The underground garage of Sinclair Tower was swarming with private security by the ti the bullet-riddled SUV screeched to a halt.
Aria stepped out, her legs feeling like jelly. The adrenaline crash was hitting her hard. She looked down at her hands; the blood had dried into dark, tacky streaks on her palms, mixed with soot from the explosion.
"Secure the periter," Damien barked at the head of security, his voice leaving no room for failure. "If a delivery drone flies within fifty feet of this building, shoot it down. I don’t care if it’s carrying pizza or a bomb."
He didn’t wait for a response. He scooped Aria up into his arms, ignoring her weak protest.
"I can walk," she mumbled into his chest.
"You’re bleeding," Damien strode toward the private elevator. "And you’re shaking."
Kai stepped out of the driver’s seat, spinning the burner phone in his hand. He looked tired, the soot smudging his usually pristine face.
"I’m taking this back with ," Kai said, pocketing the device. "This isn’t standard encryption, Damien. It’s military-grade. Soone paid a lot of money to keep these secrets."
"How long?" Damien asked, pausing at the elevator doors.
Kai grimaced. "To bypass a kill-switch without bricking the data? Days. Maybe a week. I need to run a brute-force algorithm on an isolated server so it doesn’t phone ho."
"A week," Damien repeated, his jaw tightening. "That gives Lydia a lot of ti to maneuver."
"Then you better keep her busy," Kai said, a sharp glint in his eyes. "Distract her. Make her think we’re chasing our tails while I pick the lock."
He looked at Aria.
"Get so rest, Sister-in-law. You look like you went twelve rounds with a concrete mixer."
"Drive safe, Kai," Aria said softly.
"Always," Kai winked. He turned and walked toward his own car—a flashy sports car parked in the corner—leaving them to the silence of the elevator.
The Master Bathroom of the penthouse was a cathedral of marble and steam. Damien set Aria down on the edge of the massive soaking tub.
He took off his ruined jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and washed his hands with surgical precision. Then, he retrieved a first aid kit from the cabinet.
"Give your hands," he ordered softly.
Aria held them out. They were a ss of shallow cuts and embedded glass shards from the cottage floor.
Damien pulled up a stool and sat in front of her. He took her left hand, cradling it in his own large, warm palm. He picked up a pair of tweezers.
"This is going to sting," he murmured.
He began to pull the glass out, shard by tiny shard. His focus was absolute. The sa golden eyes that had stared down a boardroom of sharks were now narrowed in concentration, ensuring he didn’t cause her an ounce more pain than necessary.
Aria watched him. She saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw feathered every ti she hissed in pain.
"You’re good at this," she whispered.
"I’ve had practice," Damien said, dropping a bloody shard into a tal basin. "When you grow up in a house where your cousins try to push you down the stairs for an inheritance, you learn to stitch yourself up."
He looked up at her, his gaze intense.
"But I prefer hurting the people who hurt . Fixing... this is new."
"But I failed," Damien added harshly, pointing the tweezers at a particularly deep cut on her thumb. "You’re bleeding. That ans I failed."
"You kept alive," Aria countered. "That’s a win in my book."
Damien didn’t reply. He cleaned the wounds with antiseptic, his touch surprisingly gentle. He wrapped her hands in white gauze, securing the bandages with tal clips.
When he was done, he didn’t let go. He held her bandaged hands in his, running his thumbs over the white fabric.
"Lydia," he said, the na sounding like a curse. "She escalated to warfare in the middle of the capital. She’s desperate."
"She knows we have the phone," Aria said. "She’ll be waiting for us to make a move. If we stay quiet for a week while Kai works... she’ll get paranoid."
"Good," Damien said coldly. "Let her sweat."
He stood up, pulling Aria with him. He didn’t let go of her wrists, mindful of her injuries.
"Can you hold a fork?" he asked.
Aria wiggled her fingers. "It hurts."
"Then I guess I’m feeding you," Damien decided. "And then you’re sleeping. No argunts."
Aria smiled tiredly. "You’re enjoying this too much. The tyrant role."
"I’m not a tyrant," Damien said, leading her into the bedroom. "I’m a husband protecting his investnt."
He ordered room service—a rich, healing bone broth and soft bread. They ate in bed, Damien tearing the bread into pieces and feeding her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
After the food was gone, the silence of the penthouse felt heavy, but safe.
Aria lay back against the pillows, holding her bandaged hands to her chest.
"Damien?"
"Hmm?" He was adjusting the thermostat, turning the room into a cool, dark cave.
"I have to go back to work tomorrow," Aria whispered.
Damien stopped. He turned to look at her. "You have holes in your hands."
"I have a schedule," Aria corrected. "If I don’t show up, Bella wins. She’ll say I’m ’recovering from a breakdown’. I need to be seen."
Damien walked over to the bed. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
"You can’t pour tea with those hands," he pointed out. "Consort Li requires dexterity."
"Then I’ll improvise," Aria said, her eyes flashing with a familiar stubborn spark. "I’ll make the injury part of the character. Or I’ll make soone else pour the tea for ."
Damien let out a low, resigned sigh. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Fine," he said. "But Ken drives you. And two bodyguards stay within arm’s reach."
"Deal."
He leaned down, kissing her forehead.
"Sleep, Aria. Tomorrow, you go back to playing a queen. Tonight... just rest."
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