It was nearly 11 p.m. when Damien stepped out into the cold night air, the scent of blood and whiskey still clinging to his skin like a second shadow.
Ashcroft had gone back inside, muttering something about another drink.
Outside, the city had quieted.
But Damien hadn’t.
The black vehicle waited by the curb, sleek and silent under the streetlamp’s pale glow.
James was already standing by the door, as if he’d been there all along. “Sir,” he greeted, voice even.
Damien gave a nod and slid into the back seat.
James followed, silent as a shadow. The door shut behind him, sealing them in with the low hum of the engine and the soft scent of leather and frost.
A pause. Then James spoke, always efficient.
“All your scheduled commitments have been adjusted to accommodate the trip two week
