Damian's Immortal

Yully awoke in a cozy bedroom that smelled of lavender. Light poured in from a large window, and a fan overhead made the curtains flutter.

"Hey."

She twisted at the sound of Jule's voice. He sat beside her bed, his large body awkward in the small chair. He wore a snug T-shirt that displayed the roped forearms covered in tattoos. Tattoos peeked from the V-neck of the T-shirt. His dark gaze was steady, his body rippling with the power she couldn't quite pin down. The flow of energy between them, though, was open and warm. She was safe again.

"Hey," she replied.

"How're you feeling?"

"Tired but good." She looked around again and drew her knees towards her chest. "Where are we?"

"Home," he said with a slow smile. "Temporary home. Damian's headquarters is in Texas for now. You'll find home is wherever we are." His words warmed her from the inside.

"I like that idea," she said. She held out a hand to him, and he took it. "My father …"

"We sent his soul back to the immortal world."

"Good, I think," she whispered, chewing her lip. "I guess I should feel sad, but I don't. I still feel angry."

"You have every right to feel angry," he replied. "You're safe now. No one can ever hurt you again." His gaze flared at his words, and the energy between them pulsed. This time, he wasn't a fever-riddled man incapable of defending her.

"Something happened to you," she said.

"I regained a couple things I thought I'd lost." His look was too intense for her to doubt she was among what he'd discovered. "Do you feel well enough to take a walk?"

Yully cleared her throat and nodded, her face hot.

"I'll come get you in a minute. Bianca brought you some clothes." He indicated the neatly folded clothing on the table beside the bed. He kissed her hand and left her alone.

Yully looked around again, uncomfortable in the strange place without him. She wore a soft nightgown and changed into the clothing left for her. The window was open, assuring her it was neither cold nor raining. The jeans, T-shirt, and sandals would suffice. Whoever Bianca was, she'd thought of everything. Next to a small toiletry bag was a brush, hair clip, and scrunchie.

She wasn't accustomed to anyone taking the time to think of her. Her father sent her to the store for her own things since she was adopted. While she could've bought anything and everything she wanted with the handful of money he'd give her, she found even the simple thoughtfulness of a scrunchie touching.