Damon’s POV
The docks always smelled of blood. Saltwater, oil, rust—all of it layered over years of quiet wars fought in shadows. By the time I stepped out of the car, I already knew what I would find.
My men parted silently as I walked through the warehouse doors. No one met my eyes. No one breathed too loudly. They knew.
And then I saw him.
Rourke.
He hung in chains like a broken effigy, boots scraping the floor, head sagging forward. His body was a ruin—blood crusted on his skin, bruises blooming black and purple across every inch. But none of that mattered. Not compared to the brand carved deep into his chest.
KATRINA.
Her name seared into his flesh, the letters raw and blistered, smoking still with the scent of char.
The world tilted. For a moment, I wasn’t in the warehouse. I
