Ava Point of Views
The warehouse smelled like gunpowder and gasoline. My wrists ached from the rope burns, and my vision was fuzzy from hours of exposure to intense lights. But none of that mattered once I saw him.
Damian.
He resembled a storm preparing to break. His suit was ripped, his face injured, but his eyes—God, those eyes—burned like fire. When he spotted me, his expression was neither confused nor indifferent.
It was love.
It was outrage.
It was memory.
"Ava…" he whispered, taking a step forward as one of Lucas' men slammed a weapon into his back.
"Don't move!" the thug demanded.
"Touch me again," Damian hissed, "and you'll lose that hand."
His voice was thunderous. The type that shakes you to the core.
Rachel's gaze flickered between us. Her coo
