CHAPTER 4 – The Party That Turns Bloody

The word hung between us like a curse.

Mine.

I wanted to claw it out of the air, shove it back into his chest, and bury it there with all the other terrible things living inside him.

But I couldn’t.

Because I’d already said it.

I’m yours.

The echo of it wrapped around my throat like a chain.

Inside the hall, the party was scrambling to recover—music sputtering back on, waiters trying to pretend someone hadn’t just been dragged into nothingness by shadows no one could explain.

No one but me.

No one but him.

Damon still stood close—too close—fingers resting under my chin. Not hard, but firm enough that I knew I couldn’t pull away without making a scene.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

I stared at his collarbone instead, at the faint silver chain disappearing under his shirt, at the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“If I do,” I whispered, “I might kill you.”

His lips twitched. “You can try.”

Heat and fury tangled inside me until I didn’t know which was stronger.

Slowly, painfully, I lifted my eyes.

He watched me like he could feel every emotion in my veins.

“There,” he said softly. “Now remember something, Aanya.”

“What?” I snapped.

“You didn’t just say those words to save him.” His gaze slid toward the glass doors overlooking the hall. “You said them because a part of you knows they’ve been true since the moment I stepped onto that campus.”

My heart lurched.

I opened my mouth to deny it.

A gunshot cut through the air.

The glass behind him shattered.

For a second, I didn’t process it.

Then I saw the crack spread like a spiderweb. Heard the screams rising from below. Smelled the sudden sting of gunpowder and panic.

Damon moved faster than my eyes could track.

One second he was in front of me.

The next, he’d shoved me against the stone wall, his body caging mine fully, his arms braced to shield my head and chest from flying shards.

Broken glass rained around us, sharp stars falling at our feet.

Another gunshot.

Then another.

Shouting.

Chaos.

“Stay here,” he said against my ear, voice low and lethal.

He began to move away.

My hand shot out and grabbed his shirt.

I didn’t even think—my body moved before my mind.

“Don’t—” My voice cracked. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

He went still.

The hall below erupted into a storm—gunfire, screams, crashing glass.

His head turned, eyes flickering red for a second as he processed the danger.

Then he looked back at me.

Something softened—and hardened—at the same time in his expression.

“I will never leave you alone,” he said, each word precise. “Even when you can’t see me.”

He pried my fingers from his shirt and pressed my hand flat against his chest.

His heartbeat was still maddeningly calm.

“Listen,” he said.

I swallowed, focusing.

Thump.

Thump.

Steady.

Unbothered by violence.

“While you hear that,” he whispered, “you’re safe. No matter what blood is spilled.”

“You’re insane,” I breathed.

“Stay behind the column. Do not move.” His eyes locked onto mine, hard. “If anyone touches you, scream my name. Just once. That’s all I need.”

Then he was gone.

Not walking.

Almost… vanishing—one fluid movement, a blur of black and rage dropping back into the hall.

I pressed my back against the stone, legs shaking so badly I could barely stay upright.

Below, the world was ripping apart.

The Blackwood hall had turned into a warzone.

Men in masks had stormed the main doors, guns raised, firing into the ceiling and walls. Guests screamed and dove for cover behind tables and pillars. Some cowered. Some tried to run.

Idiots.

Damon moved through them like a shadow with teeth.

He didn’t waste bullets.

Others did that for him.

He picked the closest attacker and closed the distance in a heartbeat, slamming his hand into the man’s wrist. The gun flew away. Damon’s elbow crashed into the man’s throat.

He fell. Didn’t get up.

Another aimed at Damon’s back.

I opened my mouth—

The lights flickered violently.

Shadows along the ceiling peeled off like smoke made solid and dropped on the attacker, wrapping around his arms, jerking them wide.

His shot went wild, blasting into a chandelier instead.

Glass exploded, raining down on people already screaming.

My stomach twisted.

The man tried to pry himself free from the dark vines holding him.

He couldn’t.

Damon didn’t even look at him.

He moved to the next.

I watched, my nails digging into my palms so hard I felt skin break.

This wasn’t fighting.

This was… hunting.

