It was the first time Kitten had seen Damien like this, and she was instantly paralyzed by a cold, visceral dread.

He held her right wrist in a grip that felt like a crushing iron vice. The pain was so sharp she felt as if he might actually snap the bone or burst the vessels; she watched the color drain from her hand, replaced by a terrifying, numb white.

She clamped her mouth shut, not daring to utter a single syllable. This wasn't Julian. Her usual bag of tricks and tantrums worked on her husband because Julian always allowed her a margin of error. But the Sovereign did not play. When he looked at you with those pale gray eyes and decided you were a threat, he didn't stop until you were liquidated.

Kitten was intuitive enough to realize exactly which landmine she had stepped on.

He was afraid.

The most dangerous man in the Syndicate was experiencing a raw, jagged fear.

Damien had already calculated the variables. He knew that with the Lancaster resources, he would find her eventually. His terror wasn't rooted in the if, but in the when. He was terrified that he wouldn't find her in time.

If Mia fell into the hands of the Syndicate's enemies, her connection to him would ensure a terminal end. He remembered what had happened to his and Julian's mother—a tragic precedent that haunted the Lancaster bloodline.

To kill a person takes only a second. To ruin them takes every heartbeat of every hour.

For two years, Damien had guarded Mia with a meticulous, agonizing devotion. He had used every ounce of his sovereignty to ensure not a single speck of the underworld's filth ever touched her. If his one moment of negligence resulted in her suffering, it would be a weight he could never survive.

"You said... she would be snatched?" Damien's voice was a low, clinical rasp.

Kitten shook her head so hard her hair whipped her face like a lash. Looking into his eyes, she realized that if Mia was lost, the man standing before her would cease to be human.

Julian had reached his limit. He stepped forward, his face hardening into a mask of Lancaster steel as he gripped Damien's forearm.

"Let her go."

Damien didn't even blink.

"I said let her go. I'm not playing with you, Damien," Julian's voice was steady and final. "You know where my line is drawn."

Julian would yield on anything—territory, money, pride—but Kitten was the one thing he would never surrender, even to his brother.

Gideon watched from the sidelines, cold sweat drenching his shirt. If the two Lancaster brothers went to war here, the entire Syndicate would be forced to choose a side, and none of them knew which way the blade would fall.

Damien's focus seemed to clear for a fraction of a second. He glanced at Julian's icy expression and abruptly shoved Kitten's hand away.

Kitten scrambled into Julian's arms, hiding her face against his chest, leaving only her wide, dark eyes visible as she peered cautiously at the beautiful monster. Julian lifted her, carrying her to a nearby table and setting her down. He leaned over, eye-to-eye with her, and took her bruised wrist in his hands, gently rubbing the skin.

"Does it hurt?"

"No! Not at all!"

Kitten knew better than to complain. If she cried about the pain now, she'd become the catalyst for a blood feud between brothers. She wasn't that stupid. Julian didn't push it; he knew Damien had been trained in Judo and possessed a lethal physical strength. If Damien had been even a fraction more ruthless, her wrist would have been shattered.

Julian leaned down and pressed a comforting kiss to her lips.

Kitten rested her chin on her hand, her eyes darting. "Wait... I'm thinking. Where could Mia actually go?"

"The enforcers are already out," Julian murmured, stroking her hair. "Given enough time, they'll find her."

"That's a stupid way to search," Kitten huffed. "It's like looking for a needle in a haystack."

Julian clamped a hand over her mouth. Calling the Sovereign "stupid" was a death wish. Damien was in no state for logic or insults.

Kitten mumbled against his palm, "But it is stupid..."

Julian arched a brow. "Then how would you find her?"

Kitten's eyes rolled as she thought back. "When I was in the orphanage, I saw kids like Mia all the time. When they're sad or angry, they don't go out looking for a fight. They don't look for trouble. They look for a place to hide."

Julian felt a flicker of intrigue. Most people didn't seek out a war when they were hurting. "Go on."

