STONECREST
The night cloaked them like hunters in their element — Damon and his Kingsmen moved through Lord Travis's manor with the silence of wolves. Shadows flickered along torchlit halls, blades flashing only when necessary. A grunt. A gasp. A final breath. Nothing more. They left no room for alarm.
By the time they reached the east wing, the last of the guards lay cold on marble floors.
Inside his chambers, Lord Travis leaned over a trembling girl — no older than sixteen — his hand already around her chin. He grinned as if he'd just won a wager.
"You'll behave now, won't you?" His voice was all rot and liquor. "You pretty little—"
"You've always had a weak stomach for power, Travis."
The voice came low. Calm. Familiar. It made the hairs on the back of Travis's neck rise.
He froze.
From the shadows by the hearth, a figure emerged. Unhurried. Solid. Like smoke given form.
Damon Dragarth.
He stepped forward, boots silent on velvet carpets, and lowered himself into a high-backed chair opposite the bed. His axe glinted faintly where he set it down beside him, close enough to reach in an instant.
Travis stood slowly at the sight of the King. His hands dropped from the girl. "You—" His voice caught. He cleared his throat. "Your Majesty..."
The girl didn't wait for instructions. She bolted past them both, feet barely touching the floor as she vanished through the door. Damon didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on Travis — watching. Measuring.
"Your taste hasn't changed," Damon said. "Still hunting what can't fight back."
Travis exhaled, collecting himself.
"You arrive in the night like a thief," he said, trying to muster control. "Is this how kings visit their lords now?"
Damon didn't move. "I didn't come as a guest."
A pause.
Travis crossed to the wine table, poured himself a drink with hands that were almost steady. "If you're here about some lie you've heard—"
"I don't deal in rumors," Damon cut in. "I deal in what I see. And I've seen enough."
"You think you understand everything that happens here? This house, this land—"
"I understand power," Damon said. "I understand the filth that hides behind silk and silver. I understand men who take what they want because they think their title makes them untouchable."
Damon leaned forward slightly.
"You forget who gave you that title, Lord Travis."
The fire cracked between them. Travis's jaw tightened.
"I serve this region—"
"No," Damon said, his voice like iron. "You serve yourself."
Travis's temper flared. "You don't get to judge me. You've killed more men than I've laid with women."
Damon tilted his head, voice flat. "I never hurt the helpless. We're not the same."
A flicker of something crossed Travis's face — guilt, fear, annoyance. He covered it with a forced smirk.
"I am your King," Damon said, rising to his feet.
The room shrank.
His voice hadn't risen, but it landed like a hammer.
"I am not your equal, Travis. I do not debate. I do not argue. I am the law. When I speak, you listen. When I give a command, you obey."
Silence pressed in.
Travis stood frozen, the wine glass trembling slightly in his fingers.
He laughed. A short, breathless sound — too forced to be genuine.
"Well said, Your Majesty," he muttered. "You've rehearsed that, haven't you?"
But Damon didn't reply. He simply stared, eyes sharp and cold as a drawn blade.
Travis tried to steady his shoulders, lift his chin, regain some semblance of control — but the weight in the air was suffocating. The king's presence was overwhelming, and it stripped Travis bare.
He was afraid.
And he hated it.
His lips curled slightly, a smirk born of desperation. "All this theatre for one girl?" he asked. "You think I'm the only one with dirty hands in these lands? If you truly saw what I've seen—"
"I've seen enough," Damon replied.
Something snapped.
Travis's hand clenched tighter around the glass. His gaze flicked to the door. No guards. No Kingsmen. Just him and the King.
He thought he could do it.
Maybe if he struck fast. Caught him off balance. One solid blow. No one would know.
Just one man against another.
He lunged.
The glass shattered as he hurled it toward Damon's head. The King moved — a shift of the shoulder, a duck of the head — and the shards clattered harmlessly to the stone.
But Travis didn't stop.
He charged, roaring now, desperation replacing dignity. His hands went for Damon's throat, hoping to catch him off guard.
Damon met him halfway.
The King twisted, his elbow slamming into Travis's ribs with a heavy crunch. Travis stumbled back but came again — throwing a wild punch that Damon easily deflected with the back of his arm. The chamber became a blur of movement — robes swaying, boots scraping, fists slamming.
