Chapter 3
The air in the garden pavilion seemed to freeze, the bright sunlight suddenly feeling as cold as ice. Damon’s expression did not change, but the artistic tattoos on his hands flexed as his jaw locked into a rigid, unyielding line of stone.
Two massive adult bodyguards in professional dark suits stepped silently out from the shadows of the hedges, their hands resting cautiously near their waistbands. They knew the Boss. They knew the terrifying violence that always followed that specific, dead-eyed look.
Damon turned his attention away from Brielle for just a moment. He walked over to the padded support post. His polished leather shoes made no sound on the patio stones. He reached out and grabbed the thick, wide fabric sash binding Micah’s waist. With a single, effortless tug, Damon pulled the loose bow open, releasing the heavy knot.
The fabric fell away. Micah stumbled forward, crying freely now that he was released.
Damon dropped to one knee, ignoring the crease in his expensive suit trousers. He caught Micah, wrapping his strong, masculine arms securely around the trembling six-year-old. Micah buried his face into the lapel of his father’s jacket, his small hands clutching the fine wool with desperate strength.
"I've got you," Damon murmured into the boy's hair, his deep voice softening only for his blood. "You are safe."
Damon stood up, keeping Micah lifted in his arms. He looked at Caleb, who was still standing frozen, staring in horror at the blindfold on the ground.
"Go to the men, Caleb," Damon instructed softly.
The two bodyguards immediately stepped forward, gathering both Caleb and Micah beside the pavilion entrance, shielding them entirely from the center of the garden.
Damon slowly turned his body to face his fiancée.
Brielle had not moved. She stood by the wicker loveseat, her arms folded across her chest in a gesture of aristocratic defiance. She did not look afraid; she looked profoundly irritated that her entertainment had been interrupted.
"What is the meaning of this melodrama, Damon?" Brielle asked, her American accent dripping with dismissive arrogance. She gestured lazily toward the boys. "It was just a game. A little birthday prank."
Damon stared at her. He did not yell. He did not raise his voice by a single decibel.
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"You tied my son. To a post," Damon stated, his volume dropping into a lethal, freezing whisper.
"Oh, please," Brielle scoffed, rolling her eyes and lifting her chin defensively. She adjusted the heavy diamond engagement ring on her finger. "No one’s dead yet, are they? The boy needs to toughen up. He cries over absolutely everything. If he is going to carry the Roswell name, he needs to learn how to take a hit."
