Morning sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains of the hospital room, laying soft patterns across Ariana's blanket. The night had been long, filled with nurses rushing in and out, machines beeping, and her uneasy drifting in and out of sleep. Still, she woke feeling… different. Not fully healed, not fully herself, but steadier. Stronger.
Maybe it was because Damian had stayed.
He sat in the visitor's chair, head bowed, arms folded, looking like exhaustion had wrapped itself around him like a second skin. His usually pristine appearance had crumbled; his shirt was wrinkled, his tie discarded, his shoes still dusty from the terrifying sprint he'd made when he heard Ariana was in danger. The sight pulled a quiet laugh from her.
"You look terrible," Ariana whispered.
Damian jerked awake, eyes widening when he saw her looking at him.
"You're awake," he breathed out, relief softening the sharpness of his features.
"Barely. But I'm alive."
He let out a shaky exhale. "Don't say it like it was ever in question."
Ariana didn't argue. She remembered the look on his face when he found her unconscious—fear so raw it had stripped away every wall he usually hid behind. She remembered him shouting for help, his hand gripping hers with desperate strength.
But there was more. A shadow. A voice whispered through pain before she passed out.
Her father.
Ariana swallowed. "Damian… last night… I think he was there."
Damian's expression hardened instantly. "Your father?"
"I heard his voice. I'm not sure if it was real."
"It was real." His jaw tightened. "The nurses said a man came near your room before I arrived. Security tried to stop him but he disappeared. And… I saw him. Or at least the shadow of him. Enough to know he's close."
Ariana's chest tightened. Her father had vanished from her life years ago—only to reappear as the architect of the danger creeping toward her now. But why? What did he want?
Before she could ask, the door pushed open and Nurse Amara stepped in with a warm, practiced smile.
"Good morning, Ariana. Good morning, Mr. Blackwood. You two survived the night."
"Barely," Damian muttered.
Amara chuckled softly. "She's stable. The doctor wants to run one more scan, but if everything looks good, she can leave by evening."
Ariana brightened slightly, and Damian's shoulders finally loosened a little.
"But," Amara added gently, "she needs rest. No running into danger for at least 48 hours."
Ariana nodded obediently, though both she and Damian knew that danger wasn't something she chose—danger simply found her.
As soon as Amara left, Damian stood and stretched.
"I need to speak to security and the police," he murmured. "They need to stay near this floor until we leave."
"You're not overreacting?" Ariana asked quietly.
Damian met her eyes with a steadiness that almost unnerved her.
"No. Someone wants something from you. Something they're willing to hurt you for. And I won't let them try again."
His voice carried a weight that made her chest ache—but she pushed the feeling aside. There wasn't time for whatever this was between them. Not now.
"Damian… be careful."
He nodded once and slipped out.
---
THE CALL
An hour passed quietly. Ariana's thoughts wandered in spirals—her father's sudden reappearance, the attack on her, Damian's fierce protectiveness. She drifted between sleep and wakefulness until her phone buzzed on the table.
Blocked number.
Her pulse quickened.
She reached for it with trembling fingers.
"Hello?"
Silence at first. Then a breath.
"Ariana."
Her blood turned cold.
Her father.
"What do you want?" she whispered, her voice fragile but sharp.
"I've been patient with you," he said, calm and chilling. "But you're making things harder than they should be."
"I don't owe you anything."
"You owe me everything," he snapped, before forcing his voice to soften again. "I came to see you last night. You were unconscious. Vulnerable. I didn't want it to be like this."
"How generous," she said tightly.
"You don't understand the danger around you. The people chasing you aren't after you for fun. You have something… and they want it."
"What thing?" Ariana demanded.
But he ignored the question.
"I'll come for you again. This time, don't run."
The line went dead.
Ariana sat frozen, breath shaking. She wanted to throw the phone, scream, cry, anything—but she forced herself to stay still.
She wasn't a child anymore. She wouldn't crumble.
She reached for the call button, but before she could press it, the door opened again.
Damian walked in with two officers behind him.
Ariana exhaled shakily—just seeing him steadied her.
"You okay?" he asked, reading her instantly.
"No," she said honestly. "He just called."
Damian's whole body stilled. "What did he say?"
"He's coming for me."
The officers immediately began questioning her—details, descriptions, past history. Ariana answered what she could, but her mind kept drifting back to his last words:
This time, don't run.
She didn't know what frightened her more:
that he was coming…
Or that she would have to face him.
---
THE RETURN HOME
By late afternoon, Ariana was discharged. Damian insisted on driving her home himself, despite the police offering an escort. He didn't trust them. Not with her safety.
The ride was quiet at first, the city moving past the windows in blurred streaks. Ariana kept staring outside, fingers twisting around each other.
"You don't have to be scared," Damian said softly, keeping his eyes on the road.
"I'm not scared of him," she murmured. "I'm scared of what I don't know."
"We'll figure it out."
"How can you be so sure?"
Damian hesitated before answering.
"Because you're not alone."
The simple words hit her harder than anything else today.
When they reached her apartment, Damian insisted on checking every room before letting her step inside. He moved with calm precision—kitchen, living room, bathroom, balcony, closets—everywhere.
Only when he was satisfied did he return to her.
"It's clear."
Ariana let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He nodded, but worry still clouded his eyes.
"I'm staying here tonight."
Ariana blinked. "You don't have to—"
"I do."
His tone left no room for argument.
She didn't push further.
---
THE LETTER
As Ariana settled on the couch with a blanket around her shoulders, Damian checked the mail stacked near her door—just out of caution.
Bills. Flyers. A folded brown envelope.
His eyes sharpened.
"No sender," he murmured.
He opened it carefully.
A single sheet of paper slid out.
Ariana watched Damian's face drain of colour.
"What is it?" she asked.
He handed it to her.
Her heartbeat stumbled.
THE GIRL IS MY BLOOD.
YOU CAN'T KEEP HER FROM ME.
THE NEXT TIME I COME,
NOTHING WILL STOP ME.
No signature. Just a smudged fingerprint in red ink.
But Ariana knew it wasn't ink.
Her hands shook violently.
Damian grabbed her shoulders gently but firmly. "Hey. Look at me."
She lifted her tear-filled eyes.
"I'm not letting anything happen to you. Do you hear me? Not your father. Not whoever he's working with. No one."
Ariana nodded, swallowing hard.
She didn't know if she believed him.
But she wanted to.
For the first time in hours, she leaned against him—just briefly—drawing strength from the only person who had stood between her and the shadows tightening around her.
Outside, unseen, someone watched the light in her apartment flicker through the curtains.
Waiting.