Chapter 144: Dangerous Breakfast

Micah’s POV

It was morning.

The light was already pouring through the tall bedroom curtains, announcing the arrival of the most stressful day of the semester. D-day. Today was the official start of the intercollegiate championship tournament, and tonight was the varsity hockey final against George Jenson’s university.

I sat up on the massive guest bed, rubbing my eyes.

A quiet wave of relief washed over my chest when I realized Damon hadn’t snuck into my room in the middle of the night.

After the brutal, exhausting eight-hour training session Noah and the coach had put him through at the rink, I doubted the bastard had enough energy left to climb out of his own bed, let alone sneak through the connecting door to bother me.

I stretched my stiff limbs, climbed out of bed, and went straight into the bathroom.

I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and took a quick morning rinse to shake off the lingering grogginess. When I stepped back out into the bedroom, I was wrapped in a thick, dark grey bathrobe I found on the rack.

I paused by the edge of the bed, frowning down at the small writing desk.

I didn’t have any fresh clothes to wear. My only option was the sweater and trousers I had worn yesterday, which were currently folded neatly on the armchair.

"Noah said he was coming to pick me up this morning," I whispered to myself, chewing on my bottom lip. "Should I just wait for him, or should I call a cab and head home right now to grab clean clothes?"

Before I could answer my own question, the brass handle on the adjoining door suddenly jiggled.

The lock turned and the heavy door swung open.

Damon walked straight into my room without knocking, carrying a sleek white designer shopping bag in his hand.

"Got you something to wear," Damon announced casually.

I froze in place, clutching the collar of my bathrobe tightly against my throat.

Damon was already fully awake. He was wearing a tight black compression shirt and a pair of matching black sweatpants. The thin athletic fabric clung to every single inch of his muscular frame. His broad chest, the cut of his shoulders, and the sharp lines of his abs were completely visible.

My gaze betrayed me. Without thinking, my eyes drifted lower, dropping straight to the heavy, unmistakable outline dangling between his thighs.

"Micah?" Damon’s voice rumbled.

My head snapped up instantly.

A slow, wicked, terribly smug smirk was plastered across Damon’s face. His dark eyes glinted with pure amusement. He had caught me staring, and he knew exactly what I had been looking at.

Heat rushed straight to my face. My cheeks burned so hot I felt like my skin was on fire. I quickly turned my head away, staring at the floor on the opposite side of the room.

I heard his soft footsteps moving across the floor toward me. I immediately took two steps backward, trying to put distance between us, but Damon kept closing the gap until he was standing right in front of me.

"You don’t need to be shy, sweetheart," Damon purred, his voice dripping with playful mockery. "Keep looking. I don’t mind."

I could feel the intense heat radiating off his body. He stepped closer, invading my personal space until his chest was inches from mine.

I turned my head slightly, peeking up at him with a scowl.

"I wasn’t looking," I lied through my teeth.

"Right. Of course you weren’t," Damon whispered.

He leaned down, tilting his head until his lips brushed right against the sensitive skin of my ear.

"You were probably imagining my cock inside your mouth, weren’t you?" Damon murmured, his deep voice vibrating straight through my spine. "Wondering if you should have a quick taste before we go downstairs for breakfast."

A violent jolt shot through my entire body.

"Are you completely crazy?!" I gritted out, shoving my palms hard against his chest and pushing myself away from him.

Damon didn’t fight my shove. He just pulled back, throwing his head back as a loud laugh echoed from his throat. He tossed the white shopping bag onto the center of the bed with a careless flick of his wrist.

"Maybe we should hold off until this evening," Damon grinned, his eyes darkening with filthy promise. "After I win the championship game tonight. Because if I start fucking you right now, darling, I highly doubt I’ll have the willpower to let you out of this bed before midnight."

My heart hammered wildly against my ribs.

This absolute fucker.

Why the hell was my chest fluttering? Why was a dirty, sinful heat pooling in the pit of my stomach just because of the disgusting things coming out of his mouth? I was supposed to be disgusted. I was supposed to hate him for talking to me like that.

Instead, my pulse was racing, and my breath was shallow.

I didn’t give him another second to mock me. I lunged forward, grabbed the designer shopping bag off the mattress, and bolted right past him toward the bathroom.

"Come down for breakfast when you’re done, darling!" Damon called out behind me, his voice full of laughter. "We have a very long day ahead of us!"

"Shut up!" I shouted back, stepping inside and slamming the heavy bathroom door right in his face.

I locked it with a sharp twist, leaning my back against the wood, panting heavily as I pressed both hands over my burning cheeks.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my spinning head, and opened the shopping bag.

