Scarred Roses, Burning Vengeance のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 131 - チャプター 140

DAMIAN BLACKWOOD As the hours ticked by, dawn creeping through the curtains, my mind raced with plans. This was my biggest adversary yet, and she deserved all the effort.I would call in every favor owed to me—hackers to trace the Porsche's path via traffic cams, informants to scour the streets for whispers of a woman with her description. I would offer bounties, anonymous and exorbitant, for any lead that would bring her closer to me. The desire to find her consumed me, a burning need that overshadowed everything. This was now a personal challenge, and I would not stop until I had her in my clutches. Because of her, my sleep became impossible; every time I closed my eyes, I saw her silhouette, heard her imagined laughter. Who was she to challenge Damian Blackwood? Eleanor stirred upstairs, her voice calling softly. I composed myself and went up to find her nursing our son, her eyes heavy with concern. "You didn't come to bed," she murmured, reaching for my hand. I took it, but

ELEANOR SINCLAIR Hours passed, or at least it seemed so. The clock that sat on the nightstand ticked the seconds away with obsessive thoroughness, marking down the seconds in the dark silence. Some time afterwards, and while I listened to the clock ticking, I must have dozed off and slept my troubles away, because when I opened my eyes for a second time, the room was shrouded in dark apart from the faint, rectangular outline of the window that sat on one side.I reached to feel my husband, and his side of the bed was empty.It was not the first time I had awakened to find his side empty, but I had simply rolled over in embarrassment, to avoid having to talk about the truth. But this time I would not do that. I thought that he didn't have to kill himself for me. "Damian?" I whispered, holding myself up on one elbow, fighting the pull of my stitches. They had not fully healed. He stood there, lighted from behind by the window, staring out into the night like a comic book hero poutin

ELEANOR SINCLAIR It should have lasted, but it vanished as quickly as it came, leaving behind that tormented look on his face. "I must find her, Eleanor. Can't you see? Each moment she's there, alone, scared, undermines my potence. It will only take time before other people who are my enemies start to get ideas.”“Is that all there is to it?” I asked him. “What else should it be?”“I feel that you have been lying to me.”"The feeling that I have been lying to you?”he asked, his eyes meeting mine. “You must know by now that if I lie, then it is for your protection. You think I want you worrying about the thingsI'm dealing with? The scrapes, the threats—they're nothing to losing her.""But you're losing yourself!" I retorted sharply, my eyes pricking with tears. "And us. Our son needs his father, not this, not who you're becoming. Even if you must hurt me, please tell me the truth.“What truth?” He asked.“How did you get the bruises on your knuckles?”"I found some men who I thought

CASSANDRA JACOBS He did not utter a word or bat an eyelid and the silence made her uncomfortable, and for a long time, he wondered how he truly felt about it.Was it that he had not been quite excited about the news, or he did not just care about it perhaps? She knew all too well that Vincent was not a man who yearned for things, nor did he crave permanency with anything. He had always been a man of the here and now, a drifter, a rich nomad of his own calling who had lived for the thrill of the moment, the cunning of a plan and the satisfaction of a con well played. She tried to put herself in his shoes—they had much of the same thought process, and wondered if he was afraid that he was finally going to have a weakness for himself.To him, a child would be a tie, a bond, a chain, even. One that would anchor him to one place and to one person and make him family. She knew it was not what he wanted. She imagined that he thought of simply packing his things and leaving, as he had alway

CASSANDRA JACOBS Another event happened that made her love the duo even more. A year must have passed after that first incident, with her father again performing his disappearing act a few more times, and to a bigger extent. Despite all that, the child, Vanessa, had grown fond of her father, her small face lighting up whenever he was anywhere close to her. She was certain it was a beautiful bond that she had secured for her daughter, more like a fusion as she reminisced on that one cold evening that found Vincent and Vanessa sitting on the floor by the fireplace. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and dead leaves, and he held a deck of cards in his hands, shuffling them with a speed and dexterity that made the cards a blur to even she who watched them. Then he laid them out, gently revealing the silent blend of red and black he had spun. "Watch closely," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "I will show you something we used to call la main est plus rapide que l'œil."