Lucas knocked on the heavy oak door of the private suite with a rhythmic, gentle precision, though his pulse was anything but steady. Through the thick wood, the muffled, jagged sounds of a confrontation reached his ears—Maverick's pained rasps and Damian's low, predatory rumble.
"Come in," Damian's voice barked, gruff and edged with an ice that made Lucas hesitate for a fraction of a second before pushing the door open.
The tension inside the room was a physical weight, unresolved and suffocating. Alina sat on the edge of the high-tech medical bed, her face a mask of pale confusion and growing horror. On the floor, Maverick was slowly pushing himself up, his face contorted in a dark scowl, his fingers cradled against his chest as if they were made of shattered glass.
"Can I speak with you privately?" Lucas asked, his eyes darting briefly to Maverick. He had no intention of relaying sensitive intelligence in front of an outsider, especially one who looked ready to bolt or break.
