His Enemy's Bride

Chapter 7: First Blood

The gallery opening was perfect for exactly forty-seven minutes.

Sophia stood in the center of her triumph — the converted warehouse glowing, the art lit like jewels, two hundred guests with champagne — and felt the bright, fierce joy of something that was hers. Priya caught her eye across the room and mouthed *amazing.* Dax stood by the door in a dark suit, playing the attentive husband, his eyes never still.

At minute forty-eight, the screaming started.

It came from the back — the catering area. A crash. Then shouting. Sophia's heart stopped. She moved before she thought, pushing through the crowd, and Dax was already ahead of her, already moving with that lethal calm.

The catering table was overturned. A man lay on the floor, clutching his arm — one of Dax's men, she realized. And standing over him, wild-eyed, was the replacement caterer. Kade's man.

He had a knife.

Time slowed. Sophia saw the knife, saw the man lunge — not at her, at the crowd, at anyone — and then Dax was there, between them, and it happened so fast she barely saw it: a twist, a crack, the knife clattering to the floor, the man face-down with Dax's knee in his back.

"Enzo!" Dax's voice cut through the screaming. "Clear the room. Now."

What followed was controlled chaos. Guests herded out. Police called. The caterer zip-tied and handed over. Dax's men melted into the walls. And through it all, Dax never left Sophia's side — his hand at the small of her back, steady and warm.

"Are you hurt?" he asked quietly, once the room was clear.

She looked at him — really looked. His suit was torn at the shoulder. There was blood on his cuff. Not his, she prayed.

"I'm fine." Her voice shook. "You—"

"I'm fine." But his hand was shaking, just slightly, where it rested on her back.

Priya appeared, pale. "The show—"

"Is over tonight," Sophia said firmly. "Everyone out. We'll reopen next week." She turned to the remaining staff. "You were all wonderful. Go home. Paid, full night."

They filed out. The gallery emptied. And then it was just Sophia, Dax, Enzo, and the wreckage of her perfect night.

Sophia walked to the center of the room, to the overturned table, the shattered glass, the champagne soaking into the concrete. Her show. Her triumph. Ruined.

She felt the tears come and refused them. Not here. Not now.

Dax's voice, low: "Sophia."

She turned. He was holding something — the white rose, from the evidence bag, which he'd brought. Or another one. She couldn't tell.

"He sent a man with a knife to my opening," she said, and her voice was stone. "To my place. My people."

"I know."

"He wanted me scared." She stepped over the broken glass, her heels crunching. "He wanted us scared."

Dax crossed to her, and took her hands — glass and all, he didn't care — and held them.

"Are you scared?" he asked.

She looked at their joined hands. At his torn suit. At the blood on his cuff — his blood, she saw now, a shallow cut on his forearm where the knife had grazed him.

"No," she said, and it was true. "I'm furious."

Something blazed in his eyes — pride, hunger, something she'd never seen aimed at her before.

"Good," he said roughly. "Be furious. Furious is useful."

Enzo cleared his throat. "Boss. The caterer — he's Kade's, confirmed. But he's not talking. Says he was paid to 'make a scene.' Nothing more."

"A scene," Sophia repeated. "With a knife."

"A message," Dax corrected. "Kade's reminding us the war isn't over." His jaw tightened. "He's wrong."

They stood in the wreckage of the gallery, and Sophia made a decision.

"I'm not closing," she said. "We clean up. We reopen tomorrow. If Kade wants a war, he doesn't get to take my gallery too."

Dax stared at her. Then, slowly, he smiled — the first real smile she'd ever seen from him, and it transformed his face.

"Tomorrow," he agreed. "I'll have men on every corner. And Sophia—" he caught her hand as she turned away — "you were magnificent tonight. You didn't flinch."

"I flinched," she admitted. "On the inside."

"Me too." The admission cost him. "On the inside."

They stood there, in the ruins of the opening, holding hands like it was the most natural thing in the world. The rules on the refrigerator felt like they'd been written by strangers.

It was Enzo who broke the moment, gently: "Boss. We should get that cut looked at."

In the penthouse, an hour later, Sophia cleaned Dax's forearm with antiseptic while he sat on the kitchen counter and watched her with unreadable eyes.

"You're good at this," he said.

"My mother was a nurse, before—" She stopped. "Before."

"Before Kade," he said quietly.

She looked up. "You really think—"

"I think my father was shot by a professional. I think your mother's brakes were cut by a professional. I think Kade has been killing our parents and letting us kill each other for it." His voice was steel. "And I'm going to prove it."

She finished the bandage. Her hands lingered on his arm — warm skin, the ridge of old scars.

"Dax," she whispered.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For tonight. For—" She gestured helplessly. "For being there."

He caught her hand, pressed it to his chest — over his heart, hammering hard.

"Always," he said. "That's not a rule, Sophia. That's a promise."

She leaned in — and he met her halfway — and the kiss was nothing like the altar. It was fierce and real and ten years of grief and fury poured into a single point of contact.

It lasted three heartbeats. Then she pulled back, breathing hard.

"That," she said, "was not for the cameras."

"No," he agreed, his voice wrecked. "It wasn't."

She walked to her bedroom on unsteady legs, and closed the door, and leaned against it, and whispered to the dark: "Rule six is in trouble."

In the kitchen, Dax touched his lips and stared at the war room door, and whispered to the empty air: "Rule six is dead."

And in Murray Hill, Vincent Kade listened to his man's report — *the Moretti boy stopped him, the girl didn't break* — and felt the cold thread of unease pull tighter.

"Double the pressure," he said. "They're getting close to each other. That can't happen."

He hung up and looked out at the city — his city, built on graves — and for the first time in ten years, Vincent Kade was afraid.

First blood had been drawn. But not the way he'd planned.

The hunters were hunting. And they were hunting together.