Chapter 3
I woke up to the sound of laughter.
Male laughter.
Deep.
Warm.
Nothing like the cold voice I’d heard last night.
I sat up.
Milo was gone from the bed.
My heart stopped.
I threw the covers off.
Ran to the door.
It was unlocked now.
I wrenched it open.
Followed the sound down the hall.
To the kitchen.
And I stopped.
Damian was on the floor.
Suit pants.
Dress shirt.
No tie.
Sleeves rolled up.
And Milo was on his shoulders.
Both of them covered in flour.
“Faster, Daddy! Faster!” Milo screamed, giggling.
Damian made horse noises.
Galloped around the kitchen island.
Milo held on tight.
Laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
Daddy.
He’d called him Daddy.
After one night.
Five years of me being the only parent.
And in twelve hours, Damian had become everything.
I felt sick.
And jealous.
And relieved.
All at once.
Damian saw me.
He stopped immediately.
Milo pouted.
“Hey, I wasn’t done!”
“Mommy’s awake,” Damian said, carefully lifting him off his shoulders.
He set Milo on his feet.
Brushed the flour off his shirt.
His movements were so gentle.
So careful.
Like he was handling a bomb that could go off at any second.
“Good morning, Mommy!” Milo ran to me.
Hugged my legs.
“Daddy made pancakes!
With chocolate chips!
And he let me stir!
And we made a mess!”
I looked past him.
At the kitchen.
It looked like a flour bomb had gone off.
Bowls everywhere.
Batter on the walls.
Damian Stone—billionaire.
Killer.
Crime lord—had let a five-year-old destroy his ten-thousand-dollar kitchen.
And he looked happy about it.
“I see that,” I said.
Damian ran a hand through his flour-dusted hair.
He looked younger like this.
Less dangerous.
Almost normal.
“Morning,” he said.
“Sleep okay?”
“Where were the guards?” I asked, ignoring his question.
“Last night.
When you locked me in.
Where were they?”
Damian’s face closed off.
“Down the hall.
Why?”
“Because if I’d really wanted to run,” I said, stepping into the room, “I could have climbed out the bathroom window.
Walked right past them.
You’re slipping, Damian.”
He smiled.
It didn’t reach his eyes.
“The windows are bulletproof, Elena.
And the guards were told not to stop you.
Just to follow.
At a distance.”
My blood ran cold.
“You would have let me leave?”
“With my son?” he said, the smile dropping.
“Never.
But I wanted to see if you’d try.
I wanted to know if you’re still the same girl who’d rather sleep on the street than accept help from someone she doesn’t trust.”
He walked toward me.
Stopped a few feet away.
“You are,” he said.
“And that’s good.
Because the woman I loved was never weak.
And I’d hate to find out I’d broken her.”
I swallowed.
“Loved?”
“Love,” he corrected.
“Present tense.
I never stopped, Elena.
Not for one day.
Not for one hour.”
The air between us crackled.
Milo tugged on my hand.
“Mommy?
Can I have more pancakes?
Daddy said I can have three if I’m good.”
I looked down at him.
His eyes were exactly like Damian’s.
Same shape.
Same color.
Same stubborn set to his jaw.
I’d spent five years seeing Damian in every one of Milo’s expressions.
And now they were standing in the same room.
And I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
“Sure, baby,” I said.
“Go sit down.”
He ran to the table.
Climbed into a chair that was way too big for him.
Damian watched him go.
Then turned back to me.
“We need to talk,” he said quietly.
“Alone.”
“About what?”
“About why you really left.”
I stiffened.
“I told you—”
“You lied,” he said, cutting me off.
“I’ve had all night to think about it.
To replay that last week.
You were happy.
We were happy.
You were three months pregnant.
We’d just picked out names.
And then one morning… you were gone.
No note.
No call.
Nothing.”
He stepped closer.
“People don’t just do that, Elena.
Not when they love someone.
Something happened.
Someone said something.
Or did something.”
His voice dropped.
“And I’m going to find out what.
Whoever it was… they’re going to pay.”
My hands started shaking.
Because he was right.
Someone had done something.
Someone had threatened to kill our unborn child.
And that someone was his own flesh and blood.
“Damian, please,” I said, my voice trembling.
“Just leave it alone.
We’re here now.
Milo’s safe.
That’s all that matters.”
“That’s not all that matters,” he said.
“Because if someone scared you bad enough to run five years ago… they might still be out there.
And if they find out Milo exists… they’ll come for him again.”
He reached out.
Touched my face.
I flinched.
He pulled his hand back like I’d burned him.
“I won’t let anything happen to him,” he said.
“Or you.
I swear it.
But I can’t protect you from a ghost.
I need a name, Elena.
Give me a name.”
I looked at Milo.
He was happily drowning his pancakes in syrup.
Completely unaware of the danger that had followed us here.
The danger that had been in this house the whole time.
“I can’t,” I whispered.
Damian’s eyes hardened.
“Can’t?
Or won’t?”
“Both,” I said.
“Because if I tell you… you’ll kill him.
And then everything I did to protect Milo will have been for nothing.”
“Him?” Damian said, leaning in.
“So it is a man.
Someone you know.
Someone I know.”
His mind was working.
I could see it.
Pieces clicking together.
“Someone in the family,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
I closed my eyes.
Tears burned.
“Elena.”
His voice was ice now.
“Look at me.”
I did.
“Is it my brother?”
The air left the room.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t speak.
But I didn’t have to.
My face told him everything.
Damian went very still.
So still I thought he’d stopped breathing.
Then his hand curled into a fist at his side.
Knuckles white.
May you like
“Marcus,” he said.
The name was a death sentence.
