Then with a twist of his arm, there was a sickening snap.
The man’s body went limp.
Raymond dropped him without a second glance.
The last of the Circle, the scarred one—the strongest among them—was already trying to flee, panic overriding arrogance. He bolted toward the door.
But Raymond appeared in front of him in a blink.
He didn’t strike yet.
He stood there, letting the man see the fury in his eyes. Letting him understand.
"You ca into my ho," Raymond said softly, "with weapons drawn, voices raised, and blood on your mind..."
Raymond stepped forward, his voice deepening with every syllable. "Now you leave this world... forgotten."
The Circle mber raised his gun with shaking hands.
Raymond moved.
A flash.
A hand to the chest.
Five claws—his fingers—pierced clean through his ribs.
The man choked, eyes bulging, blood trailing down his chin.
Raymond leaned in, his voice nothing but a whisper.
"You weren’t even worth the effort."
With a final push, he sent the man flying back against the front door, his body slamming hard before crumpling to the floor.
Blood pooled at the base of the steps.
Raymond stood amidst the bodies, his chest still rising and falling, but slower now. The air reeked of gunpowder and blood. The faint sound of the front door creaking in the wind was the only reminder that ti hadn’t stopped.
But inside him, a different storm was brewing.
He looked at his bloodstained hands, then at the corpses at his feet. Their faces frozen in terror, their limbs twisted awkwardly.
He hadn’t ant to kill them so quickly.
He wanted answers.
He needed answers.
The fury that had fueled his assault now twisted into frustration, bubbling beneath his skin like lava. He gritted his teeth, cursing under his breath. You should have controlled it... just enough to get sothing out of them.
But now they were dead.
And dead n didn’t talk.
Still fuming, Raymond crouched beside the nearest body—the first one he’d snapped like a twig. He began searching quickly, patting down the man’s jacket, belt, boots, looking for a trace—sothing that would point to who sent them. A wallet. A phone. A symbol. A ssage.
Nothing.
He moved to the second man.
Again, nothing. Not even an ID tag.
Too clean, he thought. They were trained. They didn’t co with anything that could expose their employer.
But then he moved to the last man—the one he’d impaled through the chest. The one who had dared to flee.
He knelt beside him, brushing aside the blood-soaked coat. The stench was strong now, tallic and foul. He reached into the inner lining of the jacket and felt a small, flat object. He pulled it out slowly.
It was a photograph.
His eyes narrowed instantly.
It was Valentina.
But not just any photo of her.
This wasn’t one taken from afar, or a public image from an article. No... this one was personal.
Very personal.
The angle... the lighting... the background—it looked like a snapshot taken inside her father’s house. The old wallpaper. The wooden fra in the corner. The hallway he rembered seeing once, when he first visited with her.
His fingers clenched around the photo, jaw tightening.
Soone inside that house gave this up.
Soone had given these killers exactly what they needed to find her.
They didn’t stumble upon her by luck.
She had been sold out.
And that, Raymond knew, changed everything.
Raymond stood there, fists clenched at his sides, the cold picture of Valentina still crumpled in one hand. Blood soaked the floor around him, staining the polished stone like a grotesque painting. The stench of death clung to the air. His muscles were still tense, but it wasn’t from the fight—it was from the regret.
You should’ve held back... just a little.
He hadn’t needed to kill them—not all three. One... maybe two. But the third? He could’ve talked. He could’ve revealed sothing.
Now, the only voices left were those buried in silence.
Raymond closed his eyes briefly, trying to center himself. The anger in his chest swirled with guilt. He didn’t regret protecting Valentina—not for a second. But in his rage, in his fury at their arrogance, he had lost control. Again.
He opened his eyes and stared at the bodies once more.
Two suspects. Only two.
Maria... and Luca.
They were the only ones who had access to that house. The only ones who could’ve provided that photo. But the tricky part wasn’t just discovering who had done it—it was how to find out without setting off alarms. Because if he accused the wrong person... if he struck too hard too fast...
He might lose more than information.
He might lose Valentina’s trust.
He rubbed his jaw, thinking. Maria was a snake—he already knew that. She’d made too many power plays, too many quiet moves behind the scenes. And Luca? There was still sothing off about that boy. He acted too innocent. Too perfect.
But they were family to Valentina.
Which ant caution was not optional.
He took a deep breath, then shook his head slowly, murmuring to himself, "I’ll get to the bottom of this. One way or another... I’ll find out who gave the order."