"Those kids don't hide in crowded places," Kitten continued. "They want silence. They want to be alone. And usually, they look for a place that holds something they can believe in."

"Faith?"

"Exactly," Kitten winked. "Since we didn't have parents, everyone had to find some kind of faith to anchor themselves to."

Julian was momentarily distracted. "And what was your faith back then?"

"The Revolution!"

"..."

Powerful, Julian thought. High-level stuff.

"So when I was upset and couldn't find anyone to punch," Kitten counted on her fingers, "I'd go to a memorial or a monument, recite some revolutionary quotes, and shout that 'all reactionaries are paper tigers!' It made me feel great."

"Okay, okay... we can discuss your 'glorious' past later," Julian sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. "What do you think a girl like Mia Clarke believes in?"

"Mia...?"

Kitten scrunched her face in deep concentration. To her, Mia wasn't exactly 'normal.' Anyone who spent their entire day reading philosophy had to have a slightly distorted, twisted brain.

"God... maybe?" Kitten finally whispered.

"What?"

Julian struggled to keep up with her chaotic logic.

"She believes in God!" Kitten jumped up, shouting. "She's a Cambridge girl—all that 'Western' ink in her system! She wouldn't go to a temple to bow to a Buddha. She'd go to a church to follow Jesus!"

Night fell over the outskirts of the city.

As Mia walked out of the old church, she looked out over the fields. The white flowers were in full bloom, their petals fluttering in the cool breeze like the wings of a thousand moths.

She hadn't looked at the April moon in a long time. It was bright and chillingly soft, making her feel as though she were treading on snow rather than grass. A sense of old-world nostalgia rose within her, a bright, clear emotion that finally began to settle her spirit.

The priest placed a small wooden cross around her neck. He had grown fond of this girl over the years. She possessed a natural stillness—a capacity for both restraint and release that was rare. In her, he saw a quiet piety and a grace that felt like a lotus blooming in the mud.

"God bless you, child."

He hugged her gently, whispering the blessing into her ear.

"Thank you," Mia whispered, hugging him back. "I feel... much better."

They were standing outside the church, sharing a quiet moment of farewell, when a sudden, piercing screech of tires shattered the silence.

A fleet of a dozen black sedans roared out of the darkness, their high beams cutting through the night like searchlights. The blinding glare forced Mia to cover her eyes.

The cars jerked to a halt, their doors swinging open in unison. A swarm of men in black suits descended, moving with a terrifying, synchronized precision. Before Mia could speak, they seized the priest, wrenching him away from her and binding his hands behind his back.

"As God is my witness!" the priest cried out. "You cannot do this!"

Mia was entirely stunned. "Wait! What are you doing—?!"

The words died in her throat.

She saw him.

Damien stepped out of the lead car, the door slamming shut with a heavy, final thud.

In the biting night wind, he looked sharper and more lethal than she had ever seen him. Every line of his body was hard, devoid of any trace of softness. He was the "Beautiful Monster" in his true form.

He walked toward her, step by measured step, radiating a cold, systematic intent to destroy. Mia felt a sudden, frantic palpitation in her chest. Her survival instinct screamed at her to run.

As he closed the distance with that unyielding, absolute posture, she began to retreat, step after step, until her back hit the rough stone wall of the church.

Damien reached out, his hand a blur as he snatched her. He didn't just hold her; he hauled her into his chest with zero margin for escape, his knuckles grinding into her skin as he pressed her against his heart. He held her so tight she felt as if he intended to crush her into dust.

Mia struggled to breathe. Damien's hand on her waist had lost all self-control, his fingers digging into her side as if he were trying to reach beneath her skin.

He looked down, his face a mask of violent desperation, and crushed his mouth against hers. There was no tenderness, no "Luxury Noir" elegance. It was a kiss of raw, savage possession—violent and wild. He forced her into a jagged response, their bodies colliding in a storm of repressed desire and terror that felt as though it would reach its terminal point in the next second.

"You're hurting me..." Mia finally managed to gasp against his lips. "Damien, you're hurting me!"