Inside the East Wing suite, the only sound was the soft, rhythmic breathing of Aria. She was sound asleep on the high side of the broken bed, curled into a ball under the warm duvet.
Damien stood on the stone balcony, the glass doors cracked open just enough to hear her if she stirred. He was shirtless and dressed in a pair of black sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the cool night air biting at his skin, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.
He couldn't sleep. The adrenaline of the sex had faded, but his mind was a distinct, sharp blade that refused to sheath itself.
In his other hand, he held his phone. Ken had sent the scans of the journals Aria had recovered from the Vale Estate.
Damien scrolled through the pages, the blue light illuminating the hard planes of his handsome face.
He had expected secrets. Codes. Maybe a mention of the man in the Paris photo or the Vipers.
What he found was... suburbia.
