CHAPTER THIRTEEN — A WOLF AT THE BONE
No one moved first.
The foyer felt less like a room and more like a trap between three storms—none willing to step back, none naïve enough to step forward without cost.
Kade stood where Aria had left him, Davidian still coiled but no longer at his throat. The bruise rising beneath his collar didn't rattle him. If anything, it anchored him in the moment like he'd bled in this house before.
Aria didn't look at Damian or Kade—she watched the space between them, the invisible thread tightening with each breath. She didn't need to provoke anything. Time alone would.
Finally, Damian spoke.
"Who is he."
The question came like an execution order disguised as inquiry.
Kade didn't flinch.
"You're still asking the wrong question," he said.
Damian's voice slowed to something lethal. "You think I won't break you in front of her."
"I think you don't want to hear the name out loud," Kade replied. "Not in her presence."
The silence that followed was sharp-edged.
Aria's gaze finally landed on Damian, reading the reaction he tried to bury. Something thick and old stirred behind his restraint.
Kade's eyes tracked hers. "You didn't know, did you," he said to Damian. "That he'd marked her before you ever touched her world."
Damian's stare darkened. "You're lying."
"I don't waste breath on lies," Kade answered.
Aria watched Damian's hands. They didn't shake. They didn't clench. But the air around them tightened, like restraint was no longer discipline—it was labor.
"What does he want," Damian asked, slower now, more deliberate.
Kade looked past him, toward the grand staircase like he could see the shadow of someone who wasn't there. "He wants you to remember the debt."
"You think I've forgotten it."
"No," Kade said. "You've ignored it."
Aria stepped once to the left, forcing Kade's attention back to her.
"If he wants me here," she said, "he'll regret it."
Kade didn't smile. "You're not his target."
She held his gaze. "You said I'm the fuse."
"Yes."
"A fuse leads to something."
"In your case," Kade said, "someone."
Aria's eyes flickered—not with uncertainty, but calculation. "You're implying he knows me."
"He doesn't need to know you," Kade replied. "He only needs to know what you make him do."
The him was Damian.
The space thickened.
Damian took one measured step forward. "You said he doesn't want her harmed."
"Yet." Kade's tone didn't rise. "He wants her seen."
Aria's expression didn't shift. Her mind already moved ten moves ahead.
Damian cut through again. "You still haven't said his name."
"And you still haven't asked the real question," Kade said.
Damian exhaled a quiet thread of breath through his nose. "You think you're in control here."
Kade looked around the foyer—the stone, the glass, the shadows. "Control is a myth people with empires tell themselves before the fire."
Aria watched their exchange like a predator observing a trap she didn't step into. "Where is he now."
Kade turned his eyes back to her. "Closer than you want."
"Not good enough."
"You're assuming you'll see him coming."
"I see everything coming," she said quietly.
"That's your flaw," Kade replied. "He doesn't come. He waits until you move."
Damian's patience frayed. "You said he tried to reach me through her."
"No," Kade said. "I said he'll break you through her."
"And how does he plan that," Damian asked.
Kade looked him dead in the eye. "By making you choose."
Not her. Not now. Not later.
Choose.
Between what and what?
Aria saw it before either man said it.
Between her and the ghost still breathing in a hospital bed.
The old one. The buried one.
The one someone dug back up to use like ammunition.
Kade didn't blink. "He knows you, Damian. Better than you want to admit. He knows you don't lose what you claim."
Aria felt that word settle across the space like a curse.
Claim.
She didn't react.
Damian did.
Barely.
"You think you understand my reach," he said, voice low as granite.
Kade's answer was unforgiving. "I understand what he believes you'll do when forced to prove it."
Aria crossed her arms slowly—no anxiety, only intention. "You said the woman is awake."
Kade didn't look at her when he answered. "Not for long."
Damian's jaw cut a shadow across his cheek. "Who revived her."
"That," Kade said, "is the question you should've asked first."
Before Damian could respond, footsteps approached—measured, careful. Carmella emerged from the side passage, two more men behind her, one carrying a hardened case.
She took in the scene—the bruising on Kade's throat, the brittle silence, the tension that tasted like blood not spilled yet.
"Sir," she said to Damian, "you need to see this."
Kade smirked faintly. "Timing holds hands with fate, doesn't it."
Damian didn't take his eyes off Carmella. "What."
She nodded to the man with the case. He unlocked it, revealing a smaller black vault box. Not wide. Not tall. Flat. Sealed with a digital lock and an old-world clasp.
"We found it on the lower south incline," she said. "Buried where the device was dropped. Under the first layer of soil."
Damian stepped forward. Aria angled to see. Kade stayed still, but his attention sharpened.
The clasp read only one thing—etched in a script no one used anymore.
Three initials.
A single mark.
Damian froze.
Carmella narrowed her eyes. "You know the signature."
Aria read it once, then again.
She spoke aloud. "A.M.S."
Kade's gaze flicked to her. "Now you're closer."
Damian closed the case with finality. "Take it to the sublevel. No one opens it until I give word."
Carmella nodded. "Yes, sir."
She turned to go.
"Wait," Aria said.
Carmella stopped.
Aria looked at Damian. "You know who that belongs to."
Damian didn't answer her.
Kade did.
"He was your mirror. Before you decided reflections were weaknesses."
Aria didn't look at Kade. "A.M.S stands for what."
Kade watched her face, not her mouth. "It used to stand for a name. It doesn't anymore."
Damian's stare could have incinerated steel. "You've said enough."
Kade's tone went flat. "You haven't heard anything yet."
Aria stepped closer to the case before Carmella could take it away. "If it's meant for him, it's meant for me."
"No," Damian said sharply.
She didn't look at him. "Yes."
Kade watched the fracture line form.
Damian finally spoke, each word honed like glass. "You don't touch what was buried before you existed."
Aria's reply was lethal calm. "Then don't involve me in its resurrection."
Kade's eyes glinted with something unreadable. Approval or warning—it didn't matter.
For the first time, Damian looked away.
Not out of weakness.
Out of memory.
Aria didn't speak again.
She didn't have to.
Whatever
A.M.S was, whatever he left buried, it was back in motion.
Not at the door.
Already in the house.
Already shaping the board.
Already bending the fuse into a weapon he hadn't lit yet.
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