His eyes flicked back to the bodies, disgust returning to his features. He couldn’t leave this ss here—not with Valentina resting just down the hall. The last thing she needed was to wake up to the scent of blood and the sight of corpses.
No... she wasn’t ready for this part of his world.
Not yet.
He pulled out his phone, scrolled to a familiar number, and pressed it to his ear.
The call connected almost instantly.
"Cecilia," he said, voice low and urgent. "Co. Now."
A brief pause.
"Three bodies," he added. "Clean. Quiet. I don’t want Valentina to see any of it."
He hung up without waiting for a reply.
His gaze shifted toward the hallway—toward the bedroom where the woman he’d died for more than once now slept, blissfully unaware of the blood that had just been spilled for her.
She would start asking questions if she saw this.
And Raymond knew... there were answers he wasn’t ready to give.
Without wasting a second, Raymond stepped away from the bloodied foyer and made his way down the hall, the sounds of his boots echoing softly through the marble corridor. The rage from the battle still simred beneath his skin, but the closer he got to the bedroom, the more that fury dulled into a quiet, aching worry.
He gently opened the door and stepped inside.
Valentina was still sleeping.
The soft moonlight poured in from the tall windows, casting a silver glow across her delicate features. She looked peaceful—almost too peaceful. Her breaths were soft, slow, but sothing in the way her fingers curled at her side told him her body was still battling sothing deep within.
Raymond moved closer and sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her. He watched her chest rise and fall, over and over, but his gut twisted harder with each breath. This wasn’t ordinary fatigue. Sothing else was wrong—very wrong.
And he had a terrifying suspicion.
The Red Moon.
It was close. He could feel it in his bones. A pull in his blood, an ancient rhythm that only vampires could sense. The cycle was nearing its peak, and when it did, the veil between blood and spirit would thin. That moon had always affected his kind—but for Valentina? It might be different. She wasn’t like him, but she wasn’t like the others either.
Not anymore.
Not after everything she had endured.
If the Red Moon rose tomorrow... or the day after... it would not spare her.
Raymond leaned forward, brushing a stray hair from her face. Her skin was slightly warm, but not in a feverish way—more like her body was shifting, adjusting to sothing even she didn’t understand.
He hated this feeling.
This helplessness.
He clenched his jaw and stood, his decision already made. He picked up his phone and dialed Benjamin.
"Benjamin," he said the mont the line connected, his voice quiet but firm, "whatever happens, I need you to stay close to Valentina. Day and night. Don’t let anyone near her unless I say so. No one. Not even Cecilia. If anything happens while I’m gone..."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"...you protect her with your life."
"I understand," Benjamin replied without hesitation.
Raymond hung up and stared at the darkened room.
He trusted Benjamin.
But trust didn’t erase fear.
Because this ti... it wasn’t just assassins or betrayal.
It was sothing older.
Sothing deeper.
Sothing he couldn’t kill with his hands.
And if the Red Moon took her from him—again—Raymond didn’t know if he’d ever forgive himself.
Damien sat alone in his dimly lit apartnt, a glass of aged bourbon in one hand and his phone resting face-up on the table in front of him. The shadows on the walls flickered from the low, orange glow of the single floor lamp in the corner, but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were locked on the screen—waiting. Watching. Expecting.
It had been hours.
Still no call.
Still no ssage.
But Damien wasn’t worried.
He knew the people he had hired—silent, deadly, precise. They didn’t miss targets. They didn’t run late without reason. Their thods were quiet, and their endings were final. He had paid well, and they knew the weight of his na.
"They’ll get it done," he muttered to himself, swirling the glass lazily.
In his mind, he could already see it—Valentina on the floor, helpless, broken, bloodied beyond recognition. She’d be gasping for rcy, eyes wide in horror, realizing too late that this wasn’t just a warning. It was judgnt.
He leaned back in his leather chair, a cruel smile stretching across his face.
She thought she could walk away from him.
Thought she could tarnish his na, drag his legacy through the dirt, and move on with a different life—a better life.
No.
Not after what she did to his family.
Not after the disgrace.
He had waited for this mont far too long. The pain she had caused would finally be repaid—slowly, violently, thoroughly. And by the ti he was done, she would know who she dared to cross.
He didn’t care how far she ran.
Didn’t care who she married.
He would burn through the entire world if that’s what it took.
At that mont, Damien chuckled quietly, taking a sip from his glass. The bitter taste of victory was already on his tongue.
"They never fail," he whispered to the quiet room. "Valentina... you’ll never walk away from this."
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