CHAPTER 178: THE ART OF RESTRAINT

–Jane–

That manwhore. How long is he planning to screw that woman? It’s nine-forty in the morning. I just wanted to sleep. I wanted to forget. But this bastard—this idiot—can make that woman scream for more than an hour. I thought they were done, but no. After a five-minute break, they were back at it again.

I shoved my earplugs in, trying to contain the rage burning inside me. Logan was doing this on purpose. I knew it. He always does.

At some point, I drifted off, half-buried under the comforter, earplugs in. But it didn’t stop there—the walls started banging. I snapped awake, jaw tight, and crawled toward my briefcase. Quietly, I pulled out a gun with a silencer and got up.

His room was right next to mine. The door was slightly ajar seeking for the audience. I slid it open and—there he was. Logan. In that same damned robe, with the woman pinned against the wall. She froze the second she noticed me, eyes wide. I raised my gun, leveling it right between his eyes.

Logan turned, a smirk already tugging at his lips. "Morning, sunshine."

"How long are you going to keep this up?" I asked, my voice flat, cold.

He chuckled. "Alright, we’re done."

I scanned the room. Used condoms littered the floor. The stench of sweat and perfume clung to the air. The woman scrambled to hide behind his chest, trembling. I almost felt sorry for her—almost.

"Do you want to go next?" Logan teased, covering the woman with her robe. He adjusted his own, then turned to me again. I didn’t lower my weapon.

"If this happens again tomorrow," I said evenly, "you won’t wake up for the rest of your life."

I turned and walked out.

Back in my room, I set the gun on the futon beside me, peeled off the earplugs, and pulled the duvet over my head. I exhaled slowly, counting each breath until sleep finally dragged me under. The scent of the tatami, the faint musk of gun oil—it lulled me.

Then came the dream.

Logan again. Surrounded by women in silk kimonos. Their laughter is soft, teasing. His movements—slow, sensual, deliberate. He looked too seductive for someone so irritating. I should’ve felt disgusted, but then he crawled toward me, eyes dark with hunger, and kissed me. My mind screamed and pushed him away, but his touch—his presence—was like an incubus, drawing the breath out of me.

I jolted awake, a sheen of sweat along my neck and collarbone. My hand instinctively reached for the gun, pointing it at the door.

Logan stood there, casual as always, a vape between his lips. He tilted his head. "Did you even knock?" I snapped.

"I did. Four times."

I lowered the gun, sighing.

"I’m curious," he said, voice lazy. "How’d you sneak that gun in here?"

"I have my ways." I removed the silencer, slid the gun back into its case, and locked it neatly.

"Can I come in?" he asked, already stepping inside.

"I didn’t say you could." My glare could’ve cut glass. He ignored it, of course.

He closed the door behind him and sat on the tatami like he owned the place. "Look, I was teasing you earlier," he said. "I know you’re pissed. I know you’re disappointed with this mission."

"It’s not like you to talk warmly," I said, tugging the duvet aside.

He smirked faintly. "Yeah, that’s true. But what you’ll see in reality isn’t warmth—it’s science." He took a drag from his vape, exhaling slowly. "I don’t know much about science, but I know physics. I use it to kill."

"How philosophical."

"Do you know why Livana’s doing all this?" he asked, tone suddenly serious.

"Enlighten me."

"She’s not doing it for herself. She’s doing it for them. For her family. Now that she’s tied to Damon, she’s rushing things. She doesn’t have to say it—I know Livana. Better than I know Laura."

He stood, stretching lazily. "It’s already five in the afternoon," he said with a grin. "Wanna spar? Kenjutsu?"

"I do fencing," I said. "But sure. I’m interested."

"I’ll wait for you in the hall across the pond."

He left just as abruptly as he’d entered, the faint scent of vapor lingering in the air.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the closed door.

If Livana’s doing this for her family... then why does she have to go that far?

Creating clones. Creating soulless bodies.

Just how desperate is she to rewrite fate?

–Livana–

I sipped my dark hot chocolate, its warmth blooming against my palms, while listening to the soft rhythm of Damon’s movements in the kitchen. The faint sound of the knife tapping against the board was almost melodic—clean, precise, like a heartbeat that never falters. I could almost see him through sound alone—the way the fabric of his shirt brushed against his skin, the gentle scrape of the pan, the faint hiss of butter melting.

