The server room beneath Blackwood Global's executive floor was quiet and cold, humming with subdued menace. Rows of encrypted terminals stretched out like digital sentinels, their blinking lights casting pale glows across polished floors. The air smelled like ozone and secrets.
Lucien stood at the main access panel, typing with surgical precision, his expression unreadable.
Ava stood beside him, arms crossed tightly over her chest, fingers gripping her elbows as though holding herself together. Damien hovered behind her, his presence a silent shield, heat radiating from him like armor.
"Are you sure the passcode is correct?" Lucien asked, his voice low.
Ava nodded slowly. "It was the day my mother died. April 17, 2005."
Lucien entered the numbers: 04172005.
The screen blinked once… then again… and opened with a soft chime.
Damien exhaled slowly. "We're in."
Ava stepped forward as the data unfurled across the screen — thousands of archived files, digital logs, voice recordings, offshore wire transfers. At the top sat a folder labeled:
> VALKYRIE PROJECT
Her pulse kicked into overdrive, legs rooted in place.
Lucien clicked it open.
Inside were redacted documents — half stamped with military-grade confidentiality warnings, the other half marked as internal Blackwood communications. Ava's father had copied everything. Decades of secrets.
And at the center of it all was one name:
> HELENA VALE – COMMAND SIGNATORY
"Valkyrie wasn't just a codename," Damien muttered, scanning rapidly. "It was a black-market operation. She was building a shadow empire — trafficking data, tech, even human assets. And your father helped… until he tried to back out."
Ava's hand trembled slightly as she clicked on one final folder.
It contained a list.
Of names.
Targets.
And there...at the very bottom... her name.
AVA SINCLAIR
Status: Pending Elimination
She staggered back, breath caught in her throat. Her vision blurred around the edges.
Lucien's voice came sharp. "That's a kill order. She didn't just want you removed. She wanted you erased."
Damien's expression shifted from cold fury to something darker, more primal. "She marked you before you even knew who she was."
Ava looked up at him, throat tight. "So what do we do now?"
Damien stepped forward, eyes blazing with focus. "We go to war."
They left the server room without speaking. The silence was thicker than grief. Ava's thoughts churned, spiraling through every lie she'd been fed since childhood. Every false memory. Every stolen truth.
By the time they reached the car, her body thrummed with adrenaline.
"We have to leak this," she said, voice shaking. "To the press. The board. Take her down before she makes another move."
Damien shook his head. "No,not yet. If we move too early, she'll disappear and take the evidence with her. We hit her when she's vulnerable. Not before."
Ava turned to face him fully. "And when will that be?"
His gaze met hers. Steady. Absolute. "Soon. Trust me."
She did.
But trust didn't quiet the terror.
That night, sleep was a stranger.
The walls felt tighter. The silence louder. Every time she blinked, she saw her name on that list. A digital death sentence. The proof that someone — her own blood — wanted her gone.
She paced the room, wrapped in one of Damien's oversized shirts, his scent grounding her. Every creak in the walls made her flinch. At last, she couldn't take it anymore.
Barefoot and breathless, she padded down the hall.
She pushed Damien's door open gently.
He was already awake, sitting at the edge of his bed in nothing but sweatpants, muscles taut with tension, hair damp from a recent shower. His jaw clenched, eyes staring out the window as if preparing for battle.
"I keep seeing it," she whispered.
He turned.
"My name. At the bottom of that list."
Damien didn't speak. He rose slowly and crossed the room.
When he reached her, he didn't ask. He simply pulled her forward, wrapped her in his arms, and pressed his forehead to hers.
"She doesn't get to have you," he said softly.
She swallowed hard. "I don't want to be afraid anymore."
"You don't have to be."
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her into his lap, her thighs bracketing his. His hands gripped her hips like lifelines. Her fingers found his shoulders, then tangled in his damp hair.
"I should've protected you sooner," he whispered.
"You're protecting me now."
He kissed her belly, reverent, slow. She inhaled sharply, fingers tightening. The kiss wasn't lustful. Not yet. It was an apology, a vow, a grounding.
But the moment cracked open.
Grief melted into heat.
Ava shifted, climbing deeper into his lap, and the kiss that followed was slow and aching. His lips moved over hers with equal parts hunger and restraint, as though savoring every second.
Her shirt — his shirt — slid off her shoulders. His hands followed, palms against skin. When he touched her, it wasn't hurried. It was purposeful. Worshipful.
They didn't rush.
They moved like survivors clinging to the edge of something sacred.
Each thrust was deliberate, deep. His forehead rested against hers, both of them breathless, moving in tandem. Her legs curled around his waist, hips meeting his rhythm for rhythm, their mouths never far apart.
"You're mine," he said against her lips. "No one touches you. No one takes you from me."
She arched into him, fingers buried in his hair, moans breaking through in shudders.
When she came, it wasn't a scream.
It was a surrender.
A claiming.
He followed with a low groan, arms wrapped so tightly around her she felt it in her bones. Like he was imprinting himself on her soul.
And maybe he was.
---
Later, tangled in sweat-damp sheets and his embrace, she whispered into the hush:
"If she wants me gone, she'll have to do more than just send a warning."
Damien kissed her shoulder, his hand splayed over her heart.
"She'll have to kill us both."