The sound of Damien’s approaching footsteps was more than just a welcome interruption; it was a shift in the very atmosphere of the ancient house. The air, which had grown thin and sharp with Isabella’s venom, suddenly thickened, charged with an approaching storm of raw, masculine power. It was the steady, deliberate tread of a king returning to his court, and it shattered the suffocating bubble of Isabella’s menace.
Her head snapped up, her composure flawless. In the blink of an eye, the mask of cold perfection was back in place. She glided a step away from me, the undisguised hatred in her eyes retreating into the shadows, replaced by that same, infuriatingly placid smile. To any casual observer, we would have looked like we were merely having a pleasant, if slightly formal, mother-and-daughter-in-law chat.
But Damien was no casual observer.
