

Across the table, Damon finally lifted his eyes.

Over the edge of his raised champagne flute, his dark, hooded gaze locked directly onto mine. It was a filthy, shameless stare. His pupils were wide and black, daring me to flinch, daring me to pull away.

Under the table, while his father spoke about loyalty and family legacy, Damon dragged the toe of his shoe an inch higher, his leather grazing the sensitive skin right below my knee.

A sharp, electric shudder ripped straight through my spine, pooling heavy and desperate in my core. My cheeks burned crimson. My lips parted on a shallow, ragged breath.

"To Ethan and Robin," the table echoed in unison, glasses rising in the sunlight.

Damon touched his glass to his mouth, taking a slow sip. His dark eyes never left my burning face as his shoe pressed firmly against my bare flesh under the cloth, reminding me with terrifying clarity exactly who owned every shuddering inch of my body.