He was carrying Lena in his arms, heading straight for her bedroom. His jaw clenched tight, the veins on his neck prominent from the effort it took to hold back the storm brewing inside him. His eyes, dark and fierce, were bloodshot with rage—but this time, he wasn’t sure how long he could contain it. He was on the brink. Just one more push... and he might shatter.
He laid her down gently on the bed, then turned his back to her and sat near her injured leg, facing the window. For a moment, he stared outside, took in a deep breath—as if trying to calm himself—but the ache inside his chest only deepened. Turning to Lena again, his gaze softened. Even in unconsciousness, her delicate face was etched with pain. Dried tears had left faint marks on her cheeks.
His eyes dropped to her hands—small, flawless, but reddened now. The ropes had been tied too tight. Those once graceful hands were now scarred with cruel red lines. Greyson slowly reached out, gently cradling her wrists in his large strong hands. Carefully, he began to untie the ropes. The marks they had left behind made something twist in his chest. He held her hands for a long second, his thumbs lightly tracing the bruises... and for the first time, he felt something raw—something unfamiliar.
Then, he moved to her leg. The bandage was soaked and slipping. He peeled it back slowly, tenderly, as if every inch of her pain now echoed in his own veins. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ever tended to someone’s wounds. Maybe never. Women had always admired him—he was magnetic, charming, undeniably attractive. Many had tried to get close. But Greyson had never let anyone in.
It wasn’t that he thought less of women. No, never that. He just never found anyone who thought like he did. Every woman he had met so far seemed obsessed with looks, wealth, luxury brands—shallow things. But Greyson? He had grown up believing in something different.
To him, the ideal couple had always been his parents. As a child, he had watched his father take his mother out for quiet walks under the stars, despite owning a fleet of luxury cars. He had seen his mother prefer street food over fancy restaurants, her laughter echoing down sidewalks. On holidays, Greyson would sit with his father crafting handmade jewelry—tiny trinkets made of beads and wire. And he’d watched his mother wear them with pride, treasuring them more than diamonds or gold.
Their love had been simple… pure. Not bought. Not branded.
And now here he was—this man who had shut the world out—sitting beside a wounded girl, her blood on his towel, her pain in his heart, carefully cradling her feet in his lap as he bandaged her wounds.
It was a moment he never thought would come.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9Bar8CfmQs
And yet… it felt like the only thing that ever truly made sense.
Even he didn’t understand it himself—how this girl had quietly begun carving a place in his heart. A man who never cared for his own wounds, who never waited for anyone to tend to his pain, now felt something unbearable watching her hurt. It was as if her injuries were his. As if the blood on her skin was drawn from his own veins.
He couldn’t make sense of it. Not yet. But it was there—unspoken, undeniable.
As Greyson looked at Lena’s wounded leg, a frown tightened on his brow. The injury was worse than he thought. She needed medical attention—real care. Gently, he moved her leg off his knee and stood up, taking one last glance at her sleeping face before walking toward the window. Reaching into his pocket for his phone, he suddenly paused.
It wasn’t there.
A sharp sigh escaped his lips as he remembered—he’d left it in the car.
Without wasting another second, he turned and strode out of the room, his steps heavy but swift. His boots hit the stairs as he began to descend, each stride echoing with urgency.
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Their ties and coats were tossed carelessly on the sofa—no one would’ve guessed these men were elite shooters. At the moment, they looked more like a chaotic cleaning crew than a tactical team. One was crouched on the floor, scrubbing with both hands; another was busy sweeping. Someone was dabbing blood spatters off a vase, while another helped the household staff pull down blood-stained curtains.
They chatted casually, bursting into occasional laughter, completely absorbed in their cleanup mission.
Most of the jokes were now aimed at Thomson—the tall guard whose long hair kept falling into his eyes as he scrubbed the floor. Tired of the distraction, he’d taken off his tie and wrapped it like a band around his head. Now, sitting on his haunches, he ignored their teasing with exaggerated grace, humming to himself while wiping the floor with the dedication of a monk and the patience of a saint.
