Chapter 1 - The Cold Truth
Damien’s fingers dug into the soft fabric of Erin’s oversized cardigan, his touch anchored in a rare, trembling restraint. The air in the executive suite felt heavy, thick with the scent of rain, paper dust, and the metallic tang of an unseen poison.
Erin blinked rapidly, her vision swimming as the faint blue light of the monitor rendered Damien’s sharp jawline into a harsh silhouette. Panic flickered across her face—the instinct of a woman who had spent four months hiding a death sentence behind an iron mask of professionalism.
"Mr. Cross," she whispered, her voice raspy, dry as paper. She immediately tried to sit up, her hand dropping from her belly to smooth her rumpled cardigan. "I… I fell asleep. The quarterly freight tallies from Rotterdam—I was finishing them. I’m sorry. It won't happen again."
Damien didn't move. He didn't yell. The cold fury radiating from him was far more dangerous than the open rage she had seen him direct at cartel lieutenants. In his left hand, he held the crushed pages of the Massachusetts General Hospital diagnostic report.
Her eyes fell on the paper, and the little color left in her face drained entirely.
"Damien, please," she breathed, dropping the formal title for the first time in months. "Give that back."
"How long?" His voice was low, a dark rumble that vibrated through the quiet desk space. "How long have you been walking around with this in your system, Erin?"
"It’s nothing you need to be concerned with. It’s a personal health matter—"
"A personal health matter?" Damien leaned down, placing both palms flat on her desk, trapping her in his space. The distance between them vanished, replaced by the suffocating memory of that night in Miami four months ago—the sound of the hurricane against the shutters, the taste of whiskey and desperation, the line they had crossed and swore never to mention again. "Thallium, Erin. Trace arsenic. Someone is feeding you heavy metals. Someone is killing you. And you thought you could hide it behind unfiled manifests?"
Erin’s lower lip trembled, but her jaw set with a stubbornness that had kept her alive working for the city’s most dangerous man. "I found out three days ago. I was trying to figure out how… who…"
"Who?" Damien’s voice snapped like a whip. "You don't figure out who is poisoning you on your own. You bring it to me."
"And tell you what?" Erin snapped back, her eyes shining with unshed tears, ignited by a sudden flare of anger. "Tell you that I’m pregnant? Tell you that the baby I’m carrying—your baby, Damien—is being poisoned inside me? You would have stripped me of my job, put me in a cage under twenty-four-hour guard, and turned my life into a warzone!"
The room fell dead silent. The truth sat between them, massive and undeniable.
Damien stared at her. His throat worked as he swallowed the surge of fierce, protective agony tearing through his ribs. Your baby. Hearing it aloud hit him harder than any bullet he’d ever taken. A child. A legacy born from the only moments of genuine warmth he had known in fifteen years.
"You're right," Damien said softly, the edge in his voice turning into something far darker, something fatal. "I am going to put you under guard. I am going to turn this city into a warzone. Because whoever touched you just signed their own death warrant."
May you like
He reached out, slipping his hands under her arms, and lifted her from the chair before she could protest. She was impossibly light—far lighter than she had been four months ago. The realization sent a chill through his heart. He pulled her against his chest, feeling the small, firm bump hidden beneath the loose clothes.
"We are leaving," Damien commanded, turning toward the private elevator. "Now."
