CHAPTER 154: SHADOWS IN THE BLOODLINE

–Livana–

I leaned against the headboard, the weight of my head pressing down, though the cut of my hair made me feel oddly lighter, freer, as though some invisible weight had been trimmed away with each strand. The air brushed against my bare neck differently now, cool and startling.

Deanne sat beside me, her perfume faint but sharp—gardenia with a hint of spice—as she pressed the tablet into my hands. Its smooth frame was cool beneath my fingers.

"Laura had someone track this," she explained, her tone precise, every syllable clipped. "The car seemed to anticipate your route. They knew that stretch of road was without lights. And look—its paint is camouflaged to the area."

I traced the surface of the screen, though I couldn’t see it clearly. My mind tried to paint it for me—dark against darker. Invisible. Too late for Damon to have noticed.

"They’ve been careful," Deanne continued. "They didn’t strike right away—just observed every movement for days. Laura’s learning patience. I think she’s ready for the underworld."

A laugh escaped me, soft and broken, and pain stabbed through my skull. Even amusement was a punishment. Every small reaction cost me.

"Alright," I murmured, the word feather-light.

"Also," she shifted closer, the mattress dipping with her weight, "you told me about something odd at the hospital, before you woke up?"

"Yes," I breathed, nodding faintly.

"There was a nurse. She came in to check your IV. Everyone else was asleep. Damon had just stepped out."

The tablet pressed against my palm again. I couldn’t catch the details of the photo, but the ghost of her figure lived in my memory: the swish of fabric, the faint scent of antiseptic, the soft tread of her shoes.

"What about her?" Deanne asked.

"I don’t know," I admitted slowly. "I felt... strange. Perhaps I was dreaming."

But no. It had been too sharp, too present. Dreams dissolve. This one lingered. There was something familiar in her stillness, as if I had brushed against her presence before.

"I suppose she’s just a nurse," I whispered. My stomach turned; my gut said otherwise. Yet she hadn’t harmed me. That mattered.

Deanne sighed. The sound was weary but edged. "Meanwhile, your husband spent the whole day torturing those bastards."

"Didn’t he give them any mercy?" I asked, tilting my head.

"There’s no mercy in that monster of a husband."

Her words were meant as scorn, but I smirked. His mercilessness had long been mine to interpret.

"I’ll head down now. Caine and I have business tonight."

"Alright. Then tell my husband..." I let the pause linger, "...that I’m craving shrimp."

Deanne exhaled sharply, half amusement, half annoyance. "Sis, it’s past dinner."

"Then perhaps... shrimp pesto pasta." I smiled faintly.

She groaned in defeat. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Call Dr. Andersson. Ask him to visit me."

Her footsteps carried her to the door, measured and quick, before silence swallowed the room again.

I rose carefully. My stomach twisted, heavy with unease. I had overeaten, and my throat burned with the tang of acid. No water to settle it. I made my way to the bathroom, guided by memory and touch—the cool wall beneath my fingertips, the familiar smoothness of the doorknob.

"Love."

His voice entered before he did—low, velvet, steady. The door clicked open.

"That’s an unusual craving," Damon murmured, his steps unhurried, sure. "But Chef Wally said he’ll have it ready before midnight."

He found me by instinct, his hand sliding around my waist, his body anchoring mine. His breath pressed hot into the curve of my neck as his palm caressed my stomach.

"You look sexy with short hair," he whispered, voice husky.

I smirked faintly. No one had ever seen me this way before.

"More access to your neck now," he teased, grinning. "But what are you doing here, hm?"

"I feel a little sick."

"Oh." His hand circled my stomach again, gentle, coaxing. "Didn’t our baby like what you ate?"

"I don’t know," I murmured.

"Should we walk? Or let me massage your feet, your hands?"

"Mm. Maybe just warm water. To cool the acid."

"Alright."

He stepped back, but my body betrayed me. My knees buckled, and I lurched toward the toilet. The nausea clawed upward before I could prepare. I collapsed, retching violently, the food I’d eaten tearing free of me. My throat burned, my head pounded—every spasm felt like my skull splitting open.

