Chapter 3: The Rival’s Hand

The library door swung open. Aris stepped in, his medical case heavy in his grip.

Damian stood by the window, his back to the room.

His silhouette was a jagged line against the moonlit glass.

"She's sedated," Damian said.

His voice held no inflection.

"Keep her breathing," he commanded.

"But do not wake her."

Aris nodded, his eyes lingering on the woman slumped in the chair.

She was still.

Too still.

Damian walked to the desk.

He picked up a shard of the broken crystal glass.

He ran his thumb along the edge.

A line of crimson welled on his skin.

"We move to the gala," Damian said.

Aris blinked.

"The gala? But the state of the asset..."

Damian turned.

His eyes were hollowed-out sockets of predatory focus.

"The guests expect a performance," he said.

"So we will give them one."

The Thorne gala ballroom shimmered with gold and greed.

I existed in the periphery, watching through the eyes of the vessel.

Damian led the Imposter into the hall.

Her steps were heavy, sluggish from the sedative.

She leaned against him.

He held her waist, his hand a branding iron against her silk dress.

He steered her through the crowd.

He didn't speak.

He didn't smile.

He displayed her like a prize horse in a slaughterhouse.

"Isabella," a voice purred.

The crowd parted.

Vance stood there, his suit too bright, his grin too wide.

He moved with the practiced ease of a man who owned the world.

Damian’s grip on the Imposter’s waist tightened.

I felt the fabric of her dress groan.

"Vance," Damian said.

The name tasted like bile.

Vance didn't look at Damian.

His gaze locked onto the woman in my body.

"You look tired, my dear," Vance said.

He reached out.

His fingers closed around her forearm, skin to skin.

The contact burned.

The Imposter shivered.

She looked at Damian.

Damian didn't look at her.

He looked at Vance’s hand on her arm.

"It’s been a long night," she mumbled.

"Let her go," Damian said.

His voice didn't rise.

It dropped an octave, a vibration that rattled the glasses on the nearby tables.

Vance chuckled.

He didn't pull back.

He stroked the inside of her wrist with his thumb.

"She’s shivering, Damian," Vance countered.

"Maybe she needs a real man to warm her up."

He leaned closer to her.

"Let's get out of here, Isabella."

"Forget the host."

"I have a suite upstairs."

Damian didn't shift his stance.

He didn't draw a weapon.

He simply shifted his weight.

He reached for the crystal flute sitting on a passing waiter’s tray.

He took the glass.

He held it before Vance’s eyes.

"She doesn't go anywhere," Damian whispered.

His knuckles turned white.

The crystal groaned under the pressure.

The air in the ballroom curdled.

Guests stopped dancing.

The music faded into a rhythmic, anxious beat.

"You're touching what is mine," Damian said.

His fingers spasmed.

Snap.

The crystal shattered into a thousand jagged diamonds.

It exploded in his hand.

Blood erupted.

It sprayed the white tablecloth, a dark, pulsing Rorschach test.

It splattered Vance’s pristine tuxedo jacket.

Vance recoiled.

He jerked his hand away from the Imposter.

He stared at his chest, his eyes wide, horrified.

Damian didn't flinch.

He held his bleeding hand out, a fist of broken glass and ruin.

He stepped into Vance’s space.

"You have blood on you," Damian said.

"It isn't yours."

Vance scrambled backward.

He tripped over his own feet, landing hard on the marble.

The guests gasped.

Cameras flashed from the shadows, hungry for the carnage.

Damian stepped over him.

He loomed above, his shadow dwarfing the man on the floor.

"If you touch her again," Damian murmured.

"I will take your hand."

He didn't threaten.

He promised.

He turned back to the Imposter.

He grabbed her hand, the one Vance had defiled.

He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket.

He wiped her skin, scrubbing until the area turned raw.

He didn't care about the blood dripping from his own fingers.

He didn't care about the stains on his sleeve.

He focused only on the contamination.

"Go home," Damian told her.

She stumbled toward the exit, terrified and lost.

She wasn't the wife I was.

But he was watching her, tracking her movement with the intensity of a starving wolf.

I stayed in the dark.

I watched him wipe his hand clean.

I watched the blood on the table, a stark, wet reminder of the price of a touch.

He looked at the void, then.

He looked at the spot where I was watching.

He raised his wine-stained hand to his lips.

He licked a drop of his own blood.

His eyes never left the space where I breathed.

He knew I was still here.

And he was hungry for the fight.