The sky was still cloaked in darkness when Lucas quietly slipped out of the house. The time on his watch read 3:45 a.m. The world was silent, asleep. Even the air outside felt like it held its breath.
He didn't disturb Bella—not when she looked so peaceful in her sleep, curled slightly toward his side of the bed. Instead, he left a silent warning with the guards outside.
"No mistakes," he said firmly to the head of Bella's security team. "She's asleep. I want her safe until I'm back. You miss one step like before—your next post will be in the Arctic."
The man stiffened. "Understood, sir."
Lucas disappeared into the black SUV and vanished into the shadows of the morning.
___________________________
The industrial port was ghostly at this hour. A thick fog drifted lazily over the water, and only the faint creak of ship ropes and the occasional squawk of distant gulls broke the silence. The vessel to Russia, a hulking cargo ship, loomed at the far end of the dock.
Lucas moved with trained precision—dark clothes, soft steps, senses tuned. He spotted his target easily: a tall man with a duffle bag and a nervous pace, speaking into a satellite phone, glancing over his shoulder too often.
Lucas waited until the man separated from the workers and neared the boarding platform. Then he struck.
Fast. Silent.
But not silent enough.
The man spun mid-stride, startled. "You—"
Lucas landed the first hit—an elbow to the gut—then snatched the phone from the man's hand and crushed it underfoot. The man recovered quickly, pulling a knife from his boot and lunging forward.
Lucas dodged, but not fast enough.
The knife grazed his side—just a scratch, but the sting was real. Then came a blow to his jaw, unexpected and sharp. Lucas stumbled back a step, blood at the corner of his mouth, and the man smirked.
He lunged forward and slammed his fist into the man's ribs, following it with a brutal knee to the stomach. The man dropped the knife with a grunt. Lucas caught it mid-air, tossed it aside, and delivered a final strike—an open-palm blow to the temple that sent the man crumpling to the ground, unconscious.
Lucas stood over him, chest heaving, knuckles bloody, lip split—but victorious.
He pressed a button on his watch.
A black van rolled into the port, headlights off. Two of Lucas's men climbed out silently.
"Take him," Lucas ordered. "To the safe house. Chain him. I want him awake and bleeding by the time I get there."
One of the men hesitated. "Sir, your face—"
"I've had worse."
He took one last look at the ship, which was beginning to stir with early deckhands.
"We're running out of time," Lucas muttered, getting into the van beside the unconscious man.
As they drove off, the early light of dawn began creeping over the sea, painting the fog in muted gold. But Lucas's mind wasn't on the sunrise.
It was on who else knew.
And how close danger had already crept to his family.
___________________________
The room felt unusually quiet when Bella stirred. A dull morning light crept in through the curtains, soft and grey. Her hand reached instinctively to the other side of the bed — cold.
She blinked slowly, her brows knitting. Lucas always woke early, but he never left the bed without a whisper, a touch, a murmured "go back to sleep." Today, there was nothing.
"Lucas?" she called softly, sitting up.
Silence.
A strange heaviness settled in her chest as she slid out from under the covers. She padded to the edge of the bed, noticing immediately that his slippers were missing.
She walked softly in the hallway, bare feet against the cool floor.
The living room was still. No laptop open, no warm mug half-drunk, no low voice on a call. She peeked into the kitchen — untouched.
Bella checked her phone. No missed calls. No messages.The clock on the wall read 5:42 a.m.
A flutter of unease stirred in her chest. Maybe something urgent came up? Maybe Mark called him? But usually, Lucas would at least drop a note or message… right?
She poured herself some hot water, hands slightly trembling. It was nothing. Nothing to worry about. He must've just left early.
Still, she kept glancing at the door.
Wrapping her fingers around the warm cup, she leaned on the counter, looking out at the sky — dull streaks of dawn painting pale lines across the horizon.
Her palm instinctively rested on her stomach. "You're quiet too," she murmured with a faint smile. But inside, something twisted. She hadn't realized how much she'd come to rely on his presence — that quiet warmth next to her every morning.
She sighed, brushing her hand over her face. "It's nothing," she said aloud, but it didn't make the knot go away.