Chapter 11
282words
The dagger had missed his heart by millimeters.
For days afterward, he drifted between consciousness and delirium.
One night, as I replaced the cool cloth on his burning forehead, he began to mumble.
His brows furrowed in pain, words tumbling from his lips in feverish confession.
"Never wanted her… to have your blood…" he muttered, thrashing weakly. "Tried to protect… couldn't let them know…"
I froze, certain I'd misheard his delirious ramblings.
Was he talking about Genevieve?
Had he been forced to give her my blood against his will?
Impossible. I dismissed it as fever-induced nonsense.
Just as Damian began recovering, Genevieve tracked us down.
She appeared at our door, beautiful and fragile as ever—a porcelain doll with venomous fangs.
She claimed concern for Damian, but "accidentally" let me glimpse her phone screen.
A message about black market blood trading—specifically, healing blood with my exact properties.
Then came the "clumsy" wine spill on my rug, revealing the cash I'd hidden for emergencies.
When Damian emerged from the bedroom, the scene was perfectly staged.
An innocent lady versus a blood-trafficking traitor—who would you believe?
Damian exploded with rage.
Jealousy, betrayal, and fear of losing me again consumed his rational mind.
"This is who you really are?" His eyes burned with betrayal. "Selling yourself to the highest bidder?"
In his twisted logic, I belonged to him alone—my blood, my body, my very existence.
He dragged me to a suburban fortress—all steel and security systems, impossible to breach.
"Until you understand loyalty," he said, locking the final door, "you're staying right here."
My brief taste of freedom ended—one gilded cage exchanged for a colder, stronger one.
