Damien
Lena touched me like I was worth saving.
That was the problem.
Not Salvatore.
Not the war spreading through the Black Quarter.
Not the knife wound burning along my ribs beneath fresh bandages.
Her.
Always her.
I sat on my penthouse couch watching Lena kneel in front of me with blood on her hands and fury in her eyes while something inside my chest unraveled beyond repair.
“You should’ve gone to a hospital,” she muttered.
“I’ve had worse.”
“That isn’t comforting.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
Her glare sharpened.
Beautiful woman.
Terrifying when angry.
The thought almost made me smile again.
Which felt vaguely insane considering I’d left three men bleeding unconscious at Dock Nine less than an hour ago.
Lena finished taping fresh gauze against my ribs with more aggre
