Chapter 20 Damon's Discovery (Lucien's POV)
The flat is dark when I return but there's light spilling from under Damon's bedroom door.
Odd. He's usually asleep by eleven on weeknights, religious about his morning gym routine before heading to the law firm. I move quietly toward my room, not wanting to disturb him if he's still working.
"Lucien."
I freeze. His voice comes from the living room, not his bedroom. I turn to find him sitting in the armchair by the window, silhouetted against the London night. There's a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table… good whiskey, the Macallan 18 I brought back from my last "business trip" …and two glasses.
"Sit. We need to talk."
The tone sets off alarm bells. This isn't casual flatmate conversation. This is something serious.
I lower myself into the chair slowly, every sense on alert. "Everything alright?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." He pours whiskey into both glasses, sliding one across the table to me. "How long have we been living together? Eighteen months?"
"About that, yes."
"And in those eighteen months, you've had what… fifteen 'accidents'? Cycling collisions, falls down escalators, muggings, that time you claimed someone threw a brick through your car window." He picks up his glass but doesn't drink. "You're also mysteriously absent at odd hours, receive encrypted messages on burner phones, and have enough cash hidden in your room to buy a small car."
My blood runs cold. "You went through my room?"
"No. I respect your privacy." He takes a sip of whiskey. "But I'm not an idiot, Lucien. Your 'security consultant' cover story has more holes than Swiss cheese. I ran a background check."
Fuck. "Damon… "
"Let me finish." He holds up a hand. "The Lucien Voss who supposedly works for a Moscow-based security firm? That person exists on paper. Has credentials, references, even a LinkedIn profile. But dig deeper and it all falls apart. The security firm has no actual clients. The references can't provide specific details about projects you've worked on. Your university transcripts are real, but you attended under a different name."
I'm calculating exit strategies, trying to determine how much damage control is needed. "You're a very thorough lawyer."
"I'm a concerned friend." He sets down his glass. "Look, I don't know what you're really involved in. And honestly? I'm not sure I want to know. But whatever it is, it's dangerous. You come home injured too often for it to be coincidence. You have nightmares that involve you shouting in Russian about people dying. And lately… " He pauses. "Lately you've been acting like someone with a deadline counting down to something terrible."
The observation is too accurate. I reach for my whiskey, buying time. "What makes you think that?"
"Because I've defended enough desperate people to recognize the signs. The way you check your phone compulsively. The fact that you've lost weight you didn't have to lose. How you stare at nothing sometimes like you're running calculations in your head." He leans forward. "Talk to me. Whatever this is, maybe I can help."
"You can't." The words come out harsher than intended. "This isn't something lawyers or background checks can fix."
"Try me." His voice is gentle now. "I'm not going to judge you, mate. And I'm not going to call the police or report you to immigration or whatever you're worried about. I just want to help."
The sincerity in his expression nearly breaks me. Here's this genuinely good human offering assistance to someone he doesn't realize isn't entirely human. Someone who's been lying to him for eighteen months about literally everything.
"Why?" I ask quietly. "Why do you care?"
"Because we're friends." He says it like it's obvious. "You helped me move house when my back went out. You stayed up all night helping me prep for that corporate merger case I was terrified I'd fuck up. You pretended to be my boyfriend at my homophobic uncle's funeral so he couldn't give me grief about being single." A slight smile. "Friends help each other. Even when… especially when… one of them is clearly involved in something dodgy."
I should lie. Should deflect, maintain the cover, keep him safely distant from the supernatural chaos consuming my life. But I'm so tired of lying. And Damon is offering something I haven't had in years: uncomplicated friendship from someone with no agenda beyond genuine concern.
"I can't tell you everything," I say finally. "And not because I don't trust you. Because knowing would put you in danger."
"Danger from who? Your employer? Criminal organization? Government?"
"From forces you don't believe exist." I take a long drink, letting the whiskey burn. "And that's all I can say about that."
He studies me for a moment. "Are you in the Russian mafia?"
Despite everything, I laugh. "No. Nothing that simple."
"MI6? CIA? Some spy shit?"
"No."
"Witness protection?"
