Cottage Getaway Pt. 8

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon filled the air as you stepped into the kitchen. The open-concept space was bathed in soft morning light filtering through the large windows, casting long shadows over the polished countertops.

At the center of it all, sitting at the marble island, was Damian Kane.

Even at this hour, the man looked effortlessly composed—broad-shouldered and powerful, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He wore a black fitted Henley, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, accentuating the defined muscle beneath. His hair was slightly tousled, evidence that he had at least just woken up, but his face remained unreadable, as if he were already calculating his next move for the day.

He cut into his eggs with military precision, chewing methodically, eyes flicking up as you entered.

His gaze—cool and assessing—lingered on you for a second longer than necessary before he returned to his food.

The only other person in the kitchen was the chef, who was plating the last of the breakfast spread: a mix of fluffy scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, avocado toast, bacon, and fresh fruit.

“Morning,” you greeted, voice still a little soft from waking up.

Damian gave a slight nod of acknowledgment, barely pausing in his meal.

You grabbed a plate, piling on a reasonable portion—mostly eggs and fruit, a slice of toast for good measure—before making your way to the island. You could have sat anywhere, but instead, you slid onto the stool right next to Damian, a calculated move masked as casual.

"Sleep well?" you asked, picking up your fork.

He glanced at you. “Better than most people here, I assume.”

You let out a small, embarrassed laugh, your mind flashing back to the absolute debauchery of last night. The way you had… well. The way everyone had.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah, uh—this place is a sex-crazed madhouse.”

Damian let out a soft, almost imperceptible exhale of amusement, though his face remained largely impassive. “They’re like this every time.” He cut into another piece of egg, barely fazed. “It’s not exactly my scene.”

You arched a brow. “Not a fan?”

He gave you a look—a mix of dry amusement and mild exasperation. “No. I prefer control over chaos.”

That tracks.

“So you just—what?” you gestured vaguely. “Slept through the whole thing?”

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Vanessa found her way to Ethan’s room.”

Your fork paused mid-air.

He didn’t seem remotely affected, saying it as if it were just another transaction. Not a loss, not a betrayal—simply a decision that had been made with his consent.

“You’re not, like… upset about that?” you asked, tilting your head.

Damian’s gaze was unreadable as he took a sip of his coffee. “We’re not exclusive.”

“But she... must have asked you first.”

His smirk deepened slightly. “Of course she did.”

Authority. Dominance.

You felt something coil in your stomach at the sheer weight of his presence, the way people—women—deferred to him without question.

“She knows what I expect,” he added, voice low and certain.

You swallowed, resisting the urge to squirm. “And what’s that?”

He finally looked at you, his gaze steady, measured.

“Respect.”

One word. Simple. Firm. Unwavering.

You **** yourself to hold his gaze, the corner of your lips curling into something playful. “Sounds a little old-fashioned.”

His smirk barely shifted. “It’s called discipline.”

God.

You took a sip of your coffee, needing a second to reorient yourself. He was sharp, controlled, methodical—you needed to approach him like a game of chess, not some reckless flirtation.

"Discipline, huh?" you mused, setting your cup down. "Sounds like you treat your relationships like a business."

His gaze flicked to you again. "Everything is a business."

There it was. The Damian Kane Philosophy.

You leaned in just a little, resting your elbow on the counter, your posture relaxed but engaging. “That must get… exhausting.”

He gave you an almost imperceptible glance, as if assessing whether you were being genuine or just testing him. “It works.”

“Does it?” You tilted your head, feigning curiosity. “All work, no play? No room for—” you gestured vaguely “—messy things like fun?”

His jaw ticked slightly, but there was something else there. A flicker of intrigue.

“I enjoy things that have purpose,” he said. “I don’t waste time.”

“And yet,” you countered, your voice dipping just a little lower, “you’re sitting here having breakfast with me.”

That got a reaction.

It was subtle, barely there—the way his fingers paused against his coffee cup before he resumed drinking, the way his gaze lingered on you a second too long before shifting away.

Progress.

