Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Dark
The morning arrived with an ominous, gray fog hanging over Lake Forest. Damon was out of danger, sleeping heavily under the influence of antibiotics and exhaustion. I had cleaned the blood from his floor, hid the photograph inside my pocket, and slipped back to the servants' quarters before dawn.
When I entered the kitchen at six in the morning, Sloan was already brewing coffee. She glanced at me, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she took in my tired face and dark circles.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, Alina," Sloan murmured, handing me a mug.
"Just a long night. Mrs. Petrova had me reorganizing the linen closets."
Sloan leaned across the island, lowering her voice. "Don't lie to me. Kirill was pacing the halls until 4:00 AM. Half the guards on the perimeter have been replaced. What happened in his room?"
Before I could answer, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. Kirill entered, his expression cold and unreadable. He scanned the room before his eyes settled on me.
"Alina. A word."
My heart hammered against my ribs as I followed Kirill out to the glass sunroom overlooking the manicured gardens. He turned to face me, folding his arms over his broad chest.
"He's awake," Kirill stated flatly. "And he's asking for you."
"Is he in pain?"
"Physically? Probably. But mentally, he's furious." Kirill stepped closer, his demeanor stern. "I've served the Volkov family for fifteen years. I have never seen Damon allow anyone—let alone a staff member—to tend to his wounds while he's vulnerable. Who are you really, Alina?"
"I'm just someone who knows how to sew a wound," I replied evenly, meeting his gaze. "If you think I'm a threat, Kirill, you would have shot me last night."
Kirill stared at me for a long moment before stepping aside. "He's waiting."
When I entered Damon's master bedroom, the heavy velvet drapes were partially drawn, allowing slivers of morning light to slice through the dimness. Damon was sitting up in bed, fully dressed in a black button-down shirt, though he hadn't fastened the top three buttons. He looked pale, but the commanding aura that surrounded him was fully restored.
"Alina," he said, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine. "Come here."
I walked over, standing beside his bed. "You should be resting, Mr. Volkov."
"Call me Damon. When you hold my life in your hands, formalities become absurd." He held out his hand. "Give me the photograph."
I reached into my apron pocket and handed him the picture. He looked at it briefly before bringing out a silver lighter from his pocket. With a flick of his thumb, a small flame danced, consuming the edges of the paper until it burned down to ashes into a crystal tray on his nightstand.
"The Morettis think you are my weakness," Damon said softly, watching the embers die out. "They think that by threatening you, they can make me yield."
"Are you weak for me, Damon?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
May you like
Damon stood up slowly, fighting off the pain in his abdomen, until he was standing directly in front of me. He reached out, his thumb gently tracing the line of my jawline.
"No, Alina," he murmured, his eyes blazing with fierce devotion. "You aren't my weakness. You are the only reason I'm fighting to stay alive."
