The old man waiting for Serena didn't look like a killer.
He looked like someone's grandfather—gray hair combed neatly, dark gloves, a long coat that brushed the ankles of polished shoes. He stood beside a black cane, not using it, only holding it like something ceremonial. His eyes were the only part of him untouched by time—sharp, intelligent, cold.
They met in a private room at a country inn an hour from the estate. A neutral ground arranged by Serena's mother. Damon insisted on coming, of course. But the old man had asked to speak to her first.
Alone.
"You're not what I expected," he said as Serena entered.
"And you're exactly what I expected," she replied.
He smiled faintly, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Sit. I won't bite."
She sat—but not out of politeness. She sat because she was tired of running. Tired of people knowing more about her father's death than she did.
The old man folded his gloved hands. "Your father was a man with too much heart and too many secrets. That combination always leads to blood."
"What secrets?" she asked. "And what do they have to do with me?"
His gaze met hers squarely. "Everything."
---
Twenty-seven years ago, Richard Vale—the man Serena had called Father—walked away from something powerful. A network. A family. An empire. He had once been involved in the kind of organization that buried governments and made kings from criminals. But he fell in love with the wrong woman. Chose a quiet life. A child.
"They didn't like that," the old man said simply.
"Who's they?" Serena asked.
"We were known by many names," he said. "But your father called us The Harrow Circle."
Serena's blood ran cold.
"My mother's maiden name is Harrow."
"Yes. She was born into it."
Serena stood, voice shaking. "So this isn't about my father."
"No," he said. "It's about you. You were the child of betrayal. The daughter of disobedience. And some believed you should have been erased from the beginning."
Her heart thundered. "But I wasn't."
"No. Because I convinced them not to."
She stared. "Why?"
He removed one glove. On his hand, a long scar ran down his thumb—a mark her father used to have too. A blood bond. A rite.
"Because I made a promise to your father before he died," he said. "That I would let you live."
---
She left the inn in a storm of wind and unanswered questions.
Damon was waiting by the car, arms crossed, coat flapping slightly. He saw her expression and opened the door without a word. Once they were inside, once the road swallowed them again, only then did he speak.
"What did he say?"
Serena looked out the window.
"He said my father died because he loved me."
Damon was silent a moment. "That doesn't make sense."
"No," she whispered. "It makes too much sense."
---
That night, back in the room they shared at the Harrow estate, Serena sat at the edge of the bed, knees pulled to her chest, hair wet from the shower.
Damon joined her quietly, a towel around his shoulders, the scent of soap still clinging to him. He looked at her in the mirror. Her reflection wasn't trembling. But her soul was unraveling.
"I thought knowing the truth would help," she said.
"Sometimes the truth just confirms our worst fears."
She turned toward him, eyes raw. "If they killed my father to protect their secrets, what's stopping them from coming after me?"
"Me," Damon said without hesitation.
She let out a breathless laugh. "That's not enough."
He stood, came to kneel in front of her. Took her face in his hands like she might shatter if he didn't hold her steady.
"You are enough," he said. "And I'll burn their entire legacy to the ground before I let them touch you."
Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I don't want to be a legacy. I just want to be someone's daughter. Someone's… person."
"You're mine," he said. "You've always been mine, Serena."
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. "Then don't let me go."
His hands slid around her, and he lifted her onto his lap, cradling her like something sacred. "Not even death could make me."
---
They didn't sleep much that night.
Instead, they stayed wrapped in each other. Skin to skin. Heart to heartbeat.
He kissed the back of her hands.
She memorized the line of his collarbone.
And in the hush between breaths, they didn't talk about war or blood or secrets.
They just talked about the first time they knew they were falling.
And for the first time since she came back to this place, Serena didn't feel like a weapon.
She felt like a woman who had been chosen.
Not out of duty.
But out of love.