Inside was a complete set of brand-new clothes: a soft cream-colored sweater, tailored dark trousers, clean socks, and a black designer belt. Everything was high-end, and to my surprise, every single piece fit my exact measurements perfectly.

.

Ten minutes later, I unlocked the bathroom door and stepped back into the bedroom. Damon had already left.

I grabbed my camera bag and slung it over my shoulder, picked up my small overnight bag, and opened the main bedroom door.

I walked down the long hallway and descended the grand staircase. Faint voices and the sound of clinking silverware drifted from the formal dining room on the ground floor.

I stepped into the dining area and paused near the archway.

Sitting at the head of the long table was Mr. Silver, dressed in a sharp business suit, sipping black coffee while reading an iPad. Sitting across from each other were Damon’s younger twin brothers, Lucas and Levi, both happily munching on pancakes covered in maple syrup.

The moment Lucas looked up and spotted me, his eyes lit up.

"Oh! Damon’s girlfriend is here!" Lucas yelled, raising his fork excitedly in the air.

Levi stopped chewing, furrowing his little brows as he looked at his twin brother. "Didn’t Damon say he was a boy, Lucas?"

"Huh?" Lucas blinked, his mouth dropping open in total confusion. "He did?"

I stood there by the doorway, my face burning with embarrassment all over again. Part of me wanted to step forward and correct the boy immediately, to explain that I was just a university mate.

Yet another, quieter voice in my head froze my tongue.

What am I to Damon, anyway?

He flirted with me, he protected me, he bought me clothes, and he looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole. But we had never defined anything. I wasn’t his partner. I was just Noah Miller’s younger brother, caught up in the dangerous crossfire of their rivalry.

"Join us for breakfast, Micah," Mr. Silver’s deep, authoritative voice broke through my thoughts.

He lowered his tablet, gesturing politely toward the empty seat beside the head of the table.

"Good morning, Mr. Silver," I muttered respectfully, walking over and pulling out the heavy wooden chair.

Mr. Silver gave me a curt, dignified nod. "Good morning. Help yourself to whatever you like."

He turned his attention back to his young twin sons, patiently answering Lucas’s endless, ridiculous questions about hockey and school.

I sat there quietly, spooning a small portion of eggs onto my plate.

The atmosphere in this house was so different from mine that it felt like an alternate reality. At the Miller residence, it was hell. Here, the room was filled with warm morning light, gentle laughter, and the comfortable hum of a normal family. It made an ache of quiet longing twist deep in my chest.

Footsteps sounded from the hallway, and Damon strolled into the dining room. He had thrown a dark jacket over his tight workout shirt.

He didn’t look at the empty chairs across the table. He walked straight over to where I was sitting and pulled out the chair directly beside mine, dropping into it and deliberately bumping his shoulder against mine.

"Morning, family," Damon said smoothly, reaching across the table to grab a piece of toast.

He turned his head toward his father, lifting a challenging eyebrow. "You’re not planning on missing my championship game tonight, are you?"

Mr. Silver didn’t look up from his coffee. "Why? Are you going to sue me if I do?"

"Ha," Damon laughed out loud, leaning back in his chair. "I wish I could. But honestly, the university hockey board would probably fine you for missing your own son’s victory."

Mr. Silver let out a low, amused chuckle, shaking his head. "I will be there in the private box, Damon. Just make sure you actually win so I don’t waste two hours watching you skate in circles."

The playful banter between them was warm. I watched them quietly, a small, faint smile touching my lips as I took a bite of my food. For a brief second, I completely forgot about the kidnappings, the syndicate, and the terror of the upcoming match.

Until Damon cleared his throat.

His playful expression slowly faded, replaced by a sudden seriousness that caught me completely off guard.

Damon leaned his forearms against the polished table, staring directly at his father.

"Father," Damon spoke, his voice dropping into a quiet, calculated tone. "Do you know anything about the Whitfield family?"

My heart stopped.

My breath locked tight in my throat. The fork in my hand trembled, nearly slipping from my fingers.

Why the hell is Damon asking his father about the Whitfields?!

Noah had spent twenty years burying that name in the ashes of his burned childhood home. Nobody in the city was supposed to know that Noah was the surviving Whitfield heir. If the wrong people started asking questions, the criminal syndicate would realize who Noah was before he could execute his revenge.

Mr. Silver froze mid-motion.

The coffee cup stopped an inch away from his lips.

The casual, relaxed warmth completely drained from the older man’s face in a fraction of a second. His dark eyes hardened into cold stones as he slowly lowered the ceramic cup back onto the saucer with a sharp, heavy clatter.

Mr. Silver turned his full, piercing gaze onto his eldest son.

"Huh?" Mr. Silver asked, his deep voice carrying a sudden, dangerous edge that made the hairs on my arms stand up. "How do you know that name, Damon?"