Chapter 3 - Bloodlines and Betrayal
I finished stitching Damon's wound in tense silence while the storm outside lashed rain against the stained-glass windows. His skin was burning hot beneath my fingers, and despite the agonizing pain of the needle piercing his flesh, he didn't make a single sound.
"You're remarkably steady with a needle," Damon murmured, watching me work.
"I used to mend tablecloths and linen," I replied quietly, tying off the final knot with surgical precision. "It turns out flesh isn't that much different."
Damon let out a faint, dark laugh that turned into a grimace. He leaned back against the headboard, his gaze tracking every movement as I wiped the instruments clean.
"You need to leave this room before morning," he said, his voice regaining its command authority. "If Kirill sees you coming out of here after sunrise, he’ll start asking questions."
"Kirill has served your family for ten years," I noted, packing the medical kit. "You really think he’s the traitor?"
"In our world, loyalty has an expiration date," Damon answered, his eyes cold as flint. "My father trusted his shadow, and it cost him his life. I don't trust anyone."
"Except you kept my picture," I countered softly, pointing at the velvet dresser where the photograph now lay hidden. "You kept a secret that could destroy your reputation for three years."
Damon reached out, his long fingers catching the hem of my apron, gently tugging me closer until I was standing right beside his bed.
"That wasn't business, Alina," he said softly, his deep voice vibrating in the quiet room. "That was personal."
A electric charge surged through the small space between us. For two years, I had thought of Damon Volkov as a stone statue—impenetrable, ruthless, terrifying. But looking down at him now, seeing the vulnerability hidden beneath his scars, a dangerous realization settled in my chest.
I wasn't afraid of him anymore.
At 5:00 AM, I slipped out of his suite and hurried down the service stairs to the kitchen. The mansion was dead silent, save for the hum of the industrial refrigerators.
Sloan was already up, wiping down the stainless steel counters. She looked up as I entered, her sharp eyes scanning my wrinkled uniform and the pale exhaustion on my face.
"You were up there all night," Sloan said, lowering her rag.
"He had a bad fever," I lied smoothly, washing my hands at the sink. "I had to monitor his dressing."
Sloan walked over, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the dark pantry. She slid the door shut, her expression dead serious.
"Listen to me carefully, Alina," she whispered rapidly. "Kirill was down in the armory an hour ago. I heard him on his satellite phone. He wasn't talking to our guards."
My breath hitched. "Who was he talking to?"
"He used a name," Sloan said, her eyes wide with fear. "Vane. He told someone named Vane that Damon was wounded and the eastern wing was unguarded."
My blood ran cold. Ivan Vane was the head of the rival Bratva faction in downtown Chicago.
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"We have to tell Damon," I said, turning for the door.
Sloan caught my shoulder. "You can't. Kirill has armed men stationed at every exit. If you move toward Damon's office now, they'll shoot you before you reach the stairs."
