Chapter 59 Ghost Touch
Elena's POV
Morning came quietly - too quietly for what had happened.
I woke up in Damian's bed, the sheets warm and tangled around my legs, the taste of last night still clinging to my lips. Skin flushed. Muscles sore. Heart full - and annoyingly attached.
I stretched, letting memories flood through me.
The heat of Damian's breath against my throat.
The rough marble of the kitchen counter beneath my spine.
The way he'd whispered my name - low, fractured, like it cost him something.
Elena.
Like I was a secret. A sin. A sin he was never letting go of.
Except-
When I turned, I found him already awake.
Sitting at the edge of the bed. Fully dressed. Back to me.
And he wasn't smiling.
"Damian?" I said, voice soft from sleep - and maybe a little hope.
He didn't answer right away.
But when he did...
It wasn't what I expected.
"I feel like last night happened," he said slowly, hands clasped in front of him, jaw tight. "But I can't prove it did."
I blinked.
"What?"
He turned to me then - and the look in his eyes wasn't gentle or loving or even guilty.
It was confused. Frustrated. Faintly irritated.
"I remember pieces," he said, staring at me like I was part of a puzzle he didn't know he was supposed to solve. "Touch. Heat. You. But it's... fuzzy." His voice sharpened. "Like it's all underwater."
I sat up, the blanket falling from my chest, revealing the deep marks he'd left on me. "Well, I can assure you," I said, "it happened."
He swallowed.
But he still looked uncertain.
And that-
That made something in me snap.
"Oh, for God's sake," I snapped, throwing the cover aside and standing up. "Damian, you had me on the freaking counter-twice. You weren't dreaming. You weren't hallucinating."
His eyes flicked down, as if seeing me-really seeing me-for the first time. The undone hair. The bare legs. The bruised lips. His brow furrowed.
"You're sure," he said, like a man lost in his own house.
"I was there, Damian."
Silence. Heavy. Awkward as hell.
I went to the bathroom, took my time brushing my teeth, splashing water on my face, letting the rising confusion sharpen into irritation. By the time I came out again, I had my defenses strapped back on.
"You don't remember?" I bit out. "Not even the way you-"
"Elena, stop." His voice cracked sharp, tired. "I'm trying."
That stopped me.
Because there was something - something very wrong in that tone.
He wasn't being an ass on purpose.
No, he wanted to remember. But couldn't.
It wasn't rejection. It was... inability.
That chilled me.
"What do you mean you're trying?" I asked carefully.
He raked a hand through his hair. "I fell asleep, and I woke up - and it was like the night broke apart into scraps. Emotion's still there. Your body, the feeling..." He exhaled hard. "But the details... Elena, it's like someone hit fast-forward through the whole thing."
His voice was almost embarrassed.
And suddenly, the first threads of concern wound through my anger.
Something wasn't right. Not about us. But about him.
"Damian," I said slowly, "are you okay?"
He stood up. Ran both hands down his face. "I don't know."
I didn't say anything else.
But I thought: How do you forget something that intense?
And worse:
Why do I remember every second?
Damian's POV
I know we slept together.
I know because my body feels like it's still wrapped around hers. My lips tingle, and there are nail marks on my back - red, deep, unmistakably Elena.
I know because when she walked out of my bedroom just now - bare-legged in my shirt like she owned the view - I had to bite back the urge to drag her back into the sheets and make her forget her own name again.
But the memory?
It's like dust.
Scattered. Partial.
Her hands on me. Her breath in my ear. The taste of her shoulder. The counter. My bed.
And then - blank.
Like the core of it evaporated overnight.
And it was pissing me off.
As much as her anger was.
She had every right to be pissed, but I couldn't give her what she wanted.
Because I didn't have it.
I didn't remember the details.
Just... her. The heat. The need. The clarity of wanting someone in a way that burned.
But the sequence? The sharpness?
Gone.
I told her the truth and watched her face change - from anger, to disbelief, to something soft and scared.
Like it wasn't just about us anymore.
"What do you mean you're trying?" she'd asked. And I almost couldn't answer.
Because how do you explain that something your body remembers - your heart remembers - your skin remembers - is missing from your brain?
How do you explain that the instinct is still there - but the timeline is gone?
I saw her realize something then.
I don't know what-but she left my apartment abruptly. Said nothing. Just grabbed her bag and left.
Left me standing in my own living room with a hangover of a night I couldn't fully recall.
I sat back on my couch.
Ran a hand over my jaw.
Last night I had her.
Now I barely understood what that meant.
And even though I couldn't remember everything...
I didn't need the full picture to know one thing for sure:
I wasn't done with her.
Not by a long shot.