67
1172 Words
CHAPTER 67 — THE SILENCE BEFORE HE STRIKES
The phone didn’t ring again.
That was worse.
Sienna sat on the edge of the bed long after Damien left the room, the burner phone resting on the nightstand like a live thing—quiet, waiting, smug in its stillness. Dante didn’t need to say anything else. He had already said enough.
I see you.
I can reach you.
I’m patient.
She hated how calm that made him feel in her bones.
The house shifted into lockdown mode without anyone needing to say the word. Doors were secured. Guards doubled. Routes were altered. Damien’s men moved like pieces on a board only he could see.
Sienna watched it all from the margins, the way she always had.
But this time, she wasn’t invisible.
She was the reason.
She went to Annabelle’s room just after midnight.
Her mother slept peacefully, chest rising and falling beneath thin blankets, IV lines humming softly beside her. For a moment, Sienna allowed herself to imagine a future where this was all over—where Annabelle woke fully, where the past loosened its grip, where blood didn’t stain every memory she touched.
She reached for her mother’s hand.
“I killed someone,” she whispered.
Annabelle didn’t stir.
“He would’ve killed you,” Sienna went on, voice breaking despite herself. “I know that. I know it. But I keep thinking… what if there was another way?”
Her mother’s fingers twitched faintly in her sleep.
Sienna swallowed hard. “If you wake up and look at me differently… I don’t know if I can survive that.”
She stayed there until the ache in her chest dulled into something manageable.
When she stepped back into the hallway, Damien was there.
He hadn’t announced himself. He never did.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” he said quietly.
She leaned back against the wall, exhaustion finally catching up to her. “I don’t know how to put it down.”
“You don’t,” Damien replied. “You learn how to walk with it.”
She looked up at him. “You sound like you’ve had practice.”
His jaw tightened. “Too much.”
⸻
The next morning came with a sharp knock.
Not loud. Not aggressive.
Deliberate.
Damien answered the door himself.
Cassandra stood on the other side.
Sienna had seen her only in photographs—always too close to Damien, always smiling like she knew secrets no one else did. In person, she was sharper. Colder. Eyes quick, assessing everything in one glance.
“So,” Cassandra said lightly, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “She exists.”
Sienna bristled.
Damien’s voice was flat. “Watch your tone.”
Cassandra glanced at him, surprised, then laughed softly. “Wow. You really are gone.”
Her gaze slid back to Sienna. “You must be special.”
Sienna folded her arms. “I’m standing right here.”
“I know,” Cassandra replied. “I wanted to see if you’d flinch.”
“I don’t,” Sienna said.
Cassandra’s smile faded—just a fraction. “Interesting.”
They moved into the study. Cassandra dropped into a chair like she owned it.
“Dante’s stirring,” she said. “My sources confirm movement. Not random. Not sloppy. He’s setting something up.”
“What kind of something?” Damien asked.
Cassandra’s eyes flicked to Sienna again. “The kind that ends with a choice.”
Sienna stiffened. “A choice between what?”
“Between who bleeds,” Cassandra said calmly. “And who breaks.”
Damien’s expression darkened. “You’re not using her.”
“I’m not,” Cassandra replied. “He is.”
Sienna stepped forward. “Then tell me what he wants.”
Cassandra studied her for a long moment. “Control. Proof. He wants to know how far you’ll go now that you’ve started.”
Sienna’s voice was steady. “Then he’ll find out.”
Damien turned sharply. “No.”
She looked at him. “You don’t get to decide that alone.”
“I get to keep you alive.”
“And I get to choose how I survive,” Sienna shot back.
The air crackled.
Cassandra leaned back, watching them like a spectator at a fight. “You two are going to destroy each other if you don’t get on the same page.”
Damien didn’t look away from Sienna. “I won’t let him turn you into a weapon.”
Sienna’s eyes burned. “What if I already am one?”
That landed.
Damien’s silence was answer enough.
⸻
That afternoon, Sienna found Isabelle in the greenhouse.
Sunlight filtered through the glass, illuminating rows of plants that looked too delicate to survive in a house built on secrets. Isabelle stood with pruning shears in hand, movements precise.
“You’re bleeding,” Isabelle said without looking up.
Sienna glanced down—she hadn’t noticed the thorn embedded in her finger. Blood welled slowly.
Isabelle took her hand without asking, removed the thorn, wrapped the finger in gauze.
“You don’t hesitate,” Isabelle observed.
“I didn’t feel it,” Sienna admitted.
Isabelle finally met her gaze. “That’s how it starts.”
Sienna swallowed. “Do you hate me?”
Isabelle considered the question seriously. “No. I fear what you’ll become if you stay here.”
“That makes two of us.”
Isabelle sighed. “Damien will burn the world before he lets you get hurt.”
“And Dante knows that.”
“Yes,” Isabelle said quietly. “Which is why you’re in danger.”
Sienna nodded. “Then I need to be stronger than both of them.”
Isabelle’s lips curved slightly. “Careful. Strength costs.”
“I’m already paying,” Sienna replied.
⸻
Night fell heavy and slow.
Sienna lay awake again, staring at shadows crawling across the ceiling. Damien joined her eventually, sliding into bed beside her without a word.
She rolled onto her side, facing him. “He’s going to force a confrontation.”
“Yes,” Damien said. “Soon.”
“Promise me something.”
His eyes opened. “What?”
“When it happens… don’t choose for me.”
His jaw clenched. “I can’t promise that.”
“Then trust me enough to try.”
He reached out, resting his hand over her heart. “This is the one place I’m not rational.”
Her fingers closed around his wrist. “I don’t want to be saved. I want to be with you.”
The words hung between them—dangerous, vulnerable, real.
Damien leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers. “Then we fight together.”
She breathed him in, grounding herself in the weight of his body, the certainty of his presence.
Outside, somewhere in the city, a move was being made.
A line was being crossed.
And Sienna knew—deep, instinctive, unshakable—
The silence wouldn’t last much longer.
- Writer