Thomson had been tolerating their relentless teasing for quite a while, but now he was officially done. Still crouched near the last step of the staircase, his back facing the stairs, he suddenly stood up with an exasperated grunt and flung the mop onto the floor with a loud thud. Instantly, all the guards dropped what they were doing and stood at attention with comically serious faces, like schoolboys caught mid-prank.
Thomson barked, "I'm mopping the damn floor, and you lot can't stop running your mouths! Why don't you all mind your own work instead of throwing nonsense at me?" He pointed a finger at Carl, who had tied the front of his long hair into a ponytail sticking straight up. "And look at Carl! Someone tease him too, for God's sake! He looks like a freshly planted date palm sprouting from his skull!"
The group was barely containing their laughter, shoulders twitching as they held it all in—but not out of fear of Thomson. No, their sudden stiffness and straight faces had a different reason: Greyson had just entered silently and was standing behind Thomson, unnoticed.
The rest of the guards tried to signal Thomson with their eyes, but before he could register what was happening, he suddenly felt a presence behind him. Turning pale, he straightened like a trained soldier, stepped away from the stairs, and said stiffly, “Sir.”
Greyson cast a cool glance at him—at the tie wrapped awkwardly around his head like a sweatband. Then his eyes shifted to Carl, who indeed looked like a confused plant with hair poking up like palm fronds. For a moment, Greyson struggled to keep a straight face.
Then his gaze fell on Chandler, who stood at attention like the rest, but with a woman’s scarf tied around his head. He was holding a duster like it was a rifle. Greyson asked, trying to keep his tone firm, “Why do you have a scarf tied on your head like a housewife?”
Chandler awkwardly shifted on his feet, unsure how to answer, but Nico jumped in quickly, “Sir, actually, Chandler got a really expensive hair treatment done today. Shampoo and all. So he’s just… being careful.”
A deadly silence hung in the air for two seconds—then, one by one, the guards began biting their lips, turning red as they tried to suppress their laughter. Their eyes were watering from the effort of holding it in.
Greyson knew if he didn’t leave now, the serious, cold-hearted image he had at the agency would melt into a pile of laughter right here.
So, with a shake of his head and a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips, he turned and pushed the front door open. Just as it clicked shut behind him, he could hear the eruption of boisterous laughter echoing from inside.
Still smiling, he shook his head and walked toward his car, the sound of their laughter following him like a breeze.
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but the quiet wreckage it left behind—19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1KC2OeMlEk
Greyson hadn’t yet noticed the scars it carved19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡp88ffZBMl3
in the silence that followed.
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In a lavish and ultra-exclusive housing society, the black Mercedes rolled past the grand entrance, flanked by one vehicle ahead and another behind—security protocol.
This society was breath taking. Every mansion stood like a masterpiece: some gleamed like pristine white palaces, while others echoed the charm of ancient classical architecture. But amid them all, one estate stood tallest—draped in a mysterious blend of coal black and smoky grey, its towering gates opened solemnly to let the Mercedes glide through.
Armed guards stood at attention, flanking the gates; beyond them were security checkpoints, electric-wired boundaries, and a sprawling manor that rose with a quiet yet undeniable authority. It sat like a throne in a sea of green—its surrounding lawns shaped like waves, dipping and rising in a manicured rhythm.
The car rolled to a stop at the front steps. A guard swiftly stepped forward, opened the door, and stood back with practiced solemnity. The man who stepped out carried an aura as sharp as the suit he wore—dark, crisp, commanding. His ash-brown hair swept neatly, and honey-toned eyes scanned the surroundings with cold precision. Without a word, he climbed the stairs and entered through the massive carved doors, the picture of control.
Two to three men followed close behind, quickening their pace to keep up. Inside, twin staircases curved upward in an elegant arch, parting ways like a forked river, leaving a wide open space between them.
Damien took the left. Loosening his coat button, one hand in his pocket, he ascended with purpose. His steps led him straight to the grand hall on the left.
The far wall of the hall was lined with towering, antique-style windows, pouring in golden daylight that bathed the entire room in a soft, majestic glow. The space felt alive—not just with light, but with an air of silent elegance.
