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nervously.
    â€œOf course,” Damascus replied. But she knew what the woman was seeing. There was sweat on her forehead. Her professional makeup held up, but the little dots of perspiration were still there to betray her agitation.
    Hell, it was full-on terror.
    Damascus ended up running her hand across her forehead again and chided herself the moment she realized she’d done it. The press loved to get bad pictures of everyone. She knew better than to give them an opportunity, but her focus was slipping. The stage was set, the presidential podium in place along with the medals being awarded. Everyone was waiting for the president to begin the proceedings.
    Vitus was there, so close and yet so far away.
    Her heart was pounding, anticipation so gripping that she struggled to pull in each breath. The liaison was casting nervous looks at her, no doubt trying to decide if she was another fragile politician’s daughter who would need delicate handling to make it through what should have been a breeze. Damascus cringed and focused on just how much she detested that type of woman. The ones she brushed elbows with on the White House lawn and in the ballroom. The ones who were too far detached from reality, rarely venturing to the bathroom without one of their personal assistants trailing them.
    She refused to be that fragile. She had strength, had scraped it up from the darkest moment of her life when death shimmered like a reward. That moment when Vitus had rescued her from men who viewed her as a means to success in their venture.
    So, she’d make it through today, through seeing him once more, through making it appear as if he wasn’t the man she loved.
    The press surged to life as a man entered the stage, moving across it with solid purpose. Camera lenses were lifted into position as he welcomed them all and introduced the president.
    She knew the speech by heart, the accolades for service rendered above and beyond the scope of duty. The words outlining how grateful the nation was and how privileged the president felt at being able to award the medals waiting for their recipients.
    She lost track of what the president was saying as four men came onto the stage. The Secret Service guided each one into position, stopping them precisely where small pieces of tape were secured to the carpet. They were all in dress uniform, but her attention settled on Vitus Hale. He stood at ease, even though she knew without a doubt he was anything but. His body was perfectly in position as the president turned to look at her.
    â€œI think this medal is one I need to share the awarding with.” The president smiled at her. “She’s a lot prettier too. Don’t you all agree?”
    There was a rumble of amusement as the cameras continued to click away. Only the practice her sire had insisted she do ensured that she glided toward the president with poise and confidence.
    All she noticed were the details she was starving for, the tiny little things about Vitus that she had missed for three long years. The way his chin seemed chiseled out of solid stone or the flecks of copper in his dark hair. His shave was perfect, his hair cut to a mere half inch all over his head. The president was waiting for her to take the Medal of Honor from his hands. The ribbon felt crisp and heavy as she stepped onto a step stool that had been provided for her so that she could secure the ribbon around Vitus’s neck.
    He smelled as good as she recalled.
    Her fingers brushed his neck as she fumbled with the closure. It felt like it took too long, another round of amusement rippling through the press as she struggled to complete her task. She finally finished, and the president offered Vitus his hand. The president held the handshake for a long moment, ensuring that the press got enough shots before he stepped past Vitus to the next man. Damascus stepped down and held her position, one full step behind Vitus, while the rest of the medals