You kept your expression carefully neutral, picking at your eggs as if this wasn’t the most important conversation of the weekend.

Damian, meanwhile, studied you for another beat before finally setting his fork down. “Tell me something.”

You glanced at him, brow arching. “Hmm?”

“What’s your angle?”

There it was. Direct. Uncompromising. Straight to the point.

You exhaled a soft laugh, shaking your head. “What makes you think I have one?”

“You wouldn't be here if you didn’t.”

A challenge.

You smirked, stirring your coffee absentmindedly. “Maybe I just like good company.”

Damian tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the truth in your words. Then, after a pause—

“Hm.”

Not a rejection. Not an agreement. Just consideration.

That was good. That was very good.

The two of you ate in silence for a few moments, the conversation settling into something unspoken yet charged. It was subtle, but you could feel it—the way his guard had shifted just slightly, the way his interest had been piqued, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

This wasn’t a man who could be seduced with cheap tricks. Damian Kane was a war machine, trained to conquer, not be conquered.

But you weren’t trying to conquer him.

You were trying to make him want you—on his own terms.

And by the look in his eyes, by the way his attention lingered just a little longer than necessary, you were already halfway there.

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clink of cutlery against plates and the distant hum of the lake outside. The other guests were either still tangled up in last night’s indulgences or nursing their hangovers, leaving just you and Damian at the breakfast island, an unlikely pairing in the early morning light.

You stole another glance at him. He didn’t eat like a man who enjoyed his food—he ate like a man who needed to eat, methodical and precise, each motion efficient. Like everything about him, there was no wasted effort.

Still, there was something different in the way he hadn’t dismissed you yet. He wasn’t entertained by triviality, and he certainly wasn’t the type to entertain people he found irrelevant.

And yet, here he was.

“So,” you mused, reaching for a piece of fruit, “if this weekend isn’t your scene, why come at all?”

Damian wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin before answering. “Connections.”

“Networking?” You popped a grape into your mouth. “You could do that in an office, you know.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smirk. “People show their true selves when they think no one important is watching. These trips make it easier to gauge who’s worth keeping around.”

That made sense. He didn’t just do business—he assessed, measured, calculated. Even now, you could feel the weight of his scrutiny, like he was still deciding whether you were worth his time.

“You really do treat everything like a business, huh?” you teased, tilting your head.

He didn’t deny it. “Discipline keeps things from becoming… messy.”

“Messy,” you echoed. “Like emotions?”

He didn’t react immediately, just took a slow sip of his coffee. “Emotions make people weak.”

You hummed, pretending to consider that. “And yet, wars have been started over them. Seems like they’re pretty powerful, don’t you think?”

That got a reaction. A flicker of something in his eyes.

Interesting.

“You sound like someone trying to convince themselves they don’t feel anything,” you added, resting your chin on your hand. “But I think you do.”

Damian didn’t flinch, didn’t bristle—he just studied you, his gaze unreadable.

“I think,” you continued, voice slow and measured, “you just don’t like the idea of emotions having power over you.”

Silence.

Then, the ghost of a smirk. “That’s a dangerous assumption.”

You leaned in slightly, your voice dipping just enough to make it feel like a conspiracy. “Maybe. But am I wrong?”

His fingers tapped idly against the countertop, his smirk still lingering. “You like playing with fire, don’t you?”

You grinned. “Only when it doesn’t burn me.”

Damian’s gaze flicked downward, just for a second, before returning to your face. It wasn’t much—but it was enough to tell you something.

He was intrigued.

Not won over, not softened, but intrigued.

And for Damian Kane, that was a victory in itself.

You turned back to your food, keeping the silence charged but comfortable, letting him stew in whatever thoughts were brewing behind those sharp eyes.

After a few beats, he spoke again.

“Tell me something.”

You glanced at him, amused. “I thought you didn’t like small talk.”

“I don’t.” He set down his coffee cup. “But I want to know—what’s your endgame?”

Ah. Back to business-mode.

You tapped your fork against your plate. “You think I have an agenda?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

That was the second time he’d said that.

