The Edge of Mercy
The ballroom was silent when Kaia walked in.
Not because she made an entrance—but because she was the entrance.
A black velvet gown clung to her like a second skin, slit high enough to whisper danger, low enough in the back to show the wicked promise of scars. Her hair, braided into a crown, shimmered with subtle gold accents. And her eyes—cold, calculating, volcanic—scanned the room like a predator in heels.
Damon saw her the second she stepped into the light.
His breath caught like a noose.
She hadn't warned him she'd be here.
She didn't have to.
She wanted him off balance.
And God, it worked.
He crossed the floor like a storm brewing, hands clenched at his sides. The crowd parted around him like they sensed the threat, but Kaia didn't move. She stood her ground until they were toe-to-toe, every unspoken word between them sparking like static.
"You're playing a dangerous game," Damon murmured.
Kaia smiled like sin. "Darling, I am the game."
Their audience was thick—politicians, moguls, enemies dressed as allies—but none of them mattered. The only war Damon was fighting tonight stood five feet in front of him, wrapped in secrets and vengeance and lips he still dreamt about.
"You said you wanted a truce," he hissed.
"I lied," she said sweetly. "But I'm here now. Don't you want to make a scene?"
His jaw ticked. "You really want to do this here?"
"No," Kaia purred. "I want to do it somewhere private."
It was an ambush in a dress.
And Damon fell for it anyway.
—
The moment the door shut behind them in one of the estate's upstairs lounges, Damon grabbed her by the waist and shoved her back against the wall—not in anger. In desperation.
"You think you can walk in like that and expect me to stay sane?" he growled, voice low and ragged.
"I expect you to break," she whispered, curling her fingers into his open collar. "Because you always do when it's me."
Their mouths crashed, brutal and hungry. No tenderness—only teeth, heat, and years of things left unsaid. Damon's hands roamed her body like he was reclaiming territory, while Kaia pulled his belt loose with a slow, vicious smile.
"Still dreaming of ruining me?" he rasped.
"I'm not dreaming," she whispered against his lips. "I'm executing."
They didn't make it to the couch.
They barely made it out of their clothes.
It was chaos—fast, furious, filthy. The kind of encounter that left bruises on skin and confessions on the verge of slipping. Kaia raked her nails down his spine; Damon growled her name like a curse he couldn't stop repeating.
But beneath the lust, there was something else—grief.
Something wounded and wanting.
Something that bled every time they touched.
And when it was over, neither of them moved for a long moment—just the sound of ragged breathing, the distant music downstairs, and the weight of what they'd just done. Again.
Kaia sat up slowly, wrapping the silk throw over her chest. "I should go."
Damon caught her wrist. "Not yet."
Her eyes narrowed. "Scared I'll disappear again?"
"I'm scared I won't let you."
A silence thick with past and possibility settled between them.
Then Kaia whispered, "Tell me the truth, Damon. What really happened to my mother?"
Damon's eyes darkened. "This is not the time."
"No," she said, rising to her feet. "It's long overdue."
She reached into her purse and tossed the flash drive on the table between them.
"I decrypted it," she said. "Everything your father did. Everything you covered up."
Damon went still. "You don't understand what you're playing with."
"No," she said coldly. "You don't understand who you're playing with."
Kaia turned and walked out—leaving the scent of power and vengeance in her wake, along with a man who now knew:
The next time she came for him…
It wouldn't be for pleasure.
It would be for blood.
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