He anticipated every move before it happened, ducking bullets, twisting bodies, a blur of black and fury. Where he went, people either fell or fled.

And still, I couldn’t look away.

One masked man broke through the chaos and grabbed a girl by the hair, pressing a gun to her head.

“STOP!” he roared.

Everything halted.

Music died mid-beat.

Even Damon’s steps slowed.

The man dragged the crying girl backward, toward the center of the hall, keeping the gun pressed to her temple.

His gaze locked on Damon.

“You think you own this city?” he shouted. “You think you can take everything, Blackwood?”

Damon stood still now.

Chest rising.

Eyes burning.

Blood spattered his sleeve and jaw, but none of it felt like his.

“I know I can,” he said.

The man snarled. “Get on your knees.”

Someone near me gasped.

I wasn’t sure if it was me or one of the guests below.

My heart hammered painfully.

Damon…

Kneel?

His jaw clenched.

His hands curled at his sides.

For a terrifying second, I thought he might refuse.

That he’d let the girl die just to prove a point.

“No,” I whispered.

He didn’t look at me.

He didn’t need to.

He heard it.

Even through the panic, the distance, the screaming air—

I saw the moment that single word reached him.

His gaze flicked up, toward the balcony.

Our eyes met.

The room fell away.

It was just us.

My fingers curled around the stone.

My lips moved soundlessly.

“Please.”

I didn’t realize I’d spoken until I saw his throat tighten.

Damon Blackwood.

Mafia king.

Half demon.

Monster.

Slowly—like it cost him more than blood—he dropped to one knee.

The hall inhaled as one.

The man holding the girl laughed, a wild, disbelieving sound.

“Look at that!” he shouted. “The great Damon Blackwood kneels when we say so!”

The girl sobbed harder.

Damon’s head lowered, but his eyes never left the attacker.

Red bled into the black.

My skin prickled.

This wasn’t surrender.

This was a storm waiting to snap.

The man pressed the gun harder against the girl’s head.

“You’re going to watch what happens when you fall,” he spat. “Everything you own will burn. Your territory. Your people. Your—”

His gaze caught the balcony.

Caught me.

Something ugly sparked in his eyes.

“—your little college pet.”

My blood ran cold.

His gun swung toward me.

Time fractured.

I didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

Damon moved.

He didn’t stand.

He didn’t run.

He disappeared.

One blink he was kneeling.

The next, he was in front of the man.

No one saw the in-between.

The girl fell free, shoved away as the attacker’s body went rigid.

Damon’s hand was buried in his chest.

Not figuratively.

Literally.

Fingers sunk into flesh as if the bone wasn’t there.

The man’s mouth opened in a soundless scream.

Black smoke—not blood, not air, something darker—leaked from his lips, his eyes, the hole in his chest.

The lights burned too bright for a moment.

My vision blurred.

The shadows in every corner of the hall surged forward like an audience cheering.

Damon’s lips parted in a quiet, almost relieved breath, as if absorbing something familiar.

Then he ripped his hand out.

The man crumpled.

Dead.

Silent.

The hall went utterly still.

No one moved.

No one screamed.

It was like everyone’s mind refused to process what they’d seen.

Damon stood over the body.

Blood slid down his fingers.

His face was calm.

Terrifyingly calm.

He looked up.

At me.

Red still burned in his eyes.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

Not because of what he’d done…

But because a piece of me had never felt safer than in that horrifying, bloody moment when the gun turned toward me and his body reacted before his mind.

Like I was the only thing that mattered in a room full of lives.

And that was worse than any violence.

Because it meant the darkness in him had hooked onto something in me.

And it didn’t plan to let go.

Blackwood men surged into action after that—cleaning up, securing the exits, removing bodies as if this was a practiced routine.

Guests were escorted out, dazed and shaking.

No police.

No sirens.

The city outside went on like nothing had happened.

I watched from the top of the staircase now, because someone had pulled me from the balcony during the chaos. I didn’t even remember who.

Maybe the house itself.

Maybe the shadows.

Maybe him.

He was talking to one of his men now, voice low, expression stone.

Then his head turned as if sensing my gaze.

