Chapter 8
The sprawling mansion transformed from a site of luminous elegance into a heavily fortified fortress in a matter of minutes. The bright, airy corridors were now filled with the hurried footsteps of armed men. Damon stood in the center of the grand foyer, the tiered crystal chandeliers above casting a brilliant, clear light over the tactical preparations.
He shed his tailored suit jacket, handing it to a nearby enforcer. Over his crisp white shirt and vest, Damon strapped on a heavy leather shoulder holster, securing his weapon. His broad shoulders and masculine physique looked incredibly lethal in the warm golden light. He checked the magazine of his pistol, the generously spaced tattoos on his hands moving with practiced, deadly precision.
Naomi stood near the base of the sweeping marble staircase, her hands clutching the railing. Her sophisticated black maid dress felt entirely out of place in the impending war zone. She watched Damon gear up, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
She ran across the cream marble floor, stopping just inches from him. She reached out, her small, delicate hand grabbing his arm.
“They will kill you, Damon,” Naomi pleaded, her voice desperate. “Marcus Whitlock has twice as many men. If you walk out there, you might not come back. Is this really how you want this to end?”
Damon paused. He looked down at her hand on his arm, and then up into her beautiful, fearful eyes. The clean whites of her collar and cuffs were stark against the dark leather of his holster.
“Do you know how long I have waited for a reason to break this arrangement, Naomi?” Damon asked, his voice a low, steady rumble.
“But not like this,” Naomi cried. “Not with guns at the gate!”
“Did you truly believe I could ever marry a woman who looked at you with such hatred?” Damon asked, reaching up to gently cup her cheek. “Do you think I would spend the rest of my life in a cold bed, knowing the woman who holds my heart is sleeping in the servant’s quarters?”
Naomi leaned into his palm, a tear escaping and trailing over his tattooed thumb. “I don’t want to lose you, too.”
“Do you trust me to protect what is mine?” Damon asked, his eyes burning with a fierce, unwavering devotion.
Before Naomi could answer, Silas jogged into the foyer, a heavy assault rifle slung across his chest. “Boss, Marcus just pulled up to the main gate. He brought a small army. He’s demanding to speak with you face to face. He says he wants his daughter.”
May you like
Damon let his hand drop from Naomi’s face. He adjusted his signet ring, his sharply defined jaw setting into a mask of cold, terrifying resolve.
“Shall we go greet our guests, Silas?” Damon asked.
