Chapter 4 - The Enemy Under the Floorboards
Over the next three weeks, life at Grayhaven House underwent a surreal transformation.
I was no longer just a maid scrubbing baseboards. By Damian’s explicit, non-negotiable orders, my cleaning duties were cut in half, and I was assigned as his personal daytime attendant—which mostly meant keeping an eye on Lila while she turned the east wing study into her personal art studio.
Damian’s health improved dramatically. Whether it was the physical therapy, the removal of the poisoned wine, or simply the bizarre, grounding presence of a four-year-old girl who treated him like a giant jungle gym, the color returned to his cheeks.
He started walking the gardens again. He ate regular meals. And slowly, behind closed doors, he began reviewing the encrypted financial ledgers and security logs to find out who had tried to poison him.
It didn't take long.
One afternoon, while Lila was napping on the plush velvet sofa in the study, Damian stood by the window overlooking the courtyard, watching his chief of security, Viktor Vance—brother of the head butler—barking orders at the perimeter guards.
“He thinks I don't know,” Damian murmured, his voice laced with quiet, lethal poison.
I stopped folding a stack of clean towels on the side table. “Sir?”
“Viktor,” Damian said without turning around. “He thought my guard was down. He wanted the port authority contracts. He thought if I died slowly, the council would hand him my territory.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing yet,” Damian replied coldly. “Let a wolf think he’s successfully hunted the alpha, and he’ll walk right back into the den.”
Before I could process the danger of what was happening around us, a sharp, metallic crash echoed from the hallway outside the study doors.
Clatter.
Damian’s hand dropped instinctively to the heavy, custom-engraved Browning pistol hidden inside his desk drawer. His eyes locked onto the reinforced oak doors.
The heavy lock clicked.
Before Damian could draw his weapon, the door swung violently inward.
Standing in the doorway was Viktor Vance, flanked by two armed enforcers holding silenced submachine guns. Viktor’s usual polished demeanor was completely gone, replaced by a frantic, sweating desperation.
“Game’s over, Damian,” Viktor sneered, raising his own pistol toward the desk. “The council already signed off on the transition. You should have stayed in bed.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. I threw myself instinctively between the doorway and the sofa where Lila was sleeping, my breath catching in my throat.
Damian didn't flinch. He slowly stood up from his high-backed chair, his towering frame regaining every ounce of its terrifying, predatory presence. The sick, weak man of a month ago was entirely gone.
“You think a junior enforcer like you can walk into my east wing and take the crown, Viktor?” Damian’s voice was a low, velvet snarl that made the air in the room drop twenty degrees.
“You’re still recovering from the neurotoxin, boss,” Viktor laughed nervously, though his hand shook. “You can't move fast enough. Kill him,” he ordered the enforcers.
The two guards raised their submachine guns.
Time fractured into slow motion.
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I closed my eyes, screaming a silent prayer, throwing my arms over Lila as she woke up whimpering from the noise.
Then, the heavy oak doors behind Viktor’s men exploded inward with a deafening crash.
