CHAPTER 67: BLOOD IN THE SKIES, SILK IN THE SHEETS

–Livana–

Damon always had those dangerous, godlike features—chiseled jawline, the kind of face sculptors would bleed for. Handsome. Seductive. Irresistible, they say. And I must admit, even that first night with him? He was magnificent. Not just in bed—but in the way he handled me. As if I were glass. As if I were a storm. He didn’t flinch, even when I was drugged with aphrodisiac poison meant to make me crumble. Instead, he made me feel safe. Worshiped. Owned.

I haven’t seen my own face in what feels like years. Not truly. Not in the way others do. I don’t know if my skin has turned sallow, or if my lips have lost their color. I wonder if I look hollow—gaunt. Maybe I do. I haven’t taken care of myself that way, not since my vision faded.

But Damon?

He touches my face as if it were still flawless. He lathers sunscreen onto my skin with reverence. Moisturizer, every morning and night, without fail. He dries my hair with a towel and sometimes fingers it gently until it’s completely dry. He doesn’t ask. He just does it. The way obsessed men do.

I’m fortunate, perhaps. Or doomed.

I slowly close my eyes, letting the darkness wrap me for a second. When I open them again, the world is still there—blurred, yes, but visible. My sight has returned. Not perfectly. But the colors are real. The shapes make sense. I can trace Damon’s outline in the low light. I can see the curve of his jaw, the way his lashes rest when he sleeps.

It’s real.

My heart stutters—until another turbulence shakes the jet.

He wakes. Instinctively. Like a predator sensing movement. His eyes snap open, scanning, searching.

I turn my face slightly, keeping my gaze just below his eyes—his nose, his mouth. He mustn’t know I can see.

"Babe, I think—"

The sound of a loud metallic clang outside the cabin slices through the air.

He jerks upright. Swift and silent. I unbuckle my belt as he unbuckles his fluid as a ripple. He strides to the compartment and retrieves a matte-black pistol. Check the magazine. Loaded.

He doesn’t speak again until he looks at me.

"Stay here."

The cabin door groans. Metal grinding. Someone’s forcing it open.

Without a second of hesitation, Damon lifts me into his arms. His movements are precise—controlled chaos. He ducks low, places me behind the seat, near the inner corner between the couch and the cabinet. A dark crevice with just enough space for my body.

"Secure the Queen!" Sophia’s voice echoes from the hallway, fierce and urgent. But the plane continues its path—smooth. That means the cockpit hasn’t been breached. Not yet.

Of course, just as I regain my sight, fate throws a hijacking into the mix.

"Damon," I whisper, keeping my voice low, calm.

"Yes, love?" he replies, kneeling beside the door, one leg out, weapon steady. His body shields mine.

"My phone," I murmur. "It’s on the bed."

He glances back. "Now?"

"Please."

He moves. Like lightning. Crossing the space in seconds. The second the door bursts open, the sound of a gunshot shatters the air. Damon doesn’t hesitate. One shot. A body drops.

The man with the piercing blue eyes—one of his—rushes in, slams the door shut behind him, and strides toward me with calm urgency. He places the phone in my hand silently, then returns to the door.

No signal.

Of course not. We’re above the clouds. The WiFi flickers, unstable. I can feel the tension in my fingertips. I grip the device tighter and navigate to my emergency contacts. I tap the Red Signal. A coded alert.

To the Bishops. To my pawns. They’ll know it’s urgent.

I have jets tailing this one. They won’t be far.

Suddenly, the cabin explodes with pressure and sound. Something detonates near the back door. My ears ring.

A body crashes onto the bed behind me. The mattress creaks, then sinks.

"Kai," I mutter before I even register him. Blood smears his temple. His shirt is torn, and his skin is scorched from shrapnel, but he’s grinning like a child who just won a game.

"Oh, hey," he says, with a casualness only fools and warriors wear mid-chaos.

He rolls off the bed and crawls toward Damon. Slaps his shoulder once, then drags himself toward me.

I reach out, and my fingers brush against a familiar cheek. I let my palm rest for a moment... then smack.

"Ow."

"Oh. It’s you," I say lightly, returning to my blind facade. "So... what’s the status outside?"

"Five of them," he pants. "Assassins. Real ones. Sophia’s having fun."

"Hmm." I can hear the smile on his face.

"So they’re not all dead yet?"

"They’re A-Class. She got one down—but it wasn’t easy. She’s amazing, but she bleeds."

"And Caine?" Damon asks, still scanning the door.

"In the Pit. Securing the engines and systems." Kai’s tone is still too calm. "Oh, and Francis dropped one of them. Straight through the throat."

"You need to go back and kill at least one," Damon says coldly.

"Seriously? Your team’s doing fine. Besides—some other guy showed up from the dock and took one out. We have a mystery blade on board."

Damon’s spine tenses. He raises his weapon again, carefully.

I watch him from behind. That sharp awareness. He’s scanning every vibration in the air. Every breath.

"Liva?" Sophia’s voice breaks through the silence again.

"Is it clear now?" I ask.

"Yeah. But it’s a bloodbath."

"Are you alright?"

"Just a shot," she replies, casual but strained.

Kai scrambles up and rushes to her. I peek from behind Damon’s shoulder. Sophia is leaning against the cabin wall, clutching her upper arm. Blood trickles through her fingers.

The blue-eyed man is already there. Wrapping a thick bandage. His movements are efficient. Familiar.

