19. Someone Knows

Zara's POV

I barely sleep.

Every time I close my eyes, I see the photograph.

Me standing outside the warehouse, dressed in my black hoodie, my hands wrapped after the fight. The angle is clear enough to show that whoever took it wasn't simply passing by. They were watching me.

Watching the Black Widow.

My stomach twists at the thought.

For years, I've kept my underground life separate from everything else. My family knows nothing about it. Victor knows nothing about it. And Damon certainly doesn't know that his supposedly troublesome wife spends her nights fighting strangers for money and a reputation that makes men twice her size think twice before stepping into a ring with her.

The underground world is the one place where my surname means nothing. Nobody cares who my father is, who my sister sleeps with, or which billionaire I was supposed to marry. They care about whether I can fight.

And I can.

But if my identity becomes public, that freedom disappears. People will start asking questions. My opponents might come looking for me outside the ring, and anyone who wants to hurt me will know exactly where to find me.

I've worked too hard to let some anonymous coward destroy everything.

I pick up my phone again and open W******p.

The photograph is still there, followed by the message.

You were warned, Zara. Stop digging into the past, or next time we won't be so polite.

I zoom in on the image, studying the background. The black motorcycle is parked near the edge of the frame, partially obscured by darkness.

I can't identify the rider.

I can't even be certain the person who took the photograph was the same person who sent the earlier threats.

But I know the picture wasn't sent by accident.

Someone wants me frightened.

Unfortunately for them, fear has never been particularly good at keeping me obedient.

I lock my phone and get out of bed.

By the time I shower and dress, I've decided on a plan. I'll keep the photograph, find out who owns the numbers behind both sets of messages, and return to the warehouse when I'm ready. I'll also speak to someone who might recognize the motorcycle.

I don't need Damon.

I definitely don't need the Saints MC.

And I absolutely don't need another man deciding he knows what's best for me.

Downstairs, I find Damon in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

He looks up as I enter.

"Morning, Little Dove."

"Debatable."

"Bad night?"

"Wonderful night. I dreamed I pushed an irritating man off a cliff."

"Did I survive?"

"Unfortunately."

He smiles into his coffee.

I head straight for the coffee machine, hoping he'll let me drink in peace. It's an optimistic hope, considering the man can turn a simple breakfast into a battle of wills.

"So," he says, "are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

I keep my attention on the coffee.

"Nothing's wrong."

"You're avoiding my eyes."

"I'm making coffee."

"You've been making coffee for thirty seconds."

"Perhaps I enjoy the process."

"Perhaps you're lying."

I turn to face him. "Perhaps you should find something useful to do with your morning."

"I was planning to."

"Excellent. Go do it."

He leans against the counter, looking thoroughly entertained by my irritation.

"You're unusually defensive today."

"And you're unusually interested in my breakfast habits."

"You're my wife."

"An unfortunate administrative detail."

"Still counts."

I roll my eyes and take my mug to the kitchen island.

Damon follows me with his gaze, and I can practically feel him trying to work out what's bothering me.

I need to be careful.

He doesn't know about the photograph. He doesn't know about the warehouse. As far as he's concerned, I received some threatening messages connected to Victor and the questions I've been asking about four years ago.

That's all he knows.

And that's exactly how I intend to keep it.

"Did you hear anything else from whoever sent those messages?" he asks.

My fingers tighten around the mug.

"No."

It's a lie, and the moment the word leaves my mouth, I know I've made a mistake.

Damon's expression changes.

"Look at me."

I sigh dramatically. "Must you keep saying that?"

"Must you keep avoiding the question?"

"I'm not avoiding anything."

"Then answer me properly."

"I just did."

He sets his coffee down.

"Zara, I know you don't like me, and the feeling is occasionally mutual. But someone is threatening you, and you're acting like you have something to hide."

"Maybe I don't appreciate being interrogated before I've had breakfast."

"Then eat. I'll wait."

I stare at him.

He stares back.

"You're an insufferable bastard," I tell him.

"I've been called worse."

"I'm sure you have. Probably by every woman who's ever had the misfortune of meeting you."

"You're starting to repeat yourself, Little Dove."

"And you're starting to test my patience."

He gestures toward my phone, which I've placed beside my mug.

"Have there been any more messages?"

"No."

Another lie.

His eyes narrow.

I reach for my coffee, buying myself a moment.

The photograph has changed everything. Before last night, I thought the threats were connected to Victor and my decision to uncover what happened four years ago. Now I have to consider the possibility that the sender knows about both my questions and my underground life.

That combination is dangerous.

If the person wants to silence me, they have found a particularly effective way to make me pay attention.

But Damon cannot know that.

Not yet.

"Why would someone be watching you?" he asks.

I look up sharply.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Because someone is sending you threats, and you seem determined to convince me there's nothing to worry about."

"Maybe there isn't."

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?"

"I don't particularly care what you believe."

He pushes away from the counter and approaches the island.

"Then give me something else to believe. Tell me why someone would target you."

I shrug.

"Maybe they want money. Maybe someone from my family is being dramatic. Maybe Victor has decided to be a petty little bastard because I refused to take him back. Take your pick."

"You're guessing."

"Well done. You're keeping up."

"None of those explanations accounts for why you're so nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"You're gripping that mug like you're planning to strangle it."

I immediately loosen my fingers.

Damn him.

His mouth curves, but his eyes remain serious.

"There. That's better."

"Do you want me to throw the coffee at you instead?"

"That would be a waste of perfectly good coffee."

"Not if it burns your face off."

He laughs, and for a brief moment the tension eases.

Then he looks at me again.

"Did something happen last night that you're not telling me?"

My heartbeat stumbles.