Our eyes met again.

The distance felt like nothing.

He started walking toward me.

My legs threatened to give out.

Run, some part of me screamed.

Another part whispered:

Stay.

When he reached me, he didn’t speak right away.

His fingers brushed the railing, then my arm—an almost absent-minded touch, but my entire body snapped to attention.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

I stared at his hand first.

At the faint red still staining his skin.

“At least this time,” I said, my voice hoarse, “I know it’s not my blood on you.”

He tilted his head, studying me like I was something fragile and sharp at the same time.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.

“You just tore a man open in front of a crowd,” I shot back. “Forgive me for not being calm.”

“He pointed a gun at you.”

“I noticed.”

“I warned them,” Damon continued, almost to himself, as if explaining instead of defending. “No one touches what’s mine.”

The words rolled over me, thick and heavy and maddening.

“I’m not a thing,” I whispered.

His eyes softened—just a fraction.

“I know,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

I frowned. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he replied, voice growing quieter, “that when I saw that gun move toward you, every part of me wanted to tear this world apart. And I would have.”

My throat burned.

“Do you hear yourself?” I asked. “That’s not love. That’s obsession. That’s—”

“Good,” he cut in.

I blinked. “Good?”

“Love is weak. Soft. Negotiable.” His gaze darkened. “Obsession doesn’t ask. It takes. It protects. It destroys anything that threatens it.”

“That’s not healthy,” I whispered.

“I’m not healthy,” he said simply. “Neither is whatever lives inside you that keeps pulling you back to me.”

My mind scrambled for a denial.

My body refused to give one.

He lifted his hand slowly.

I thought he’d touch my face.

Instead, he reached for my wrist again, fingers wrapping around it with a familiarity that made my breath hitch.

His thumb pressed against the burned mark.

It flared with heat—like a brand answering its owner.

“After tonight,” he said softly, “do you still believe the world is safer without me near you?”

Images flashed behind my eyes—the gun, the man being dragged, Damon kneeling, Damon tearing someone apart to stop one finger from pulling a trigger in my direction.

“No,” I admitted.

He leaned in, his breath brushing my cheek.

“Good.”

“It doesn’t mean I forgive you,” I added sharply.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he said. “I’m asking for truth.”

He stepped closer again, closing any remaining space.

“What do you feel,” he murmured, “right now?”

My heart hammered painfully.

Fear.

Hatred.

Relief.

Heat.

All tangled into a knot I couldn’t separate.

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

He smiled—a slow, satisfied curve that did terrible things to my lungs.

“You will,” he said. “Soon.”

Later, when the hall was nearly empty and the blood was mostly gone, I stood near the grand doors, hugging myself.

Rhea’s text notifications buzzed on my phone.

Are you safe?

Where are you??

Aanya pick up!!

I typed back with shaky fingers: I’m okay. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.

Before I could press send, a shadow fell over my screen.

Damon plucked the phone gently from my hand.

“Hey—”

He typed something quickly.

My eyes widened as he showed me the screen.

> Got busy. Talk tomorrow. ❤️

“I didn’t write that,” I snapped.

“I know,” he said.

He sent it.

My stomach twisted. “You don’t get to talk to my best friend for me.”

“I just did.”

“I hate you,” I said again, meaning it more than ever.

He smiled like I’d given him a gift.

“I know,” he replied. “That feeling will sit very nicely next to all the other things you feel for me.”

He stepped back, but his eyes said he wasn’t really going anywhere.

“Go home, Aanya,” he said. “Sleep.”

“As if I can after this.”

“Oh, you will,” he murmured. “You’re exhausted.”

“From what? Watching you kill?”

He held my gaze.

“No,” he said. “From pretending you didn’t feel safer every time I did.”

The worst part?

It wasn’t a lie.

And that truth…

That twisted, ugly truth that being wrapped in a monster’s protection felt safer than any normal life I’d ever known—

That’s what haunted me long after I left Blackwood Hall.

Not the blood.

Not the gunshots.

Not even his eyes.

But the way my heart beat differently now.

As if it had learned a new rhythm.

One that only matched his.

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