Chapter 10
Ethan died in the stairwell. The body was handled by Damien's people — efficiently, silently. By morning, there was no trace. No police report. No questions.
I should have felt guilt. I searched for it in the days after — probed my conscience like pressing a bruise. Nothing. Only a vast, clean emptiness.
Maybe that made me a monster.
Or maybe it made me a survivor.
"You haven't spoken in two days," Damien said on the third morning. He set coffee beside me where I sat curled in the library chair.
"I'm processing."
"Process out loud. The silence is—" He stopped himself.
I looked up. "Is what?"
His jaw worked. "Concerning."
I almost smiled. Damien Blackwell — the man who could order a death without blinking — was concerned about my silence.
"I don't feel guilty," I told him honestly. "About Ethan. About any of it. And I'm trying to decide if that means something is wrong with me."
Damien crouched before my chair, his hands resting on the armrests, caging me in gently.
"Nothing is wrong with you. You were surrounded by people who wanted you dead or gone. You survived. That's not monstrous — that's strength."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" I asked softly.
His eyes flickered. A wound, briefly exposed.
"I don't tell myself anything. I just keep moving."
I reached out and touched his face — cupped his jaw, ran my thumb over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He closed his eyes. Such a small thing, but from him, it was everything.
"Teach me," I said.
His eyes opened. "What?"
"To be like you. Strong enough that no one can use me again. Powerful enough to protect myself." I leaned forward. "I don't want to be saved, Damien. I want to be dangerous."
Something ignited in his gaze. Dark and hungry.
"Be careful what you ask for."
"I'm done being careful."
He surged forward, capturing my mouth in a kiss that stole thought. I pulled him closer, fingers fisting his shirt, needing the weight of him, the heat, the proof that this — whatever this was — was real.
He lifted me from the chair, and I wrapped around him. We didn't make it to the bedroom. He took me right there against the library shelves, books falling around us as he drove into me with a force that made me scream.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was claiming. Rebuilding. Two broken things fitting together in the only way they knew how.
After, we lay tangled on the library floor, breathless.
"Your father's documents were delivered today," he said against my hair.
I exhaled. "How long does he have?"
"The families he crossed will move within the week. He'll be arrested first — I made sure of that. Police will arrive before anyone else."
Prison. Not death. As I'd asked.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Don't thank me." He propped himself on one elbow, looking down at me with fierce intensity. "Just promise me something."
"What?"
"When this is over — when everything is settled — choose this. Choose us. Because I can't..." He stopped, swallowed. "I can't go back to what I was before you."
The confession cracked me open. This man — this terrifying, powerful, broken man — was afraid.
Of me. Of losing me.
"I'm not going anywhere," I told him.
His forehead dropped to mine. A breath escaped him that sounded like it had been held for twenty years.
"Then neither am I."
I should have felt guilt. I searched for it in the days after — probed my conscience like pressing a bruise. Nothing. Only a vast, clean emptiness.
Maybe that made me a monster.
Or maybe it made me a survivor.
"You haven't spoken in two days," Damien said on the third morning. He set coffee beside me where I sat curled in the library chair.
"I'm processing."
"Process out loud. The silence is—" He stopped himself.
I looked up. "Is what?"
His jaw worked. "Concerning."
I almost smiled. Damien Blackwell — the man who could order a death without blinking — was concerned about my silence.
"I don't feel guilty," I told him honestly. "About Ethan. About any of it. And I'm trying to decide if that means something is wrong with me."
Damien crouched before my chair, his hands resting on the armrests, caging me in gently.
"Nothing is wrong with you. You were surrounded by people who wanted you dead or gone. You survived. That's not monstrous — that's strength."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" I asked softly.
His eyes flickered. A wound, briefly exposed.
"I don't tell myself anything. I just keep moving."
I reached out and touched his face — cupped his jaw, ran my thumb over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He closed his eyes. Such a small thing, but from him, it was everything.
"Teach me," I said.
His eyes opened. "What?"
"To be like you. Strong enough that no one can use me again. Powerful enough to protect myself." I leaned forward. "I don't want to be saved, Damien. I want to be dangerous."
Something ignited in his gaze. Dark and hungry.
"Be careful what you ask for."
"I'm done being careful."
He surged forward, capturing my mouth in a kiss that stole thought. I pulled him closer, fingers fisting his shirt, needing the weight of him, the heat, the proof that this — whatever this was — was real.
He lifted me from the chair, and I wrapped around him. We didn't make it to the bedroom. He took me right there against the library shelves, books falling around us as he drove into me with a force that made me scream.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was claiming. Rebuilding. Two broken things fitting together in the only way they knew how.
After, we lay tangled on the library floor, breathless.
"Your father's documents were delivered today," he said against my hair.
I exhaled. "How long does he have?"
"The families he crossed will move within the week. He'll be arrested first — I made sure of that. Police will arrive before anyone else."
Prison. Not death. As I'd asked.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Don't thank me." He propped himself on one elbow, looking down at me with fierce intensity. "Just promise me something."
"What?"
"When this is over — when everything is settled — choose this. Choose us. Because I can't..." He stopped, swallowed. "I can't go back to what I was before you."
The confession cracked me open. This man — this terrifying, powerful, broken man — was afraid.
Of me. Of losing me.
"I'm not going anywhere," I told him.
His forehead dropped to mine. A breath escaped him that sounded like it had been held for twenty years.
"Then neither am I."