I think of the photograph. The motorcycle. The message that made it clear someone had been watching me leave the warehouse.

"No."

The word comes out too quickly.

Damon goes still.

I know that look. I've seen it when someone at a family dinner has pushed him too far, and I've seen it when he decides a conversation is no longer amusing.

He isn't angry yet.

He's thinking.

And that's worse.

"Interesting," he says.

I frown. "What's interesting?"

"You."

"How unfortunate for you."

"You've spent the morning insulting me, avoiding questions, and lying badly enough that a child could catch you."

"Then perhaps you should go find a child to interrogate."

His expression hardens.

"I'm trying to help you."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"No, you prefer to handle everything yourself. Even when you clearly have a problem."

"Because every time I let someone get involved, they decide they know better than me."

"Is that what happened with Victor?"

I set my mug down harder than necessary.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Drag Victor into every conversation just because you're determined to make this about him."

"You told me he knows things about that night you don't. Now someone is sending you anonymous threats, and you won't tell me what happened after you came home."

"Because I don't owe you every detail of my life!"

The words ring through the kitchen.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Damon's jaw tightens, and I brace myself for another argument.

Instead, he takes a slow breath.

"You're right," he says.

I blink.

What?

He continues before I can respond.

"You don't owe me every detail. But if someone is threatening you, I have a right to know whether you're in danger."

"Why? Because you're my husband?"

"Because whether you like it or not, we're connected now. If someone intends to use you to get to me, I'd rather know before they try."

That catches me off guard.

For once, he isn't claiming ownership over me or demanding obedience. He's considering the possibility that the threats might involve him, too.

I hadn't thought of that.

The messages mention Victor and the past, but that doesn't necessarily mean Damon is irrelevant. Whoever sent them might know about our marriage. They might even be using it to get close to me.

Still, that doesn't mean I should tell him everything.

"I don't think this has anything to do with you," I say carefully.

"Then what does it have to do with?"

I open my mouth, then close it.

Because I can't tell him the truth without giving away my identity.

I can't explain that someone has photographed me leaving a warehouse where I fight under a name nobody connects to Zara Devereaux. I can't tell him that my biggest fear isn't the anonymous messages themselves, but the possibility that someone will expose me to a world that could turn my private life into a public spectacle.

And I can't risk him deciding that the solution is to lock me away from it.

"I don't know," I finally say.

Damon studies me for a long moment.

Then he nods once.

"Fine."

I narrow my eyes suspiciously.

"Fine?"

"Fine."

"That's it?"

"What were you expecting? A dramatic speech? Should I throw something?"

"Don't tempt me."

His mouth twitches.

"I'm not going to force you to talk, Zara. But don't mistake my silence for believing you."

I pick up my coffee again.

"Your faith in me is deeply moving."

"You've given me very little reason to trust your answers."

"And you've given me very little reason to trust your intentions."

"Then I suppose we're even."

"Wonderful. Can we stop talking now?"

"Of course."

I turn away, relieved to have escaped another round of questions.

Then he speaks again.

"One more thing."

I close my eyes.

"Jesus Christ."

"Whoever is doing this knows something about you."

My fingers tighten around the mug.

He continues, his voice quieter now.

"I don't know what it is, and I don't know why they're trying to frighten you. But you reacted to those messages as though there's more at stake than your argument with Victor."

I keep my back to him.

"You're imagining things."

"No, Little Dove. I'm paying attention."

I turn around, forcing a careless smile onto my face.

"Then pay attention to something else."

His expression remains unreadable.

For a moment, I think he'll push again. Instead, he picks up his coffee and takes a slow sip.

"All right."

I don't believe him for a second.

Neither does he believe me.

I can see it in the way he watches me leave the kitchen, his gaze following me until I reach the doorway.

I make it halfway down the hall before his voice stops me.

"Zara."

I turn reluctantly.

Damon sets his cup on the counter.

"Whatever you're hiding, Little Dove, someone already knows."

The words land harder than they should.

I stare at him, suddenly unable to think of a single clever response.

Because that's the part that frightens me most.

He doesn't know about the Black Widow. He hasn't seen the photograph, and he has no idea where I was last night.

Yet somehow, he has recognized that the threats have touched a nerve I can't explain away.

I force a smirk.

"Maybe you should worry less about what I'm hiding and more about your own secrets, Beast."

His eyes narrow slightly.

"Perhaps I should."

I turn and walk away before he can see the unease written across my face.

Upstairs, I lock the bedroom door and pull out my phone.

The photograph is waiting for me.

I study it again, concentrating on the motorcycle and the shadowy figure reflected in a nearby window. There isn't enough detail to identify anyone, but the image confirms what I already suspected.

Someone was there.

Someone saw me.

And someone knows enough to threaten the life I've built outside my family's control.

I open the W******p conversation and read the final message once more.

Stop digging into the past, or next time we won't be so polite.

My anger returns, stronger than my fear.

They want me to believe they have the upper hand.

They want me to stop asking questions.

And they want me to think twice before stepping into the ring again.

I type a reply, then pause with my thumb hovering over the screen.

No.

I'm not giving them the satisfaction of knowing they've frightened me.

Instead, I save the photograph in a separate folder and make a note of the time it arrived. I'll check the image again later, and I'll find someone who can help identify the motorcycle without dragging Damon into it.

Then I'll find the person behind the messages.

Because if there's one thing I refuse to tolerate, it's a stranger deciding what I can and cannot do with my own life.

I turn off the screen and slip the phone into my pocket.

Damon thinks I'm hiding something.

He's right.

But he has no idea what that something is.

And until I know exactly who is watching me, he's going to have to remain in the dark.

For both our sakes.