Damian Blade Novels & Stories

“I’m tired, Dislav. I want to get the girl, kill the son of a bitch, and get the fuck out of here.” He didn’t look at them when he spoke. He just kept loading another clip, each movement calm, grim, and terrifying. “Boss, I need to take a dump,” Blade said in a low voice. Damien slowly lifted his gaze to him. “Do you want to die?” he asked coldly. Blade only smiled. “No, boss. I’ll be back soon.” He started to jog off when Damien’s voice stopped him. “Karim, go with him.”

All that mattered was the man across from him who had made Damian's life a living hell for three straight seasons. Sebastian Montgomery. The name tasted like acid on Damian's tongue. Or maybe it tasted like something else—something he had refused to name for a thousand days. He pushed the thought away. There was no room for confusion here. There was only the game. The referee dropped the puck. Sebastian was faster. His blade swept the disc backward to his defenseman, and the Blades began their final, desperate push. Damian backchecked harder than he'd ever moved in his life, his lungs screaming, his vision tunneling. He caught the puck carrier at the blue line, lifted his stick, stole it cle

Damian groaned, holding a hand to his now bleeding mouth. He growled at me before swinging his sword towards my ribs, but I blocked it easily, driving my sword into his side. His scream pierced the air as blood splashed to the ground. Damian could barely stand on his feet anymore. Blood was pouring from the wound on his side while the blade he held shook slightly in his hand. Still, he moved his sword, and our blades clashed again. Damian tried to force me back, but due to the wound, his movement was sloppy. I drove my blade forward, hard enough to knock his sword to the side, before I slammed my fist into his injured side.

There, in the center of the courtyard, stood Damian. Damian, in a dark wool sweater clinging to his broad shoulders, sliced through the air with a blade in hand. Every motion was sharp, clean, and relentless. Not wild anymore. Calculated. Lieras stood off to one side, sharpening a knife while chewing on a toothpick. Tarian tossed a second blade into the air and caught it lazily like he could do it in his sleep. But both men were watching Damian closely. Nova pressed her fingers to the cold glass, her breath fogging a small circle.

Damian didn’t move. He stood where he was—blood-soaked, smoke curling off his armor, heat rolling off him so fiercely it turned the cold air around his body into ghostly vapor. His eyes burned obsidian-bright. His chest heaved. His hands shook around his blade, knuckles white, veins standing out like cords. The animal howled. The explosion only fed it. Damian charged. Not at the archers. Not at the guards. At the world. He took three steps—four—

Elijah let out a snarl, his blade clattering to the floor as the two of them crashed into the stone wall. “Elijah, enough!” Damian growled, his voice strained as he fought to hold Elijah down. “You don’t have to do this!” But Elijah didn’t respond. He didn’t care. All he wanted was destruction. With a sudden surge of strength, Elijah threw Damian off him, his eyes blazing with fury. He grabbed his blade, his movements quick, and in that split second, I knew what was coming. “Elijah!” I screamed, but it was too late. Damian’s body crumpled to the ground, Elijah’s blade buried deep in his chest.

His eyes were too bright, his body too steady despite the wounds he had taken. Keiran panted, gripping his blade tighter. “You took too much.” Damien grinned. “Maybe.” He tilted his head. “Or maybe I was always meant to be stronger than you.” He moved again, too fast, and this time, Keiran wasn’t quick enough. The blade sank into Keiran’s side. Time stopped. Keiran staggered. Blood bloomed across his shirt. Damien twisted the knife before pulling it free. “Weak,” he murmured.

Damien growled, his voice already shifting, guttural and low. The nearest attacker lunged. Damien caught the blade in his bare hand — bare hand — and with a twist of his wrist, shattered the man’s forearm like splintered wood. The man dropped with a howl, unconscious before he hit the ground. Another rushed in — silver-tipped spear aimed for Luxian — but Damien moved like smoke and fire, catching the shaft mid-air and driving it back into the attacker’s chest. Blood sprayed the leaves. “Two behind!” Luxian shouted, ducking instinctively as he reached into the back seat, pulling out the emergency blade Damien kept under the floor mat.

She blinked, blood mixing with tears, her lips trembling. Damian raised a curved blade—beautiful, ceremonial, polished to a mirror shine. “I want you to feel every second of your fall, Lila,” he said. “But I don’t want you to die. Not yet.” Then, with slow, calculated movements, he dragged the blade across her arm—not to kill, but to peel away dignity, inch by inch. She convulsed, jerking in agony, the chair’s spikes embedding deeper as punishment for her resistance. He carved into her—not with rage, but with methodical cruelty, each cut a reminder of what she had done to others.

"I want certainty. If she truly is someone else, I’ll let her go and consider myself insane. But if she is Camila..." Damian paused, his breath heavy. "If she is Camila, I won't let her slip away a second time. Even if I have to lock her in this house forever." It was a long night for Damian. He didn't sleep. He spent the hours in his study, staring at photos of Leo taken covertly by his guards in London. He compared his own childhood photos to Leo’s face. The same jawline, the same shape of the ears. However, Sheina’s confession about "Thomas Blake" echoed in his mind like a curse. Who was Thomas Blake? Was the man real, or just a fictional character created by Julian Thorne?