Chapter 2 - Fearless in the Lion’s Den
In Damian’s life, when people raised their hands to him, they were either pleading for their lives, reaching for a weapon, or trying to shield their faces from a blow. The gesture had always been a prelude to violence or unconditional surrender.
It had never meant pick me up.
"Hey," Damian said, his voice dropping another octave, harsh and flat. "Stop."
She did not stop. Mia—though he had no name for her yet—closed the remaining two feet with absolute indifference to the command that could have emptied a boardroom in Manhattan. Her bare toes reached the volcanic slab. Finding no purchase against the smooth stone, she grabbed the cuff of his pressed black trousers with one dirt-smudged hand, used his knee as an anchor, and hauled her tiny frame upward with stubborn, unhurried determination.
Damian’s hands hovered in the air. For the first time in ten years, his instincts misfired. His fingers, which knew precisely how many pounds of pressure were required to shatter a man’s larynx or cycle a slide in the dark, hung paralyzed in the warm afternoon breeze. If he shoved her, he would break her collarbone. If he drew his weapon, he would terrify an infant.
Before his rational mind could construct a third option, the little girl scrambled onto his lap.
Her knees pressed into his muscular thigh. She didn't hesitate; she didn't look back toward the hedges. With an audible, contented sigh, she turned her small body, leaned back against the solid wall of his chest, and pulled the frayed stuffed rabbit against her stomach. Her light brown curls brushed against the exposed hollow of his throat, smelling of dried wild lavender, clean rain, and warm summer sun.
Damian froze completely. His spine locked into a rigid, vertical line against the stone backrest. His breath caught in his throat, his chest holding still beneath her small shoulder blades, terrified that the expansion of his lungs might shatter her.
"What do you think you're doing?" he murmured, the words barely vibrating past his teeth.
Mia didn't answer with words. She simply let her head drop against his collarbone, nuzzling into the soft linen of his black shirt until her cheek rested directly over the black ink of his eagle tattoo. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, her eyelashes casting long, dark crescents over her flushed cheeks.
Her tiny lips curved into a drowsy, peaceful smile.
"You're warm," she whispered.
The word was small. Fragile. It settled into the quiet garden with the weight of an unexploded shell.
Damian’s jaw remained clamped shut, but his pulse spiked violently against his ribs. Beneath her ear, his heart was hammering at a rapid, irregular tempo. Men with twenty years in the trade trembled when they stood within arm's reach of him. Hardened soldiers who had fought in overseas trenches looked at the floor when he entered the family council.
Yet this child had climbed into his lap, settled into the pocket of his ribs, and closed her eyes as if he were an old armchair by a fireplace.
May you like
He looked down at her. Her breathing was already slowing down, turning into the rhythmic, shallow cadence of deep sleep. Her small, chubby hand remained loosely hooked into the placket of his shirt, her knuckles pale against the dark linen.
Who was she? How had she bypassed twenty-four armed guards? And why, in God's name, was she looking for warmth on the chest of a killer?