To the right, just a few steps in, sat a grand, ebony piano. Its polished surface gleamed under the sun’s rays, a silent testament to class and precision. Further along the same wall, stretching nearly to the ceiling, was an expansive bookshelf—each section filled with leather-bound volumes and timeless literature. Plush, deep-toned sofas were positioned beneath it, and nestled at the centre of the shelf was a beautifully crafted fireplace—its ornate edges and carved mantle giving the whole wall a regal warmth.
For a fleeting moment, the hall could capture anyone’s attention—it was that mesmerizing. The design was flawless, and the ambiance echoed a quiet grandeur. It wasn’t just a room; it was a sanctuary of thought, art, and heritage.
Damien lingered near the entrance just a second longer than necessary, his sharp gaze sweeping across the familiar elegance. Perhaps more than any other place in this sprawling mansion, this hall spoke to him.
Damien cast a quick glance at Edward, then offered a faint smile and dipped his head slightly.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2Lit6hxVmq
“Boss,” Edward greeted quietly.
Damien removed his coat and handed it to a waiting attendant who stood respectfully with his gaze lowered. Without another word, Damien stepped toward the grand piano, sat on the stool, and began unfastening his cufflinks, placing them carefully to the side. He rolled up his sleeves just slightly, then let his fingers glide over the ivory keys.
As the melody filled the hall, it was as though the sunlight streaming through the tall windows brightened just a touch more. The books lining the shelves seemed to smile in quiet delight. The room, already regal, now felt alive with the music.
Eyes closed, Damien played like a man who knew the soul of every note—effortless, precise, but with a quiet intensity that turned the melody into a voice of its own. It didn’t last long. After a minute or two, the tune faded, and silence returned. The books looked lonelier. The light dimmed again, just slightly.
Then came the words—cool, calculated.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpxlu8FsKLH
“So… Greyson Blackwood turned out to be just as smart as I thought he was.”
Still facing forward, Damien didn’t bother turning to look at Edward. But Edward, who had been standing like a sentinel behind him, responded promptly,19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1feaefCcw7
“Yes sir. He’s exactly as capable as we anticipated. Just like we planned, no one survived the encounter. It was the perfect test—to measure his strength, his instincts. And he passed.”
Damien exhaled slowly and stood up, walking towards the tall windows.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlEtmmTzqdu
“I’ve seen what I needed to see,” he said calmly. “Now I wait—for the moment Greyson begins to hunt for the evidence Lena possesses. I cannot allow those files to fall into his hands.”
Edward nodded quickly, his expression tightening.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP2giQGDsPy
“Of course, sir. I understand the importance. If the director gets his hands on that evidence, our entire operation—every weapon deal, every laundering route—will be exposed. Our informants inside the agency will be burned. He’ll trace them straight back to us.”
Damien’s golden-hazel eyes, sharp as ever, stared through the glass as if watching a storm build in the distance.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3jVymuU3PK
“I don’t think Greyson even knows exactly what’s in that evidence,” he muttered. “Only Augustus knew. Lena might. And I do. If Greyson understood what he was truly looking for, he wouldn’t have taken this long.”
Edward hesitated, then said,19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTJCDG7XQTS
“Which means… he’s trying to earn Lena’s trust first. She won’t give up anything easily. If that’s the case, sir, then maybe Greyson hasn’t even told her who he really is yet.”
Damien turned his head slowly and looked at Edward with an unreadable expression.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWrhZEmtIio
“Not maybe. He *hasn’t.* Lena still thinks she’s running from the police. She doesn’t know who her real enemy is. Not yet. And neither does Greyson. That’s why he’s cautious… too cautious. He’s hiding his identity, hoping to gain her trust first—then he’ll ask about the evidence.”
Damien paused for a breath, his voice dropping to something darker.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmESfYXo2Ba
“And he will. Very soon. He’s already won her trust.”
He fell silent for a moment, then continued, his tone decisive now.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡM9BSoQfMbK
“Assign someone skilled. I want every step Greyson takes watched. Where he goes. Who he meets. I want a complete report. Because the moment he makes his move for those files…” —a shadowed smile played across Damien’s lips— “…I’ll make mine. One arrow. Two targets.”
And with that ominous promise lingering in the air, Damien turned and walked out of the hall, leaving Edward behind with a stiff spine and a racing mind.19Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlNLfuxPdN7
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