Property
1030 Words
Lia Hart didn’t speak.
Not even when the man before her reached out and touched her wrist like it belonged to him. His fingers were warm and gloved, firm but not forceful. Her instinct was to pull away, to scream, to bolt — but something in the quiet weight of his presence locked her in place. Not in fear. In shock. In disbelief that she was still alive and this was happening.
“I won’t hurt you,” Damon Knight said, voice even. “Unless you give me a reason to.”
She didn’t move. She didn’t trust a word.
“Follow me.”
He didn’t wait to see if she obeyed. He turned and walked toward the open doors of the chapel, steps slow, confident. Like he knew no one could touch him. Like he’d killed so many people that nothing in this world rattled him anymore.
Lia stood frozen for another few seconds, mind racing. Then her legs moved. Because she had no other option, and because she wanted to live. For her mother. For the years she still hadn’t lived. For herself.
Outside, a sleek black SUV waited at the curb. The windows were tinted. The engine was on.
He opened the back door and gestured inside.
“Get in.”
Lia stared.
“Or run,” he added. “I won’t chase you. But they will.”
She climbed in.
The doors locked with a click.
Inside was silent except for the soft hum of the vehicle and her uneven breathing. He sat beside her, too close, like a wall of quiet threat. Not looking at her. Just watching the streets roll by through the glass.
She studied him quickly when she thought he wasn’t looking. His jaw was sharp, a clean line of stubble trimmed to shadow. His hair was short and dark, neatly swept back. His coat was expensive, tailored, black leather — military but elegant. His gloves looked custom. Everything about him screamed power. Control. The kind of man who never asked twice.
“What’s your name?” she asked, voice small.
His gaze flicked to her. Then back out the window.
“You don’t need it.”
“I need to know who took me.”
“I didn’t take you,” he said. “You chose.”
She bit her lip. “You killed him.”
“Yes.”
“And you were going to kill me too.”
“Still might.”
Her throat went dry.
“But not tonight,” he added after a pause. “Tonight, I’m protecting you.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer. She didn’t push.
The SUV drove through the city like it owned the roads. Eventually, it turned off the main streets and wound through a gated entrance. The gates opened before them, recognizing the license plate. Beyond was a private estate — a long driveway, trimmed hedges, lantern lights along the path. The house was more like a fortress. Modern, cold glass walls. Two stories. Cameras at every corner.
She swallowed hard.
The SUV stopped. Damon got out. She followed. Inside, the air smelled of leather and stone. The foyer had a black marble floor and clean steel lines. Everything was cold, expensive, and lifeless. Like a museum without a soul.
He walked ahead. She followed without being told.
They passed rooms she didn’t look into. She kept her head down.
Finally, he opened a door at the far end of a hallway. Inside was a guest suite — still cold, but softer. A bed. A chair. A private bathroom. A window with blackout blinds.
“This is yours now,” he said.
“I’m not staying.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You can’t keep me.”
He stepped closer. His voice lowered.
“I’m not keeping you,” he said. “I’m saving you. From what’s out there.”
“Who’s out there?”
“People worse than me.”
She didn’t believe it. But she didn’t argue.
“There’s food in the fridge,” he said. “Bathroom’s yours. Shower, rest, eat. Don’t leave the room.”
“What if I do?”
“You won’t like what happens.”
And then he turned and left. The door didn’t slam. It clicked.
She checked the handle. It wasn’t locked.
But she knew better.
Lia didn’t touch anything for a while. She sat on the bed, legs curled under her, staring at the floor. The silence pressed in around her. Eventually, her stomach growled. She opened the mini-fridge. Sandwiches, fruit, bottled water. She ate slowly, then went to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror.
Her face was pale. Dirt on her cheek. Her hoodie was ripped. The dried blood on her sleeve made her gag.
She showered. The water was warm. She stayed under it until her skin wrinkled.
When she came out, a folded t-shirt and sweatpants sat on the bed. Clean. Soft. Not hers.
She changed. Curled up on the mattress. Tried not to think. But her mind raced.
Why had he let her live?
Who was he, really?
And how long until the protection became something else?
She didn’t sleep easy. But eventually, sleep came.
Downstairs, Damon Knight sat in a dark study, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“She’s clean,” Marcus said. “No priors. No social ties. Her mother died three years ago. Father unknown. The guy we took out was a stepfather — owned by Andre Salvo. She wasn’t involved.”
Damon nodded.
“She didn’t run to the cops,” Marcus added. “She just ran.”
“She’s not stupid.”
“No. But she saw your face.”
Damon looked into the fire. “She won’t talk.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Marcus studied him. “You’re playing with fire.”
“I always do.”
“What’s different about this one?”
Damon finished the drink. Set the glass down.
“She doesn’t look at me like I’m the devil.”
Marcus didn’t reply.
“And that,” Damon said quietly, “is going to be a problem.”
- Writer
