The flight back from Los Angeles was a blur. Damien had a private jet waiting, and he didn't let go of my hand for a single second of the journey. He had cleaned the blood from his hands and face, but the violence of the parking garage still clung to him, a chilling, electric aura just beneath his skin. The silence in the cabin was not peaceful; it was the quiet of a storm gathering its strength, preparing to unleash its full fury upon the world.
We landed back at the estate just before dawn. I was exhausted, the adrenaline of the past few days leaving me bone-weary and emotionally raw. Damien led me straight to our bedroom, his movements gentle but infused with an unshakeable purpose.
“Rest,” he commanded softly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I have work to do. When you wake up, this will all be over.”