Sophia looks at me. Our eyes meet.

She knows.

She understands now.

"The Bishops are here," she murmurs.

I rise slowly. Damon rises with me, guiding me gently by the elbow.

"Sit down," he says, leading me to the plush sofa, hands still trembling.

I comply. My eyes drift to the ruined interior of the luxury jet. Leather seats torn, panels scorched, blood smeared across polished wood and velvet. This plane—once pristine, designed for royalty—is now a cage of smoke and death.

It’s beautiful. In a haunting way.

But I suppose I’ll just imagine it the way it used to be.

"You’re not safe to leave this room," Sophia warns as she sits with her wrapped arm.

"Alright," I reply, lips curling into a faint smile. "Just make sure you get treated."

–Damon–

I watched them clean up the mess.

And by mess, I don’t mean the jet’s shredded interior—I mean the five corpses sprawled across it. Lifeless. Bloody. Unwelcome.

We landed safely in the Philippines after a long flight—too long, too loud, too blood-soaked. I stayed behind and helped clean the blood and body fluids off the floor and walls while my wife waited in the sealed guest room behind a reinforced door.

My wife. My reason.

After changing out of the ruined clothes, I stepped out into the open tarmac where the helicopter waited just a few meters away, blades turning slow and steady. I glanced at the other jet nearby—the one Livana calls the Bishops. Sleek. Silent. Deadly.

Three of them approached her with calculated steps.

"Miss," one of them called, and Livana turned in their direction, withdrawing her hand from mine like a queen preparing to command.

She could locate their positions with ease now. Her awareness was sharper. Too sharp.

"Help them dispose of the items," she ordered calmly.

They bowed their heads in unison. Diverse. One was clearly Russian. Another—Italian. The last one? Northern European. Dutch, maybe. Her personal assassins. All loyal. All capable of killing without emotion.

"Thank you for assisting us," I told them, nodding with formality.

They returned the gesture silently.

Livana extended her hand to me, and I reached for it without hesitation, guiding her carefully—deliberately—as we moved toward our helicopter.

Sophia, Kai, and Francis boarded the other chopper. We stayed with Caine—my right hand. He rarely traveled with us. Too quiet. Too calculated. But I insisted this time. This trip wasn’t just business. It was a message. And Caine never failed me.

No one was going to touch my wife. Not now. Not ever.

The helicopter took us to my private estate—my mansion tucked away in a place even my own blood relatives didn’t know existed. The helipad greeted us atop solid marble and reinforced steel. I designed it for emergencies... and for keeping her.

As we descended into the wide, open living room, I heard familiar footsteps padding around the polished wood. Laura—barefoot in fluffy white slippers—was checking the furniture as if she owned the place.

She turned at the sound of our steps, her face lighting up like fireworks.

"Liva!" she squealed. "I’ve got earth-shattering news!"

The moment we stepped off the stairs and reached the main floor, she practically launched herself into Livana’s arms.

"I’m pregnant!" she screamed. Then began to jump. "Ahhh! They’re twins!"

Livana smiled gently, steadying her. "Perfect. I’m going to adopt one."

I narrowed my eyes. "No, you’re not."

Laura laughed uncontrollably. "Absolutely not, Sis!"

"I’ve got a magic dick," Damien announced proudly from across the room, holding a charcuterie tray like it was a championship trophy.

"Twins?" I asked, still trying to absorb the chaos.

"Yup," Laura beamed, patting her stomach. "Constant screwing leads to that."

"Then stop jumping," Livana scolded gently, but with authority.

"Who’s your doctor?" I asked sharply.

"Dr. Green," she replied, still smiling. "She visited the mansion two days ago. Logan had all the equipment brought in. And guess what? We even recorded our babies’ heartbeats!"

"Let me hear it," Livana said.

I rubbed my temple, sighing. I hadn’t slept. Laura’s voice was like a bomb going off every two seconds—but at least she meant well. Sort of.

"Babe," I said, turning to Livana, "let’s bathe first."

She nodded. "You’re right. Laura, keep your immune system to yourself and stay away."

"Oh, please," Laura scoffed. "I’ve got the immune system of a horse."

"Our jet was hijacked," I said flatly. "So do me a favor—sit down, eat, and don’t explode for five minutes. We’ll be back shortly."

"Okay, okay." She waved a hand and collapsed dramatically onto the couch.

I led Livana toward the private stairwell—one that cut through the inner garden of the mansion. Soft sunlight poured through the glass roof above, casting shadows across the koi pond and winding stone paths below.

I gently turned her hand, guiding her fingers toward the cool surface of the glass wall.

"This is our garden," I murmured. "It’s just outside."

She tilted her head toward the right. "Do we have a pond?"

"Yes. Koi. Arowanas. Name it, we’ve got it." I smiled faintly. "We’ll be living here. It’s safer. Not a single soul from my family knows about this place."

She paused. "When did you purchase it?"

"A few years back," I answered, tightening my hold around her waist. "I was planning to take you here as my captive..."

I grinned darkly, pressing my lips against the curve of her neck. She smelled like the inside of my dreams. Sweet. Soft. Mine.

"God, I’m tired," I whispered, my breath hot against her skin, "but I also need you."

She gasped softly as I scooped her into my arms—without warning, without pause. I carried her through the last hallway, past the vaulted doors, and into our master bedroom—large enough to swallow ten others.

No one else was allowed in here.

Not servants.

Not guards.

Not even time.

Just her.

Just me.