Travis fought like a man cornered.
Damon fought like a man in control.
Travis managed to drive him back a few steps, almost landing a blow — almost.
But Damon's patience ended there.
With a sudden pivot, the King caught Travis by the collar and slammed him against the oak table, rattling the candlesticks and splintering the edge. Then came a knee to the gut. A grunt of pain. Another punch, swift and brutal, into Travis's jaw.
The lord staggered, blood at his lip, dazed and barely standing.
Damon didn't hesitate.
A final strike — the flat of his forearm across the side of Travis's head — sent him crashing to the floor.
Unmoving.
The only sound was Damon's breath — steady and calm.
He stood over the unconscious man, towering. The fire behind him flickered, casting his shadow across the blood-speckled rug.
*******************
Neriah had been having a quiet conversation with Kaelith while Gwen and the other ladies-in-waiting stood nearby. From the corner of her eye, Neriah noticed Gwen swaying where she stood, her eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion. Neriah smiled softly, a flicker of pity stirring in her chest. It was already past midnight — she should probably retire for the night, if only so Gwen didn't topple over from sleep.
She was just about to excuse herself when a guard stepped in and bowed.
"The King has returned, Your Grace."
Neriah's head snapped up. Her heart soared — and Kaelith, ever observant, caught the flicker of light that came to her face. She said nothing, only smiled.
That was all Neriah needed.
She rose at once and made her way to her and their chamber, her breath quickening with each step.
Just as she reached the door, it opened from the inside. A male physician stepped out, holding a satchel spotted with fresh blood. He bowed low and passed without a word.
Neriah didn't pause.
She pushed the door open — and then she saw him.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He was there.
Alive.
And more breathtaking than she remembered.
He was shirtless, skin bronzed and hard with battle-earned muscle. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, catching the edges of him in silver.
Damon looked up — his dark hair tousled, his eyes found hers, slow and steady, and something in his face softened.
And then, he smiled.
Truly smiled.
"Did you miss me, Riah?" he asked.
The sound of her name in his voice made her toes curl. Neriah looked away quickly, trying to disguise the grin tugging at her lips. "I didn't. You presume too much."
But her voice betrayed her — light, teasing, too happy.
She walked closer, trying not to let her gaze linger on the curve of his chest or the line of his collarbone. "Are you hurt?" she asked, reaching to inspect the bandage. "You told me you were going to talk to a few hardened men...why - "
Before she could finish, Damon reached out and gently took her hand.
Her breath hitched.
Then, with quiet strength, he pulled her down — down, until she was seated carefully on his lap, his arm secure around her waist.
Neriah tensed.
She had never been this close to him.
She had dreamed of it — in foolish, silent moments. But this… this was real.
And he smelled of leather, pine, and cider. The scent was warm, heady — utterly him. It pulled her in like gravity.
Damon brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers trailing gently across her skin. "I missed you more than I should have," he murmured. His voice was deep, quiet, like a vow spoken to the dark.
Her lips parted slightly.
She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
His gaze fell to her mouth.
"I can't help falling in love with you, Riah."
The words settled between them like a match to dry tinder.
And then, he kissed her.
Softly.
So softly it made her eyes flutter shut.
Neriah had never been kissed before. Not truly. Not like this.
This was no stolen kiss behind curtains. This was something sacred. Something slow and warm and unraveling.
Her hands curled gently into his bare shoulder. Her heart pounded so fiercely she thought he must feel it. She leaned into the kiss — into him — and the world faded.
It was only Damon.
Only this.
Her lips moved against his, unsure at first, then eager. A low sound escaped her — a soft moan, surprised and unbidden.
Damon took that sound like permission.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, drawing her closer as the kiss deepened. His lips claimed hers again — firmer now, savoring. His other hand settled on her waist, holding her like something fragile and precious all at once.
Neriah's thoughts scattered. Her skin tingled. Her breath came in soft gasps between their lips. She kissed him back sweetly, hungrily, like she didn't want to stop — like she couldn't.
And Damon…
Damon was lost in her.
Her lips were like velvet. Warm and perfect. He could taste the sweetness of her breath, the innocence and hunger behind it. It unraveled something in him — something dangerous and tender.
