Chapter 3
Damon walked across the court with slow, predatory grace. His tailored dark three-piece suit absorbed the harsh sunlight. On his hands and fingers, artistic tattoos—refined and sharp, with enough negative space so they didn't look dense—flexed as he clenched his fists.
"Turn the machine off, Evelyn," Damon commanded. He spoke slowly, with controlled pauses between every word.
"Damon, darling, she just got frightened," Evelyn said, her voice shaking slightly as she tried to maintain her elegant poise. "It was set on the lowest speed."
"I said. Turn it. Off."
"I've got it," Miles stammered, reaching for the machine.
Before Miles could touch the dial, Damon brushed past him, his polished leather shoe stepping heavily onto the power cord, yanking it straight out of the socket. The machine powered down with a dying whine.
Damon knelt on the bright green asphalt. He reached out, his tattooed hands incredibly gentle as he lifted Hazel safely into his arms. He turned her small body away from the machine, tucking her head under his chin.
"I've got you, sweetheart," Damon murmured, his low voice vibrating against her chest. "You're safe."
"Daddy… she kept aiming at me," Hazel cried, her tears soaking into the dark wool of his expensive suit. She clung to his neck, her small legs wrapping around his waist.
"I know, baby. I know," Damon whispered.
He slowly stood up to his full height. He looked at Evelyn. His eyes were cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of mercy.
"She aimed the machine at you?" Damon asked, his voice remaining quiet, yet loaded with danger.
"Damon, she’s a toddler. She’s confused," Evelyn laughed nervously, her fair, rosy cheeks draining of color. "The machine oscillates. It sweeps the court. I wasn't aiming at her."
"That's a lie," a shaken, urgent voice rang out.
By the chain-link gate, Cora Reed stood trembling. The twenty-seven-year-old tennis-club attendant wore her standard staff polo and trousers, but her knuckles were white as she gripped her smartphone.
"Excuse me?" Evelyn snapped, whipping around to face the employee. "What did you say?"
"I said, that's a lie," Cora repeated, stepping forward into the bright sunlight.
"You keep your mouth shut, sweetheart," Miles growled, pointing a finger at Cora. "Go fetch some towels and mind your own business."
"Cora," Damon said, his measured, slow voice cutting through Miles’s threat. "What did you see?"
"I didn't just see it, Mr. Lockwood," Cora said, her American accent trembling but resolute. "I recorded what happened before you got here."
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"You did what?" Miles shouted, taking a heavy step toward the young woman.
"Bring me the phone, Cora," Damon commanded, his cold eyes locking onto Miles, daring him to move another inch.
