Midnight bled violet across the sky, a velvet hush descending over the city. From the balcony of her exquisite penthouse suite overlooking the old quarter, Vivienne could see the spires of Rosemoor silhouetted against the moon—an empire of ghosts, quiet but watching.
She stood there alone, wrapped in a long silk robe which was the color of wine, her petite fingers curled around a beautiful glass of untouched scotch. The air was cold, but the burn inside of her ran hotter than a fire.
She began thinking, Her father's war room, her mother's letters, Damien's bloodied hands—everything had changed her. There was no going back now. There was only one way- forward. Into fire, into shadows.
And then behind her, the door opened.
Damien stepped into the room with his light footsteps, his shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, a constellation of bruises blooming across his ribs. He hadn't said where he had been for the past two hours—but she could smell danger on him like cologne.
"Is it done?" she asked, without turning.
He nodded. "Judge Malden's offshore accounts are frozen. I had some help."
Vivienne glanced over her shoulder. "From whom?"
Damien hesitated, then said, "An old friend of your father's. A man who once wore a priest's collar but lost his faith in absolution."
"And do you trust him?"
"I don't trust anyone," he said. "But he hates them more than we do."
Vivienne turned back to the city. "That is very good. Because this is just the beginning."
Damien approached her slowly. "Vivienne... when this ends, what then happens to us?"
She turned her face to look at him , eyes totally unreadable.
"But do you want it to end?"
His throat worked as he swallowed, making his adam apple bob up and down attractively "I want to stop pretending I don't care."
"Then don't."
She set down the glass.
"I don't need you to save me, Damien."
"I know."
"But I do need you beside me. Not ahead. Not behind. but here."
He reached out, his fingers brushing hers. "That's the only place I want to be."
A beat of silence.
Then he kissed her.
Not softly. Not like a question.
But like a confession.
Like a man who knew the future might devour both him and the lady in his arms, but couldn't stop reaching for the flame anyway.
She melted into him, lips parting, her hands threading into his dark hair. There was no mercy in the kiss, only fury and longing and years of silence breaking all at once.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless, she whispered, "We burn tomorrow."
Damien nodded. "Then tonight, we bleed."
He led her inside, into the quiet dark of the room where the bed was turned down and the city lights flickered like stars too far away to save them.
And right there, in the violet hour, they let go of everything but each other.