He didn't want to stop.
His hand tangled in her curls, his body aching to pull her closer still. He kissed her like a man starved — then slowed, because he wanted to remember every second. Every sigh. Every inch of her warmth against him.
When they finally parted, Neriah's lashes fluttered open, eyes wide and glassy. Her lips were flushed, her breath unsteady.
She looked at him, dazed and breathless.
And he stared back, utterly enchanted.
Damon spoke, voice low and reverent, "I love you, Riah."
The words left him without hesitation, as natural as breathing. "I'm undone by you," he added, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone, lingering as if memorizing the curve of her face.
His eyes didn't stray from hers. That deep, storm-dark gaze, filled with longing and something more—something raw, unshakable.
Neriah could barely breathe. Her chest rose and fell as though she'd just come up for air. Her lips still tingled from the kiss, parted slightly in stunned silence. No one had ever looked at her like that before. No one had ever said those words to her.
And yet, she felt them in her bones—because she'd been falling too.
Her fingers found his face, tracing the faint scar near his jaw. "Damon…" she whispered, but the rest of her voice failed her.
He caught her hand, kissed the inside of her wrist, then pressed his forehead to hers.
"I've wanted you from the moment I saw you," he said, quieter now. "But I made myself a promise. That I'd never take what you weren't ready to give. That I wouldn't frighten you, or make you feel like your worth was measured by what I could take."
His voice dropped lower, huskier. "I could kiss you for hours, Riah… and gods help me, I want to." A pause. "But not tonight. Not like this."
His restraint was devastating. It made her heart clench.
She wanted more—more of his warmth, his mouth, his hands. Her body leaned instinctively toward him, her fingers curled into the crook at his neck, as if pleading with him not to let her go.
"I'm not scared of you," she said, barely above a whisper.
He smiled, a slow, aching thing. "I know," he murmured.
Neriah closed her eyes, pressed her forehead to his. "Then kiss me again… just once more," she said, and it came out so soft, so vulnerable, that it undid him all over again.
Damon tilted her chin and kissed her again—slower this time, but deeper.
There was no urgency in it, only purpose. His lips moved over hers with a tenderness that made Neriah feel weightless, like the world outside their chamber had fallen away. Her hand slid to his neck, her fingers curling there, anchoring herself to him.
He tasted like warmth and wine and something she couldn't name but would never forget.
This kiss wasn't discovery—it was confirmation. Of everything they'd both been holding back. Of every glance, every silence, every ache.
When they finally parted, it wasn't with breathless hunger, but with a quiet reverence—like a prayer answered.
Their eyes met again. No words. Just the quiet, pulsing knowing between them.
He rested his forehead against hers once more.
Then Neriah felt it—warmth on her fingers. Sticky. Damp.
She looked down.
Her hand was resting gently on Damon's arm… the one he had wrapped in cloth earlier, the one she'd meant to ask about but hadn't, too lost in the haze of his kiss. The linen was now tinted a dark red, and the blood had begun to seep through again.
Her heart lurched. "Damon… you're bleeding."
He didn't move.
She pulled back, just enough to look him full in the face. "Why? What happened? You didn't say you were hurt."
"It's nothing," he murmured, his voice low and even, brushing a kiss against her temple to distract her.
"Nothing?" she echoed, not fooled. "You're bleeding through bandages, Damon."
He said nothing.
Neriah straightened as if to rise. "I'll get something for it—just give me a moment—"
But his arm slid around her waist, stopping her. "No," he said quietly.
She stilled. "You need—"
"I need you." His voice was firm now, but not hard. "Just… stay. Please."
She hesitated, torn between concern and the aching warmth of his touch. But in the end, she melted back against him. She didn't want to leave either. Not yet. Not now.
Still, she whispered, "Does it hurt?"
His eyes found hers, and something flickered there—truth, deflection, something in between.
"No," he said softly. "Not when you're here."
But Damon didn't tell her where the wound had truly come from. He didn't speak of the blade Lord Travis had hidden in the folds of his robe. Of how close it had come to slicing across his ribs instead of his arm. Of how he'd spent the last three days dragging darkness into light, one corrupt noble at a time.
No. Neriah didn't need that weight on her tonight.
So he simply held her tighter. And she let him.