GABRIEL
I knew he would do it.
The moment Damien Roche stepped back into my territory with that smug, polished face and his calculated restraint, I knew he wouldn’t leave without trying to draw blood. Men like him didn’t survive on apologies. They survived on reaction. On dominance. On pushing until something broke.
And today, that something was me.
The main hall was crowded—too crowded. Midday light filtered through tall windows, glinting off metal and glass, warming the stone floors beneath heavy boots. Members of Lune Noire gathered around long tables, pretending to eat, pretending to talk. No one missed the tension. No one relaxed.
Damien stood near the center of it all like he belonged.
He didn’t.
I stayed where I was near the balcony doors, arms folded, posture casual by forc
