Damien POV
The warehouse air was thick with the smells of rust, damp, and the sharp, coppery tang of blood.
My footsteps echoed, a deliberate rhythm on the cold concrete, announcing my arrival.
They had him in the center, tied to a metal chair, already a broken puppet of bruises and cuts. My men had done their work, but it was just the opening act.
The main performance was mine.
A cold, familiar fury was humming in my veins at the spy, but beneath it, hotter and more personal, was the memory of her—Rachel. Her hands on my photograph. Her eyes seeing a boy I buried.
That betrayal was a fresh wound, and this traitor before me was a convenient punching bag to take the fury away.
I dismissed my men with a glance. The space around us cleared, leaving only the three of us: me, the sniveli
