Novelas y relatos de Damian Priest Age

Damian’s father said Damian grudgingly sat back, muttering profanities under his breath. To the outside world, Damian is a mature adult who has a flourishing career, but at home, he was just a normal young adult. The thought made me smile.

"Ohh, Damian… I think he is around 150 years old." Oh Goddess. My eyes widened. I couldn't believe they had such long lives. 'Did you hear that, Eva? Damian is older than our great grandfather.' 'Old is gold,' Eva purred. How could I forget, for her, everything about Damian was hot. I told Catherine I would skip today's training. I was already feeling low by early afternoon because I had yet to get Damian glucose. I was about to leave when I collided with someone. Shit! "Oh, I'm sorry," I said, steadying myself.

She kept her head high, her face neutral, but her heart pounded so hard it felt like it might explode. Inside, the conference room was cool and quiet—at least for now. Rows of reporters filled the seats, cameras ready, pens poised. Damian took the podium, his expression as calm and controlled as ever. Sienna stood slightly behind him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Thank you all for coming,” Damian began. His voice was smooth, steady. “I want to address the rumors directly.” The room fell silent. You could hear a pin drop. “Yes,” Damian continued, “I have a son. His name is Julian Blake. He is five years old. And he is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

“I did my investigation, Olivia. Your father refused the early treatment. Refused the transplant options because he was too obsessed with revenge. He let your mother die of grief. He let your brother waste away. And as we speak, the police have him in custody.” Damien’s voice softened, almost gentle. “I’ve arranged for your brother to be transferred to the best facility in the country. Full treatment. Whatever it takes. Because even if everything between us was a lie…even if you tried to burn my entire world down…you were still there when I needed someone. So I’m doing this. One last time.” He looked straight into the cameras. “I will cooperate fully with the investigation. I’ll answer every

Until he realized this could be the perfect retribution. Marry her. Control her. Bleed her emotionally dry the way Elena had bled. Make her pay. The priest’s voice faded into the background as Damian glanced sideways at her. She was smaller than he imagined. Fragile-looking. But she held herself like a queen. That bothered him. Does she really not remember? Or is she just that skilled at playing innocent? As the priest declared them husband and wife, he leaned in slightly, his lips brushing the air beside her ear.

Then his fingers closed gently around hers. Warm. Steady. Grounding. Neither looked at each other. Neither needed to. Victor noticed anyway. Of course he did. But surprisingly.... he didn't comment. Not this time. Because even he understood that this wasn't a moment for teasing. The room remained quiet. Then Damien spoke. "If the priest is alive, why hide for ten years?" "Fear," Zevarion answered. Everyone looked at him. His voice remained calm. Controlled. "People don't disappear for a decade unless they're afraid of something."

Agnes Church, a rambling house that smelled of incense, candle wax, and the faint, masculine musk of the man who slept just down the hall. Father Damien was thirty two, tall and broad shouldered, with black hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His black clerical shirt stretched across a chest that clearly knew hard labor, chopping firewood for the poor, carrying the elderly up the church steps, lifting crates of wine for communion. Every time he rolled up his sleeves to wash dishes after their silent suppers, Amelia’s mouth went dry. The white collar at his throat should have been a warning. Instead it was a dare.

Then one evening everything changed again. My parents had invited some priests for evening prayer at our house. We were all kneeling in the living room when he walked in. Father Damiano Moretti. He was young, maybe thirty, tall and strong under his black cassock. His face was so handsome — sharp jaw, dark hair, and deep brown eyes that looked kind but also… dangerous. When he smiled at everyone, my heart stopped. When his eyes passed over me for a second, my nipples hardened instantly.

"The things you said about us, I took them as a kid talking without thinking. I never treated them as real." He looked at her steadily. "And honestly, the only reason I was even willing to be kind to you, from the beginning, was because you looked like her. The way she was when she was young. Before I broke her." Nina's breath cut out. She dropped back onto the bed, shaking her head. "No, no, you promised—" "You can't—" Damian called the nurse, turned around, and left. He never came back. He resigned from every position in the Coronelli family. The Don, old now and furious, hurled a glass across the room. Damian knelt, touched his forehead to the floor three times, and laid the family ring o

Arthur asks once more. Damian stopped for a moment and considered if he will tell Arthur. "17," he said, knowing Arthur would freak out. "Oh I see" Arthur stopped and looked at Damian after realizing what he said. "What?" He asked again. Damian looks at Arthur as if saying he won't repeat it anymore. Arthur gasped and covered his open mouth. "You can't be serious right?" Arthur asked again, trying to deny what he just heard. "Don't I look serious?" Damian asked and looked at Arthur with a piercing gaze.