The east wing felt colder than the rest of the mansion, as if the air itself recoiled from the message left behind. Mara couldn't tear her eyes away from the blood-stained white rose, its delicate beauty twisted into a silent threat that dug deep beneath her skin.
Damian's arm slid firmly around her waist—not possessively, but protectively—guiding her back from the crate as the forensic team rushed in. Their gloves snapped sharply in the silence, their equipment clicking, humming, flashing.
"Take it to the lab. Immediate priority," Damian ordered, his voice a low command that brooked no argument.
"Yes, sir."
The moment the box was removed, the room seemed to breathe again, but Mara couldn't. Her lungs felt tight, as if the fear lodged inside her had grown roots.
Damian turned to her.
"Mara."
She looked up. His eyes were dark steel, but beneath the hardness she saw something she had never seen before—pure, rattling fear. Not for himself.
For her.
