Chapter 4 - The Rat in the Ranks
The cabin was ice-cold when they entered.
Marcus moved through the rooms like a wraith, checking window seals, drawing the heavy thermal blackout curtains, and turning on the secondary generator buried beneath the root cellar.
Within twenty minutes, the wood-burning stove was radiating a deep, crackling warmth. The smell of dry cedar filled the main room.
Damon had laid Ruby on the small sofa near the hearth, wrapping her in a heavy wool blanket. The little pink suitcase sat beside the couch, its cheap plastic wheels dusted with ash from the burned mansion.
In the small kitchen, Selena stood over the sink, washing her face with cold water from the hand pump. When she lifted her head, Damon was standing behind her, holding a clean cloth and a bottle of antiseptic from the medical kit.
“Sit,” he commanded softly.
Selena hesitated, then sat on the wooden stool by the counter.
Damon dipped the cloth in the antiseptic. He stepped between her knees, his large frame blocking out the rest of the room. He was still wearing his tailored suit trousers, but his jacket and tie were gone, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat and sleeves rolled up, revealing the corded muscle and old scars on his forearms.
He gently touched the damp cloth to the split at the corner of her lip.
Selena hissed, her hands instinctively grabbing his forearms. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
“Hold still,” he murmured. His face was inches from hers. His breath smelled of mint and black coffee. “I know it stings.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, looking up at him through her lashes.
“You’re a terrible liar, Selena. It’s one of your better qualities.”
He cleaned the cut with agonizing gentleness, his fingers steady, treating her bruised cheek with the care one might give to priceless porcelain.
Selena stared at the pulse jumping in the hollow of Damon’s throat. “You should have Marcus look at your arm. You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
Damon glanced down at his left bicep, where a sliver of shrapnel from the wine cellar bulkhead had sliced through the cloth. “It’s a scratch.”
“It’s not a scratch,” she said, her voice suddenly stern. Before he could stop her, her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with swift efficiency.
Damon went completely still.
Selena peeled the blood-soaked fabric back, exposing his broad, scarred chest and the deep crimson gouge across his bicep. Her fingers were warm against his skin, sending an electric shock straight through his nervous system.
She took the bottle of antiseptic from his hands. “Now sit.”
Damon Mercer had executed cartel hitmen without blinking, but under the determined gaze of this twenty-six-year-old woman, he found himself sitting obediently on the opposite stool.
Selena cleaned the wound. She didn't flinch at the blood. She worked with quiet, focused precision, wrapping the clean gauze around his arm and pinning it in place.
“There,” she said, her voice dropping to a softer register. Her hands lingered on his shoulder for a beat longer than necessary. “Now we’re even.”
Damon caught her wrist.
He didn't squeeze, but the warmth of his hand pinned her in place. Her pulse fluttered rapidly beneath his thumb, like a trapped bird.
“We’ll never be even, Selena,” he said, his voice dark and velvet. “You saved my empire today.”
“I didn't care about the empire,” she said, her eyes locked with his. “I cared about the man.”
The air between them grew impossibly thick. The fire crackled in the stove, casting amber shadows across the hollows of her cheeks, illuminating the curve of her lips. Damon’s thumb traced the delicate line of her wrist bone. He wanted, with an intensity that terrified him, to pull her onto his lap and kiss the pain from her mouth.
The radio on the dining table let out a sharp, digital squawk.
The spell broke.
Damon released her wrist and stood, pulling his shirt back over his shoulders. He walked to the table where Marcus was hunched over an encrypted satellite transceiver.
“What do you have?” Damon asked, the cold, lethal boss instantly returning.
Marcus adjusted the frequency dial. “I tapped into the syndicate’s emergency channel. The hit at the manor made the regional news—they’re calling it an industrial gas explosion. Vance’s media cleanup crew is working fast.”
“And our board?”
Marcus looked up, his weathered face grim. “Malcolm is definitely dead. Two chest wounds, one through the carotid. But here’s the kicker, Damon. The Tucson shipment? The one Malcolm said we had twenty minutes to settle?”
“What about it?”
“It was never scheduled for Tucson,” Marcus said, pointing at a line of decrypted shipping manifests glowing on the rugged laptop screen. “Malcolm’s terminal shows the routing was diverted to the Port of Long Beach three days ago. Vance bought the dock inspectors last month.”
Damon leaned over the screen, his jaw hardening into granite. “Malcolm wasn't the target. He was the setup. Vance used Malcolm’s greed to track my schedule. But Malcolm didn't know Vance was planning to wipe the entire boardroom.”
“Who else was in that room, boss?” Marcus asked. “Eight men. Malcolm, you, six regional capos.”
“Only one man left the room before Ruby walked in,” Damon said, his mind replaying the boardroom minute by minute. “Cassian Drake.”
Marcus cursed under his breath. “Drake. He claimed his prostate was acting up and went to the restroom five minutes before the child arrived.”
“Drake didn't go to the restroom,” Damon said, his eyes flashing with lethal clarity. “He disabled the west gate camera for forty-three seconds to let Vance’s breaching crew cut the outer sensors. He knew the bomb was under the Suburban. He expected Ruby and Selena to die in the west wing blast, me to die on the driveway, and Malcolm to take the blame for the Tucson leak.”
From the couch, a small sound broke the silence.
Ruby stirred. She sat up, rubbing her eyes with the back of her sleeve, looking around the unfamiliar wooden room with wide, bewildered eyes.
“Mommy?”
Selena rushed to the couch, pulling the little girl into her arms. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here.”
Ruby looked past Selena’s shoulder, her eyes finding Damon where he stood by the war table.
“Damon,” Ruby said, her voice thin and small. “Did the bad man take the house?”
Damon walked across the rough pine floor and crouched beside the sofa. He reached out and gently tapped the plastic nose of Barnaby the rabbit.
“The house is just wood and stone, little bird,” Damon said, his voice entirely devoid of the cold fury he had felt seconds earlier. “The house doesn't matter. What matters is right here in this room.”
Ruby looked at his bandaged arm. “You have a boo-boo.”
“I do,” Damon admitted. “Mommy fixed it.”
Ruby nodded solemnly. “Mommy fixes everything with kisses.”
Damon glanced up at Selena. A faint, exquisite blush spread over her neck, reaching her ears.
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“Is that so?” Damon whispered, his lips curving into the first genuine smile he had worn in years. “I’ll have to remember that.”
***