The ceiling above Vivienne was pale, cracked ivory—faintly ornate, like something out of an old French cathedral. She blinked against the blinding light bleeding from the chandelier overhead, her lashes heavy with sleep or something stronger. Her body felt foreign, weighted. Her side throbbed in time with her heartbeat, a dull ache radiating from the gunshot wound like fire curling in silk.
She tried to speak, but her throat was too dry.
"Water."
The word came out cracked. Fragile.
Damien was already beside her.
His suit jacket was gone, his white shirt rolled at the sleeves and stained with something darker—blood, maybe hers. His hair was messier than usual, jaw tight with concern. He didn't speak. He just brought the glass to her lips, careful as if she were made of blown glass.
When the cool water slid down her throat, she winced. Everything hurt. Even breathing.
"You're awake," he finally said. "You should be dead."
Vivienne blinked slowly, her mind catching up. The villa. The sniper. The way Damien had thrown himself in front of her without hesitation.
"I suppose I disappoint," she rasped.
He let out a dry laugh. "You always do."
A tense silence settled between them, heavy with unsaid truths. She tried to sit up, wincing again. His hand caught her elbow instinctively.
"Don't," he said. "You tore your stitches the last time you tried."
She blinked. "Last time?"
"You've been unconscious for nearly two days."
Two days.
The world had shifted while she slept, and she hated that feeling—of losing time, of losing control. She clenched the bedsheet in her fist.
"Where are we?"
"My estate. South of Provence. It's safe here. No cameras. No spies. Not even Julien knows."
That surprised her.
"You're hiding me?"
"No," he said softly, "I'm protecting you."
His voice was velvet and steel. It wrapped around her like the bed linens—too warm, too intimate. She turned away, focusing on the window. Outside, the world was blooming in lavender and gold. France in late spring.
"Why?"
"You were shot," he said, moving to the edge of the bed. "Because I hesitated. I let emotion cloud my decision. And for that, I nearly lost you."
Vivienne looked at him, truly looked.
For the first time, he wasn't the immaculate devil in a tailored suit. He looked wrecked. Like he hadn't slept. Like he'd been on the verge of unraveling.
"You've lost people before," she whispered.
"Yes," he said. "But none of them were you."
Her chest tightened.
This man, this complicated, brutal man, had burned cities with his choices. And now he was looking at her like she was the one thing left worth saving.
Her fingers brushed his hand, tentative.
"I'm not done," she murmured. "The Pact still breathes. Volkner. Leclair. Elise—"
"Elise is gone," he said. "Julien confirmed it an hour ago. A car crash. The papers are calling it an accident."
She stared at him.
"And you believe that?"
"No. But someone wanted her silenced."
Her mother. Dead. Just like that.
Something hollowed in her. Not grief, exactly. But something heavier. The final nail in a long-buried coffin.
"I need to move," she said, forcing herself upright. Pain flared, but she didn't cry out. "We can't stop now."
Damien stood, jaw flexed. "Vivienne—"
"I won't let them win." Her eyes were fire. "This isn't about revenge anymore. It's about ending them. Every last name. Every last shadow."
He nodded slowly, solemnly.
And then, with surprising gentleness, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. It wasn't passionate. It wasn't possessive.
It was reverent.
"You won't do it alone," he said. "Not this time."