He thought I couldn’t see him. That was the rule of this act. My blindness, my weapon, my veil.

Too bad I could only imagine his face—the sharpness of his jawline, the warmth in his eyes, the sinful lines of his front while he cooked. I could only admire him from behind this darkness, but perhaps that’s what made him more alluring: unseen, yet deeply felt.

His knife skills weren’t bad at all. I knew those hands—hands that once took lives—could slice vegetables as gracefully as they could slit throats.

"Hubs," I called softly, my tone playful but distant, my head turned slightly away as if uncertain where he was.

"Yes?"

"I like to think that I’m watching you."

He chuckled, the sound low, velvety. I heard him wipe his hands before his fingers brushed beneath my chin, guiding my face toward him. My gaze found him even though it shouldn’t have—his presence felt like a glow behind my lids. Perhaps it was just the light, or perhaps it was the way he looked at me—as if I were his only world.

I raised a hand, tracing the outline of his face. His skin felt warm beneath my fingertips, smooth from the skincare I’d forced him to use.

"Hmm," I murmured. "Is my strict skincare working on you?"

"Yes," he said, kissing my palm. His lips were soft, reverent. "I hope you’re hungry. The food’s almost done."

"I am," I replied, pulling my hand back slowly. "Then I’m waiting."

When he served the meal, the aroma alone made my stomach flutter. Butter, herbs, a faint sweetness that reminded me of thyme and roasted garlic. Damon’s cooking had become surprisingly refined—like everything else he poured his obsession into.

The greens he made were crisp, tender at the center, kissed by a perfect stir-fry. The steak was seared to precision, the scent alone thick enough to taste. I usually preferred fish, but tonight, the meat melted like silk on my tongue.

"You like it?" he asked, his voice brushing against me like the flick of a feather.

"Hmm," I tilted my head. "Something’s missing."

"Salt?"

"Rice."

He laughed softly, genuine and unguarded. "You rarely eat rice. But I have brown rice—wait here."

I heard him set down a small bowl beside me. Then his warmth surrounded me from behind as he guided my hands toward it. He switched my knife with a spoon, and I heard the soft clink of metal as he’d already cut the steak into neat pieces.

"Thank you," I murmured.

"You don’t have to thank me," he whispered against my cheek before pressing a kiss there. "I’ll do this for the rest of our lives."

Cliché.

But I knew he meant it. Damon didn’t promise things lightly. If I ever died, he’d tear the world apart to resurrect me. He’d make a deal with the devil himself, even if he didn’t believe such things existed. That’s how dangerous love becomes when it lives in a man like him.

After dinner, we moved to the music room. I leaned back as he played the piano—soft, fluid notes filling the air like mist on glass. My dessert sat untouched for a while; I simply listened. That was our routine. Dinner. Music. The illusion of peace.

When it ended, he went to prepare our bath, while I quietly slipped into my study. The scent of old paper and faint metal filled the air. My fingers traced along the edge of my desk until I found the laptop and opened it.

Louie had already extracted all the evidence against my stepmother. Every secret, every lie wrapped neatly in folders labeled "truth." I switched to another feed—Jane, suited in full PPE, her movements sterile and efficient. She was inspecting the capsule where the prototypes were kept frozen.

I watched through the camera as she opened one unit, checking the model’s mouth, skin elasticity, neural responses. Kei’s work was becoming frighteningly close to perfection. A soulless human body, ready to be used.

I sighed, leaning back. I could sense him behind the door—Damon, waiting patiently, never intruding until I allowed it. His patience was an affection sharper than words.

And somehow... I was getting used to it. To him. To the way his warmth filled the coldest corners of my existence.

That scared me.

I closed the laptop, slid it into the vault, and locked it. Then I rose, reaching for the door. The moment I opened it, Damon’s hand found mine as if he’d been tracking my breath.

"Ready for a bath?" he asked, voice soft as a lullaby.

I nodded. He lifted me into his arms effortlessly, like I weighed nothing at all, and pressed a kiss to my forehead—a seal, a quiet vow.

My hand rested on his chest, then drifted upward to his neck, feeling the steady pulse beneath my fingertips.

I shouldn’t fall in love. That’s right. I told myself that over and over.

I am merely amused.

Not in love.

Because love ruins plans. And mine cannot afford to be ruined.