The scream split the silence like glass shattering.
My heart leapt into my throat as Damon sprinted down the corridor, his broad shoulders vanishing into the shadows. For a second, fear rooted me to the spot. But then I ran too, my heels clattering against the marble, dread clawing at my chest.
When I rounded the corner, I froze.
Lina was crumpled against the wall, her tray shattered on the floor, tea staining the rug like blood. Her hands trembled as she tried to gather the shards, her breath hitching. Damon was already crouched beside her, his hand gripping her wrist—not roughly, but firm enough to steady her shaking.
"What happened?" His voice was low, calm, but edged with danger.
"I—I tripped, sir." Lina's voice quivered. Her eyes darted toward the far end of the hall. I followed her gaze—and saw nothing. Just the flicker of candlelight against the cold stone walls.
But Lina's face told me everything. She wasn't clumsy. She was terrified.
Damon's eyes narrowed, following the same invisible trail. "Who was here?"
"No one!" Lina blurted too quickly. "I'm fine. Please, I just need to clean this up." She tried to pull away, but Damon didn't let go.
He leaned closer, his tone quiet enough for only us to hear. "Don't lie to me, Lina. Not when your hands are shaking like that."
Her lip trembled. Tears welled. And then, almost too soft to catch, she whispered, "Your father."
The words punched the air from my lungs.
Damon's grip tightened—not on Lina, but on control. His jaw clenched, his eyes flicking to me, then back to her. "Go," he said at last, his voice a command. "Get some rest. Leave this mess."
She nodded quickly, snatched her apron tighter around herself, and bolted down the hall.
I stood frozen, my chest heaving. "Did she mean…?"
"Yes." Damon's voice was like steel. Cold, final. "She meant exactly what you think."
The world tilted. My father wasn't just interested. He was dangerous. And Lina wasn't the first.
I pressed my back against the wall, trying to breathe. "This house is a prison," I whispered. "A rotten, gilded cage."
Damon rose, his shadow towering over me. His hand reached out as if to touch my face, but stopped inches away. His restraint was torture.
"You're not safe here, Aria." His voice cracked under the weight of it. "Not with him. Not with anyone."
"Except you." The words slipped out, reckless and raw.
His eyes blazed, his mask breaking, and for a heartbeat I thought he'd kiss me again. Thought he'd claim me right there in the corridor, damn the consequences.
But instead, he turned sharply, fists clenched. "Don't say that."
"Why not? It's the truth."
His chest rose and fell, war between desire and duty. He stepped close enough that his heat pressed into me, his breath brushing my lips. "Because if I admit it, I'll tear this whole house down to keep you. And then I'll be no better than him."
My pulse thundered. His words were fire, burning me alive. I wanted to beg him to lose control, to burn everything for me.
But before I could speak, the study door creaked open down the hall.
Father.
He emerged with his whiskey glass, his steps slow, his expression smooth—too smooth. His eyes slid over me, then lingered on Damon, suspicion flickering for a split second before his smile returned.
"Aria," he drawled, his tone warm like honey laced with poison. "Why are you still awake? You'll look dreadful for the Harrington luncheon."
I swallowed hard, my heart hammering. Damon stepped subtly in front of me, his posture rigid, protective, but his face unreadable.
Father sipped his whiskey, then glanced toward the broken tray still littering the rug. "Clumsy girl," he muttered, more to himself than us. "I'll deal with her later."
Deal with her.
Every nerve in my body screamed.
Father turned, heading back into the study, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
The moment he was gone, Damon's hand found mine—quick, desperate, hidden between our bodies. His grip was tight, unyielding, like he was holding me back from a cliff edge.
"Aria," he whispered, his voice rough. "Promise me you won't be alone with him."
I stared at him, trembling, torn between fear and the wild, forbidden thrill of his touch.
And then the study door opened again.
We dropped our hands.
This time, it wasn't Father standing there.
It was Lina.
Her face pale. Her voice shaking. "Miss Kingsley," she whispered. "You need to know the truth. About your mother."