Damon knelt behind me. His fingers swept my hair away, steadying me, his other hand rubbing slow, firm circles against my back. His silence spoke louder than words: presence, unwavering, unshakable.

When it ended, he guided me to the sink. The cool porcelain steadied me as I rinsed, brushing away the sour taste with trembling hands.

"I’ll call the doctor," he said firmly, no room for refusal.

"Mm." I hummed faintly, letting him guide me back to the bed. The sheets smelled faintly of floral and starch, cool against my overheated skin.

Then came the knock. Sharp, deliberate. Expected.

I listened as Damon moved, his footsteps confident, unhurried. Though I could not see him, I followed the sound, my mind tracing the shape of his broad back as he crossed the room. The hinges groaned faintly, and the air shifted with the draft of the opening door.

Jane’s voice followed, calm and professional, the faint clink of metal against glass betraying the medicine box she carried. She smelled faintly of soap and antiseptic, clean and clinical.

"Miss Liva," she said softly, "I’m here to change the dressing on your wound."

I tilted my head slightly toward her voice, then turned it away again, letting my hair shield the movement.

"Hmm," I hummed in reply, my throat too tired for words.

The bed dipped slightly as Damon returned to my side, his presence a shield. Jane’s careful footsteps approached, her shoes whispering against the carpet. The sound of the latch clicked again—Damon shutting us into the room, sealing the space, keeping everything contained.

Once Jane finished cleaning my wound, her hands moved with quiet precision, careful not to tug at tender skin. I felt the coolness of fresh gauze against me, the faint sting of antiseptic lingering like smoke after a flame. She didn’t stop there—her fingers gently combed through my shortened hair, soothing each strand into place before slipping the bonnet back on.

By then, my husband had already summoned the doctor. I sat back, nursing warm water in my hands. The heat seeped through the porcelain mug, grounding me while the ache in my skull pulsed in stubborn waves.

Before leaving, Jane pressed the stethoscope to my chest and counted quietly under her breath, her tone all business. She noted my vitals with a rustle of paper.

"I’ll be back once the doctor arrives," she said.

"Thank you, Jane," I murmured, offering the faintest smile she could not see.

The door closed softly behind her. Damon let out a sigh that seemed to weigh more than the room itself.

"Do you feel dizzy?" he asked, taking the mug from my hands and setting it by the bedside.

"My head still hurts."

"Oh, baby..." His voice broke into something softer as he leaned down, burying himself against my chest. For a moment, I froze—wasn’t I supposed to be the one cradled in him? Yet here he was, kissing my chest, rubbing my stomach like a boy seeking comfort.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my tone half amusement, half confusion.

"Cuddle me." He caught my hand and guided it to his face, pressing it there as though my palm could anchor him.

I frowned faintly but let him stay, his warmth seeping into me. He clung with the strange neediness of a golden retriever, his breath warm against my skin. His hand slipped beneath my pajama shirt, bold fingers cupping my breast.

"This is firm," he muttered with a smirk.

"Tsk. Stop that." My voice was sharp, but my lips betrayed me with a small curve.

He laughed low in his chest, then kissed me—playful, greedy. He finally shifted upward, stretching against me to settle more comfortably. Just as his lips brushed mine again, a knock splintered the moment.

"Sir, the doctor is here," a voice announced from beyond the door.

Of course. The doctor lived within the compound, tending to Damon’s grandparents whenever he wasn’t at the hospital.

At that instant, my phone rang. The vibration trembled against the table, insistent.

"Get me the phone, please."

Damon placed it in my hands before turning back to the door. I lowered my gaze and felt along the screen until I caught the name—Louie.

I answered quickly.

"Boss, I think you need to brace yourself." His voice carried an edge, heavy with what he’d uncovered.

"Hmm. You found it?" My own voice was calm, low.

"Yes. I think your husband also suspects... it was your aunt who plotted this."

The air seemed to thin around me. "Is my father involved?" I whispered, each word strained.

"I can’t say," he replied, hesitant.

The door opened then, and the sound of Damon’s presence filled the room again.

"I’ll talk to you later," I said quickly, cutting the call.

I exhaled and crossed my arms, the ache in my chest tightening. I had expected Tyrona—of course I had. But no. It was her again. My stepmother.