The crystal tumbler sat completely ignored on the edge of the mahogany desk.
Damien didn't bother with glassware tonight. He sat in the pitch-black silence of his study, leaning back in his leather chair, his fingers wrapped around the neck of a three-thousand-dollar bottle of Macallan.
He brought the bottle to his lips and took a long, punishing pull.
The premium scotch burned a harsh, fiery trail down his throat, settling like a bed of hot coals in his stomach. It was supposed to numb the edges of his mind. It was supposed to quiet the deafening roar of his own thoughts.
It wasn't working.
Damien lowered the bottle, resting it on his thigh. He was shirtless, his skin still damp and flushed from a scalding shower that had done absolutely nothing to wash away the layer of guilt clinging to him. Small droplets of water fell from the tips of his wet silver hair, tracking slowly down the hard planes of his chest.