You smirked, tilting your head. “Maybe I’m just enjoying myself.”

“Maybe,” he allowed. “But you don’t strike me as someone who acts without purpose.”

You liked that. He didn’t just see you as another pretty face or another distraction. He saw you as someone capable of playing the game.

“Maybe I’m trying to figure you out,” you offered, watching his reaction closely.

A pause. Then:

“Good luck.”

Your smirk deepened. “Why? You think you’re that hard to read?”

“I know I am.”

Oh, he was confident. A challenge wrapped in a man.

But you could feel it now, the way the conversation had shifted, the way he wasn’t brushing you off, the way he was engaging, actually considering you.

You were getting through to him.

Slowly. Carefully. But undeniably.

And neither of you quite expected it.

You reached for your coffee, taking a slow sip before setting the mug down, your movements just a little more fluid, a little more deliberate.

“So,” you started, tilting your head toward him, “since you’re the only man in this house who isn’t a _complete **** _to his dick, let’s see if you actually notice things.”

Damian raised a brow, intrigued but guarded. “That’s a low bar.”

“Mm, but an important one.” You leaned forward slightly, just enough to command his attention without forcing it. “How do I look?”

A flicker of something—curiosity, amusement—crossed his face. “You want me to rate your outfit?”

“Not rate.” You smiled, tilting your chin up. “Analyze.”

For a moment, Damian just watched you, like he was deciding whether or not to indulge you. Then, he set his fork down, his gaze finally dragging over you in a way that felt less clinical, more aware.

“White top,” he murmured, his voice smooth, unreadable. “Faux-leather pants.” His eyes flicked down. “Casual, more-so then yesterday's.”

You grinned. “Good memory.”

“I don’t forget things,” he said simply, then took a sip of his coffee before adding, “It’s deliberate.”

You arched a brow. “Deliberate?”

“You want to look put together without trying too hard. Polished, but not stiff. White’s a power move.” His gaze met yours again, steady and sharp. “It’s confidence.”

Damn.

You hadn’t expected him to actually play along. Let alone nail the intention behind it.

And yet, he wasn’t done.

“You could’ve worn something tighter, more revealing,” he continued. “But you didn’t. You want to be seen, but on your terms.” His eyes flicked to your lips, then back up. “Even your makeup. Clean, but intentional.”

You smiled slowly, swirling your spoon in your coffee. “I didn’t think you paid attention to makeup.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I pay attention to people.”

Your heart skipped, just a little. You had him.

He wouldn’t flirt the way other men did—no lingering hands, no overly obvious glances—but this? This was how Damian Kane played the game. He wasn’t complimenting you. He was acknowledging you.

Which meant he was invested.

“Well,” you hummed, tapping a manicured finger against the table, “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Damian smirked. “You should.”

You leaned in slightly, your voice turning just a little softer, more teasing. “So? Do you like it?”

He didn’t answer right away. He let the question sit, let you wonder, before finally, he said, “It suits you.”

It shouldn’t have felt as satisfying as it did.

You took another bite of your breakfast, letting the moment stretch, enjoying the push and pull, the unspoken game unfolding between you two.

“You know,” you mused after a beat, “I think I’m starting to figure you out.”

Damian exhaled a quiet, amused sound, shaking his head slightly. “Doubtful.”

“No, really.” You smiled, tilting your head. “You act like you don’t care about these things—outfits, makeup, appearances—but you notice. You just don’t let yourself think about them too much, because if you do, it makes them matter.”

His jaw flexed, but his smirk lingered. “And you think you matter to me?”

You grinned. “I think I’m getting there.”

And there it was again—that slight shift in his expression, like you’d caught him off guard for just a split second before he buried it under that same unwavering coolness.

Damian picked up his napkin, dabbing his mouth before standing. “I’m going to freshen up.”

You watched him, still smirking. “Don’t take too long. I’ll miss you.”

He huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head as he walked away.

You exhaled, letting the victory settle in your chest. You were getting to him. And, more importantly?

He was starting to like it.