Chapter 89

Morning came like a blade through fog—slow, slicing, merciless.

Damian surfaced from unconsciousness inch by inch, as if dragged upward by hands he couldn’t see. The first thing he felt was warmth. Not softness—Vitales didn’t notice softness—but warmth. A bed that didn’t reek of blood or smoke. The faintest glow of early sun behind Cross curtains.

Then the scent hit him.

Nathan.

Sharp, consuming, grounding—like cold iron heated just enough to bend but never break. A scent that didn’t soothe so much as command: Be here. Stay present. Don’t run. Don’t shatter.

Nothing like Arabella’s. Not gentle. Not sweet. Nathan’s scent didn’t comfort the heart—

…it steadied the spine.

And that—that—was what finally broke him.

Damian choked once, barely a hitch in his breath. Then another. And then the dam cracked.

He curled inward, fists clenched in Nathan’s sheets as if holding himself together, and for the first time in decades—maybe the first time since childhood—Damian Vitale cried.

Silent at fir