There are no other options.

And as I glance sideways at Damien with his papers spread out and his face a mask of secrets and fears, I cannot help but be very, very afraid.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the narrow bed in the stateroom, feeling hollow. I brought the empty champagne flute back with me, and now I hold it like a baton—one hand on the base, and one hand on the rim, the fragile stem stretched out between my hands.

It would be so simple, I think. Just a contraction of muscles. One quick movement and—snap.

One second, maybe less, and I’d have the stem in my hand, its top raw, the edge of broken glass as sharp as a knife.

My skirt is hitched up so that I can sit like this, and beneath the material that is stretched taut across my legs, I can see the marred flesh of my inner thighs. I can imagine tracing the stem along the edge of the most jagged one. The pain as I press the glass into soft flesh. The release as I tug it down, my skin yielding and the horrible pressure in my chest finally lessening as the valve is open and all this shit that has been building can finally explode out of me.

I want it—oh, God, I want it.

No.

I squeeze my eyes tight, desperate for Damien’s hand. But he is not here, and it is just me, and I am not certain that I can do this alone.

Slowly, I run the rounded rim of the flute against my thigh. Just one snap—just a little pressure—

No, no, goddammit, no.

I will not do this, and I lift the glass, prepared to hurl it away from me, but a firm tap on the door startles me and I jump guiltily. I don’t expect it to be Damien—he returned to the jet’s office as soon as we reached altitude two hours ago, and I haven’t seen him since. Instead, I assume it’s Katie, the flight attendant, who promised to wake me when dinner was served.

“I’m not hungry,” I call. “I’m going to sleep a little longer.”

But then the door bursts open and he’s right there. Damien.

And there I am holding the goddamn flute.

I shift my position so that I’m sitting with my legs out and my back against the polished wood siding. I casually put the flute on the nearby table, hoping that he doesn’t realize the dark direction in which my thoughts were traveling.

He stands there for so long, I fear he isn’t going to say a word. His face is firm, his eyes sad. “You should have called me out for bullshit,” he finally says, and I allow myself the tiniest bit of relief. He didn’t see the glass; he didn’t realize what I was thinking.

“Of course it’s about us,” he continues. “There’s nothing in my life that isn’t about us. How could there be when my world revolves around you?”

“Don’t,” I say, still unbalanced and edgy. “Don’t shift the focus by plying me with romantic platitudes.”

I see the spark of anger fire in his eyes as crosses the stateroom in three long strides, the door clicking shut behind him. “Platitudes?” he repeats, his tone hard. “Jesus, Nikki, are you telling me you don’t know what you mean to me?” He reaches out to touch me, but stops with his fingers only inches from my face. “Haven’t I told you every single day that we’ve been together?”

I can feel the heat rolling off him. A violent passion. A sensual need. I close my eyes and draw a shuddering breath as my blood pounds through me in response. Oh, yes. I know how he feels about me; I feel the same way. Alive in his arms. Lost out of them. He is everything to me.

And that is why I am willing to fight so hard.

Slowly, I open my eyes and tilt my head to look at him. “I know,” I say. “But that doesn’t make it relevant. Maynard didn’t call about stock prices or your corporate logo or what they serve in the goddamn lunchroom at Stark Tower.”

He’s staring at me as if I’ve gone mad, and maybe I have a little. But dammit, I want him to understand.

“We’re not attached at the hip, Damien. Everything’s not about us. And that’s fine. Hell, it’s good. I don’t want to steal your autonomy any more than I want to hand you mine. But I have memorized every line of your face, and I recognized the shadows I saw in your eyes. So don’t trivialize something that really does affect us by making it sound like some minor irritation that’s going to require us to reschedule dinner next Thursday.”

He raises an eyebrow as he looks at me. “Well,” he says, and that simple word holds both surprise and acknowledgment.

After a moment, he takes the last step toward me and sits next to me on the bed. He gently takes my hand and uses his fingertip to trace lightly upon my skin. He says nothing, though, and the silence hangs heavy between us, full of both questions and hope.

I remember my thought as we took off—that we are either going to keep moving forward, or we are going to crash. Finally, I can take it no longer. I reach for him, then stroke my hand down the side of his cheek. “I love you,” I say, though the words seem too big for my throat.

“Nikki.” My name sounds as though it was wrenched from him, and when he pulls me close and holds me tight, I close my eyes, wanting—no, needing—to hear the words back. He has not said that he loves me since my first week in Germany. Not since the trial prep began in earnest and the attorneys warned him that he was risking jail and his future if he didn’t testify.

I need to hear it now, though. I desperately need him to say those three little words. Not because I doubt that Damien loves me, but because I cannot shake the fear that we are on a collision course with the real world, and that those words are our only shield once our shiny, protective bubble shatters.

He says nothing, though. He simply holds me, his arms closing tight around me as if that is all the protection I need.

When he does speak, his words surprise me. “The press has been going hot and heavy suggesting that I bribed someone to get the charges dropped.”

I stiffen and pull back so that I can see his face. “Those fucking bastards.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I agree completely with your assessment, but the truth is I’ve been accused of worse.” I search his face and see nothing of my own anger. Whatever is bothering him, it isn’t this ridiculous accusation. That’s just one part of the story.

“Okay,” I say. “Go on.”

“Apparently the prosecutors and judges weren’t thrilled with the allegations. The prosecution released an official statement that the charges against me were dropped after additional evidence was brought to the court’s attention.”

Considering that’s exactly what happened, I’m still not seeing the problem. But I say nothing, content to wait.

“Now the press is pushing to see the evidence.”

Oh . . .

I squeeze his hand tight. “Damien, that’s—” I cut myself off, because I don’t know what to say. Horrible? I think of how wrecked he was after the dismissal and try to magnify that a million-fold if those photos are released to the whole goddamned world. My chest constricts and my skin feels prickly merely from the thought. I can’t even imagine how Damien must feel—or how brutally the release of those photos will rip him apart.

I suck in air and try again. “Surely they won’t. The evidence is sealed, right? What did Maynard say?” I’m babbling, but I know nothing about the law, and even less than that about the law in Germany. Does the press have a right to see the evidence? Will the court or the prosecution turn the photos over to save its own reputation?