Damien’s POV

The drive home was silent.

I stole glances at her between the shifting streetlights, studying the way she sat—rigid, unmoving, staring out the window as if the world outside barely existed.

The blood on her corset had dried, darkening the fabric like a stain that would never quite wash out. But it wasn’t the blood that held my attention. It was something else.

She had just killed two men—looked them dead in the eyes and pulled the trigger without a flicker of hesitation. And yet, it wasn’t cruelty that lingered in her expression.

The car pulled into the long driveway of the estate, the iron gates closing behind us with a soft, mechanical hum. I stepped out first, scanning the area—a habit drilled into me from years of training—before opening the door for her.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t acknowledge me, just stepped out, her heels clicking softly against the cobblestone.

Inside, the warmth of the house wrapped around us, a stark contrast to the tension still thick in the air.

Her walk was slower now, the sharp confidence in her stride dulled by exhaustion. Her shoulders slouched ever so slightly, her body carrying the weight of something unspoken.

"Val!"

Martin’s voice cut through the quiet, laced with concern. He crossed the room quickly, eyes scanning her like a father checking for wounds on his child.

"Antonio called. Were you hurt?"

His hands came up, cupping her face, turning it slightly as if looking for hidden injuries.

Valentina sighed, a small, tired thing, before placing her hand on his arm in quiet reassurance.

"No. I’m fine. I managed."

Then, unexpectedly, she turned—just for a second—and looked at me.

"And Damien was there. He did a good job."

Her voice was unreadable, but the words landed heavier than they should have. A small acknowledgment, but an acknowledgment nonetheless.

Martin’s eyes flicked to me, his expression unreadable. Then back to her.

"Did you…?" He didn’t finish the question. He didn’t have to.

"Yes, of course I killed them."

There was no hesitation in her voice. No remorse. Just a simple statement of fact.

Martin exhaled, shaking his head. "That’s going to be a disaster, and you know it. The Irish will want their revenge."

Valentina rolled her shoulders back, the exhaustion in her posture momentarily disappearing. She looked at him then, sharp, unwavering.

"There was no diplomatic approach to this, Martin. They attacked me."

"I know. I don’t blame you," he admitted, rubbing a tired hand down his face. "I’m just glad you’re okay. But we need to be more careful than we already are."

Martin’s gaze flicked back to me, sharp and measured. The weight of unspoken words settled between us before he finally lifted a finger, his voice low but firm. 

"Take care of her. And don’t fuck this up."

I met his stare head-on, understanding exactly what he meant. This wasn’t just about guarding her life—it was about guarding something much more fragile, something I wasn’t even sure she would allow me to protect. 

Then, her hand found his arm. Just a simple touch, light as a whisper, and yet I saw it—the tension in his shoulders melting away, his clenched jaw loosening. It was a miracle, really, the way she could do that.  

Her voice came, hauntingly calm. 

"I’ll be in the office, okay? I’ll be fine. Check the security around the house and bring in more men to guard it. First thing in the morning, we figure out how to clean up this mess." 

Martin exhaled, rubbing a tired hand over his face. "Fine."

She didn’t wait for anything else. Her heels clicked against the marble, fading as she disappeared down the hall.

I stayed still, feeling the weight of Martin’s eyes on me.Only now did I realize he had been studying me, taking in the bruises on my face—the quiet proof that I had done my job. That I had protected her. 

Before I could say anything, her voice cut through the silence, smooth and edged with amusement.

"Damien, are you admiring my hallway, or are you coming?"

I blinked, turning my head to see her standing at the end of the corridor, one brow raised.
As I stepped into the office, closing the door behind me, her voice reached me before I even saw her. 

"Sit down."

The command was smooth, effortless—spoken by someone who expected obedience without question. 

She emerged from a glass door I hadn't noticed before, leading out to a secluded patio. The first time I had been in this office, I hadn’t exactly been paying attention to the architecture.My focus had been on something else entirely

She didn’t sit. Didn’t acknowledge my presence beyond the order she had given. Instead, she moved to a cabinet in the corner, retrieving a bottle of whiskey. Her movements were slow, deliberate.

"Do you want a drink?" she asked, pouring herself a glass without waiting for an answer. 

"No, thank you," I replied. "I’d rather keep my senses sharp."

