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Damien's guard lowers, and with a cautious nod, he agrees. Side by side, Aurora and I weave through the tables and the swell of guests. As the noise of the gala fades behind us, Aurora turns to me with her face devoid of the pretense she displayed at the table.
"I don't like you," she says bluntly, and I feel the sting of her words. "You’re not good enough for Damien, and he's losing his touch. You're a distraction, taking him away from his duties."
I stop, not willing to listen to her hatred. "Listen, if you’re just going to spout bullshit, you can go back to the table,” I say with a clipped tone, dismissing her words and presence.
Her lips twist into a smirk. "Nope, I'm going to see this through."
I release a weary sigh and continue walking, making a point to silence her existence in my mind, treating her spite as nothing more than background noise to an already long evening. As we approach the ladies' room, Aurora gestures dismissively to the door.
"Just over there, to the left. I see my friend," she says, disinterest coloring her voice. "Find me when you come out." Without waiting for my response, she struts off, leaving me to the brief solace of the restroom hallway.
I make my way to the bathroom, grateful for a few moments of solitude. Locking the stall behind me, I take a long, much-needed breath to shake off the tension that Aurora's words have brought on. It doesn't take long to finish, and as I wash my hands at the sink. I catch my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are a little duller, and my posture is slightly more defeated. I'm ready for this night to end. I take another heavy breath, steadying myself for the return to the fray.
I push the door open and move into the hallway, scanning for Aurora, but she's nowhere to be seen. Slightly relieved, I head back towards the ballroom. That's when a man appears from the shadows. At first, I assume he's just another guest, perhaps wandering out from the function. His pace doesn't slow, and I expect him to brush past, but without warning, he's upon me, a flash of metallic glint in his hand. A knife.
He lunges, and I dart back instinctively, but not fast enough. The blade slices across my arm, a hot sear of pain following the sharp, cold shock. I stumble with fear surging through me and an anguished cry escapes my lips. It could have been fatal, but the attack is mercifully brief before I'm even fully aware of what's happening. One of Damien's guards is there, grappling with my assailant. They wrestle, a brief dance of violence that ends with the guard disarming the man and sending him crashing to the floor.
I'm shaking with a hand over my wounded arm, but when the guard turns to me, concern etched into his brow, I manage to tell him I'm okay. My voice doesn't sound like my own. It's then that I look for the man, the source of all this chaos, and he's gone. Vanished as though he were a ghost.
Suddenly, Aurora is at my side, her voice a sharp note of surprise. "What happened?" she asks, her eyes wide.
I'm about to answer when Damien is there, and his worry for me radiates off him in waves. I don't get the chance to respond, and I'm not sure I could even if I tried because his presence draws all my focus. In his eyes, I see a storm of emotions, a fierce protectiveness that wraps around me stronger than any guard's embrace ever could.
Damien's voice slices through the chaos, authoritative and commanding, as he starts giving out orders. His presence is like a storm, and his words are the thunder that shakes the foundations of hesitation among his guards. Despite the exquisite setting of the gala, it feels like a charade has shattered, and all I can focus on is the tension in his jaw and the barely restrained anger in his eyes.
“We're leaving," he says sharply, and I don't bother to see if anyone's looking our way. In truth, I don't care.
As we move briskly away from the event, I can feel Damien's rage vibrating through his frame. He's shaking. The fury in him is so tangible, so raw, like a force unto itself.
"I knew I shouldn't have brought you," he mutters to himself with a note of self-reproach in his voice that cuts deeper than I expect. I stop him for a moment, reaching for him, needing to ground both of us in a reality that isn't marred by shadows and threats.
"I'm glad I came, Damien," I tell him firmly. I mean every word. The walls at home were closing in on me, suffocating. Tonight, I got to escape them, got to dress up, and feel radiant in his presence. "I got to dress up and look pretty for you," I say, trying to draw a smile from him to remind him of the delight we shared before things went so terribly wrong.
He pauses and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time this evening. "You're always beautiful, baby," he replies softly, and the anger in his gaze melts for a fleeting moment. His compliment wraps around me like a warm embrace, soothing the sting of the night's events.
I can't help but smile, even as my arm throbs in protest. I take his hand, lacing our fingers together, a promise that his fears haven't come to pass. I’m alright. Yet my gesture seems to do little to chase away the storm that lurks within him, his anger a dark cloud that refuses to dissipate. Still, we walk on, side by side, into the uncertainty of the night.
29
CHAPTER 29
Damien
I sit behind my desk at work with the familiar weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders as I survey the paperwork that's piled up in my absence. It's been too long since I've been in this chair, in this room that smells faintly of leather and steel. There's an uneasy feeling that I can’t shake off. The constant concern for Isabella. Despite my reluctance to let her out of my sight, security needs dictate that I can't keep her glued to my side. I've doubled the guards around her and our unborn child. It’s the most rational decision to ensure their safety.
Victor stands in front of me, and his presence is as solid and reliable as ever. He lays out the plans with precision, his voice a steady hum in the quiet of my office. We have a lead. A possible location for the Hawthorns. They've been hiding ever since they ambushed us, and I vowed retribution. I'll take them out and then find and take out the Nightingales. The thought of taking action, of squashing this threat, brings a fierce satisfaction.
I want it to be swift and brutal. A strike that will send a message echoing through the underworld. You don’t mess with the Blackharts and walk away unscathed. I lean forward, elbows on the desk, fingers interlocked, as the predator inside me stirs, ready to protect my family.
"Let's do it," I command, my voice a low growl of approval for the impending strike. This is not just any retaliation. It’s a statement. A declaration that the Blackharts will not tolerate threats to our own.
"How many men do we have ready?" I feel a map of the Hawthorn’s location being pushed into my hands, and I spread it out on the desk, and my eyes quickly take in the layout, entry points, and potential risks.
"We have two teams of six, Damien. The best of the best," Victor replies. His confidence is reassuring, but I need details and intricacies that go beyond just numbers.
I point to the map and trace the perimeter. "I want eyes on every entrance. Sniper support on the rooftops here and here," my fingers tap against the paper, indicating the high vantage points. "We go in at night. Use the cover of darkness to our advantage."
"And the entry point for our teams?" Victor asks, leaning over to follow my plan.
