Damien chuckles, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my shoulder. “Must be the baby,” he says, voice warm with a teasing edge. “Or maybe our morning workout wore you out.”
I swat his chest playfully, grinning. “You’re terrible.” But the mention of the baby settles between us, soft and real. My hand drifts to my stomach, where that small, glowing thought lives. It’s terrifying and beautiful, and I feel the weight of it, the need to protect it, to protect my sister, to navigate the dangers that circle Damien’s world like wolves.
As I drift toward sleep, my thoughts sharpen. Damien’s arms are a fortress, his intentions a shield, but even he can’t be everywhere. The men outside these walls, the ones with guns and hatred, don’t care about the tenderness in his eyes or the fact that he bought me a sewing machine just to see me happy.
They see opposition and power, not love. I have to be ready, ready to guard this life growing inside me, to keep Clara safe, and to hold my own against the shadows that follow him.
I’ll rest now, but when I wake, I’ll be the woman who protects what’s hers.
CHAPTER 30
CASSANDRA
There’s nothing quite like the week before New Year’s in New York.
I’m in a long coat, a scarf I stole from the villa closet, and knee-high lace-up boots, doing the winter stomp. Alex walks with me, scanning like he’s reading code only he can see.
He decided to take a leave of absence from the NYPD after the shooting incident with the sedan. Damien gave him an offer he couldn’t refuse to work exclusively for him until this is over.
We’re on Madison, heading toward a kitchen store. Damien sent a list with instructions to “upgrade the basics,” which is so him. Understated, yet bossy.
Inside, the air is warm and smells faintly of coffee and copper polish. Counters gleam. Every surface shines. Stand mixers sit in a row like muscle cars—cream, matte black, mint green, a ridiculous chrome you can see yourself in, and a deep ruby red that makes my heart do a stupid little dance. I touch it. It hums back at me, at least in my mind. I’m in love.
Alex watches me tour the aisles with the face of a keen and patient cop. I test the weight of a copper skillet—heavy, balanced—the handle made to fit a human hand rather than a sculpture’s idea of one. I set it down and pick up a carbon steel pan next, light and more manageable.
“This one’s for steak,” I say. “Or eggs, if you’re brave.”
Alex nods. “Put it in the pile. Now, the fun part—knives.”
We do an efficient sweep of the knife section. An eight-inch chef’s knife from a small Japanese maker that makes me feel like a pro just holding it, a paring knife that could easily carve the word “precision” into hardwood, a long serrated bread knife that promises to cut loaves as soft as a whisper.
I add a maple end-grain cutting board that weighs as much as a small child, two half sheet pans, a Silpat, a fish spatula, an instant-read thermometer, and two silicone spatulas that won’t melt under pressure. We find a Dutch oven in a deep, moody blue. I stroke the lid like it’s alive.
We pause at the espresso machines. Damien’s current one is impressive but a little past its prime. I point to a sleek model with clean lines.
“This one.”
At the register, a sales associate rings us up while two stock guys treat our pile like priceless antiques. Alex handles the logistics with a text; a car will swing by the loading zone. He’s good at making things appear, disappear, and reappear where they should. Useful magic.
Outside, the cold stings my cheeks like a slap. I pull my scarf up and step aside while the guys hustle the boxes to the curb. That’s when I nearly collide with Raquel.
She’s wearing a white parka with fur trim and dark sunglasses, even though the sun is just a rumor these days. For once, her voice isn’t sharp when she speaks.
“Cassandra. Are you okay?” She seems genuinely concerned.
My mind goes back to the ballroom before the shooting—her little digs, the way she looked at me like I was a stain she couldn’t get out. My hand tightens around the shopping bag handle I’m holding.
“You were there,” I say. “You should know.”
Her mouth forms into a flat line, her brows knitting with concern. “I didn’t know you were shot. I was already gone by that point. I typically don’t stay for the more, ah,festivepart of Damien’s Christmas party.”
Alex steps closer. “Want me to?—”
Part of me does. But another part sees the actual worry in Raquel’s expression. I have to admit, I’m curious about the one-eighty.
“I’m fine. Give us a minute?”
He doesn’t love it, but he does it anyway. He takes two steps back, eyes scanning the street, the rooftops, me.