She shrugged, as if my response was irrelevant, as if it didn’t matter whether I accepted or not. Then, her gaze shifted—drawn to the framed photograph on her desk. 

She lifted the glass to her lips, but she wasn’t really drinking.

The picture held her in a way that nothing else in the room did. Like it had her in its grip, whispering something only she could hear. For a moment, she wasn’t here. She was somewhere else—somewhere unreachable. 

I had never seen that look in her eyes before. Not since—  that day, when I had first seen her, her eyes had held the same kind of weight. But back then, I had expected something different. I had thought I would find an angel searching for salvation. Someone fragile. Someone lost. 

Instead, I had found a wildfire. 

And God help me—I had liked that so much more. 

I cleared my throat slightly, breaking the silence. 

"How are you feeling?"

Her eyes flickered, pulling back from wherever she had been. For a second, I caught a glimpse of something—something raw, unguarded. But just as quickly, it vanished behind the steel wall she always carried. 

She looked almost surprised by my question, but the moment was fleeting. A smirk curved her lips, her voice laced with its usual cool detachment. 

"It’s not the first time this has happened, and it surely won’t be the last."

She took a slow sip of her drink, studying me over the rim of her glass. 

"I have to say, I’m impressed. You handled yourself well. The best I’ve seen from a bodyguard in the last two years. Unexpected, given your little oversleeping incident this morning." 

Her smirk deepened, teasing, but there was an edge to it—like she was testing me. 

I straightened, keeping my tone even. "I’m terribly sorry about this morning. It won’t happen again."

"No, it won’t," she agreed, her tone carrying the weight of quiet authority. But then, almost playfully, she tilted her head. "Though, I have to admit, I almost admire your audacity. No one’s ever dared to oversleep on my watch before."

"I aim to be full of surprises."

She let out a quiet chuckle, a rare sound. One I wasn’t sure I’d heard before. 
As she turned her back to me and returned to the cabinet, the air between us thickened. The unspoken words hung between us, heavier than the silence that enveloped the room. My body was still, but every nerve was on edge, alert in a way I couldn’t fully explain.

She moved toward me again, slow and deliberate. Every step measured, like she was drawing a line I wasn’t sure I should cross. My instincts screamed to stay still, to hold my ground, but there was something in her that compelled me to react.

Her presence was overwhelming, even as she approached with that cool confidence I couldn’t shake. The very way she moved made it clear she had all the control in this moment, despite the height difference between us. I was taller, broader, the kind of man who was built to dominate. But in that moment, as she drew nearer, I realized—she was in complete control.

I stood there, feeling the tension coil in the space between us, unsure whether it was the air in the room or something more electric, something that stirred in my chest.

She held a small container of cream in her hand, her fingers wrapped around it with purpose. She didn’t hurry, didn’t hesitate. Her gaze locked on mine, and for the first time, I noticed how piercing her green eyes were, how they seemed to see right through me, into the parts I kept hidden.

She wasn’t the woman who needed to be protected. She never had been.

Her voice dropped to a softer pitch, not mocking, not challenging. Just... real. "And you’re the first one to ask me how I’m feeling."

It took everything in me not to move closer. There was something so raw in her words, something I hadn’t expected from someone like her. I opened my mouth to respond, but she kept speaking, turning the moment over, like she was evaluating me, the way she always did.

"But that doesn’t mean I trust you," she added, her tone steady, clear. 

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle in me. "It’s understandable."

A brief silence, then she spoke again, quieter this time, the guard slipping just a fraction. "But thank you. For real, Damien."

She opened the container, dipping her finger inside before meeting my gaze again. Her eyes held something I couldn’t place, an unreadable depth that kept me rooted to the spot.

"May I?"

I didn’t hesitate. "Yes."

The way she moved toward me, the way she stood just within reach, made something inside me twist. Her scent—a hint of whiskey and something floral—surrounded me, pulling me closer without her even trying.

She reached up, her fingers brushing against my bruised cheek. The touch was soft, gentle in a way that didn’t match the coldness in her eyes. I couldn’t help but watch, feeling the brush of her skin against mine linger longer than it should.

"You don’t flinch," she observed, her voice barely above a whisper. 

I held her gaze, my chest tight, my heart thumping louder than I cared to admit. "I’ve had worse."

Her eyes flickered, a brief darkness flashing through them. "That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt."

