The estate was quieter than Damien remembered it ever being. Perhaps it was because his men had deliberately drawn their presence back to the perimeters, keeping watch at a distance, or perhaps it was because Amara herself had brought with her a kind of fragile stillness, the kind that lingered after long storms. The air smelled faintly of pine and rain the groundskeepers had watered the gardens at dawn, and the roses blooming near the veranda left traces of sweetness in the hallways.
Damien stood by the tall windows of his office, his body still tense from the docks. The confrontation had left marks small cuts on his arm, an ache in his ribs, the persistent reminder of bullets and knives too close for comfort. Yet what stayed with him most wasn’t the pain of combat. It was the name Valco