I smirked, trying to keep my composure. "I kinda enjoy some pain sometimes. Makes me feel alive." The words were flippant, but my pulse betrayed me, racing in a way that felt dangerous.

Her gaze darkened at my words, like I’d just struck a chord with her. For a second, the air crackled between us, charged with something heavy, something that wasn’t just physical.

Neither of us spoke. The moment hung there, drawn tight, full of things we weren’t saying, of things we didn’t know how to say.

Her thumb grazed the edge of my jaw, lingering just a fraction longer than it should have. Then, she pulled away. 

"You didn’t have to step in the way you did," she said softly, her voice low. "I could have handled it."

I shook my head, stepping closer to her, my body almost instinctively reacting. "I know, but I’m here to protect you."

Her lips curled, just the slightest smirk, a challenge that made my pulse quicken. "You already had Marcus defected, and you continued beating him. Your whole demeanor darkened." 

She was right. I’d lost control. My hands had moved before I’d thought, the desire to end the man who threatened her burning too brightly in me. It wasn’t like me. I wasn’t someone who got that involved. Not with anyone. But with her... it felt different.

I looked at her, unsure of what to say, unsure if I could explain what had shifted inside me in that moment. Finally, I managed, my voice rough, like I had to fight for the words. "I’m sorry if I scared you." 

Her lips parted in amusement. She laughed, a sharp, almost disbelieving sound. "Scare me?" She raised an eyebrow, her tone challenging. "In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a woman very hard to scare." 

I exhaled, relieved but still tangled in the tension between us. 

Then she moved, her fingers reaching for the cut above my brow, pressing a little harder than necessary, like she knew it would sting. 

The sting was nothing compared to the way my chest tightened when she leaned in, the faintest taste of her perfume in the air. She looked up at me, her gaze dark, intense. Her lips parted, the briefest flick of a smile playing on them before she spoke. 

Her words hit me like a bolt of lightning, the tension crackling in the air between us. "But I kinda like this dark side of you."

The way she said it—low and dangerous—made my pulse spike. The spark between us was undeniable, a promise I wasn’t sure I was ready for, yet couldn't resist. My mind flashed through the chaos of the day—blood, violence, adrenaline—each moment only adding fuel to a fire I wasn’t sure how to put out.

God, this day was going to be the death of me.

"I intend to do my job properly," I said, shifting away from her touch, pushing back against the pull of the moment. The words sounded dry, like I was trying to convince myself more than her.

"If there’s something you want me to do, you should tell me."

She didn’t respond immediately, but her eyes danced with something I couldn’t name. Then, after a moment, she turned back to the cabinet, setting the cream aside, and said something that made my blood freeze.

"I think it’s a good idea to start sleeping with me."

My chest tightened, and for the first time, I found myself speechless. I searched the room for something—anything—to latch onto, but my words got caught in my throat.

"Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ms. Moretti." My voice came out hoarse. "On top of that, I think Mr. Rivera wouldn’t appreciate that."

She stopped for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to make sense of my response. Then, to my shock, she burst into laughter.

"Oh God, silly boy." Her laugh was smooth, teasing, like she was enjoying a private joke at my expense. "No. Sleep in the same room as me. I don’t usually fuck my employees. Although..." Her gaze met mine with a wicked gleam. "...this time I might say I’m quite tempted."

Her words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. My breath caught, and my heart skipped, trying to beat its way out of my chest.

I stood there frozen, unsure how to react. She was so casual about it, like it was no big deal, but it left me reeling, disoriented. Her voice turned serious again, as if nothing had just happened. She continued as if my heartbeat hadn't just gone into overdrive.

Valentina’s words settled between us like dust after a storm. **Luciano came very late sometimes. He didn’t want to wake me up.** 

Simple. Devoid of emotion. But there was something in the way she said it, something in the way her fingers brushed absently against the rim of her glass before she took another slow sip. She was already retreating, shutting the door on the conversation before I could pry it open any further. 

She stepped toward the glass door leading to the patio, her silhouette sharp against the night beyond. The whiskey in her hand caught the dim light, glinting like amber fire. Without turning back, she murmured, “Good night, Damien.”

And just like that, she was gone. 

I ran a hand through my hair and let out a slow breath. 

This job was supposed to be simple. Protect her. Keep my distance. 

But the thought of standing there in a dead man’s room, just one door away from Valentina Moretti, I realized— 

Nothing about this was going to be simple.