"Damon, I appreciate the concern, but trust me when I say you couldn't guess the truth if I gave you a hundred tries."
"Try me."
I consider it. Actually consider telling him about werewolves and pack politics and blood oaths and the fact that I'm supposed to assassinate my soulmate before my entire family turns into mindless beasts. But the words die in my throat because even thinking about saying them out loud sounds insane.
"I can't," I repeat. "I'm sorry. But I genuinely can't."
He's quiet for a long moment, swirling whiskey in his glass. "Are you going to die?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"The way you've been acting lately… like someone preparing for the worst. Are you dying? Is that what this is?"
"I might be." The honesty slips out before I can stop it. "I have about six days to solve an impossible problem. If I fail, people I love will die. Maybe including me."
"Six days." He sets down his glass carefully. "That's very specific."
"It's a very specific problem."
"Can you tell me what kind of problem?"
"No."
"Can you tell me if it's legal?"
I think about blood curses and assassination orders and pack warfare. "It exists outside normal legal frameworks."
"That's not a no."
"It's the best answer I can give you."
Damon is silent, processing. Then: "Do you need money? Resources? Someone to provide an alibi?"
"You're offering to aid and abet whatever illegal activity you think I'm involved in?" I'm genuinely surprised.
"I'm offering to help my friend who's clearly in over his head." He refills both glasses. "Look, I spent three years as a public defender before moving to corporate law. I've helped murderers, drug dealers, and at least one person I'm ninety percent certain was running a human trafficking ring. So whatever your thing is, I've probably dealt with worse."
"You haven't." I'm certain of this. "But I appreciate the offer more than you know."
"So what can I do?"
I consider. There's probably nothing a human lawyer can actually do to help with supernatural problems. But the offer itself matters. The fact that someone is willing to stand beside me without knowing the full situation, without demanding explanations or proof.
"Just this," I say finally. "The talking. The whiskey. Being a friend who doesn't need me to be anyone other than who I am right now."
"I can do that." He settles back in his chair. "Though I reserve the right to ask invasive questions."
"Fair enough."
"Are you in love with someone?" The question comes out of nowhere.
I nearly choke on my whiskey. "What?"
"You get this look sometimes. When you're staring at your phone or when you think no one's watching. Like you're thinking about someone specific." He tilts his head. "And unless I'm very much mistaken, that's a new development. Within the last few weeks."
I should deny it. Should maintain operational security. Should keep Thalia's existence secret from everyone, especially humans who could become leverage.
But I'm so tired of hiding.
"Yes," I admit. "I'm in love with someone."
"Does she know?"
"She knows." I can't help the small smile. "I told her today, actually. First time I've said it directly."
"And did she say it back?"
"She did."
"Well, congratulations. That's excellent news in the middle of whatever crisis you're not telling me about." Damon grins. "Is she part of the problem or separate from it?"
"She's central to the problem. Also possibly the only solution." I drain my glass. "It's complicated."
"Love usually is." He pours again, topping off both glasses. "My ex-boyfriend used to say I was too focused on work to properly love anyone. Then I met Marcus and realized I was just focused on the wrong things."
"You've never mentioned Marcus."
"Because he died three years ago. Car accident." Damon's voice stays steady but I can smell the old grief underneath. "We had two years together. Best two years of my life. Then a drunk driver ran a red light and suddenly I was alone again."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." He stares into his glass. "The point is, if you've found someone you love and who loves you back, don't take that for granted. Don't let whatever crisis you're facing make you forget that connection matters more than nearly anything else."
The words hit harder than he probably intended. Because the crisis I'm facing is specifically designed to make me choose between Thalia and my family. Between love and duty. Between salvation and damnation.
"The problem is," I say carefully, "the person I love and the crisis aren't separate. Solving one might mean losing the other."
"Then find the third option." Damon makes it sound simple. "There's always a third option. You just have to be creative enough to see it."
"And if there isn't?"
"Then you make one." He meets my gaze directly. "Look, I don't know what you're dealing with. But I know you're smart, resourceful, and apparently have skills that involve fighting based on all those mysterious injuries. Use those skills. Find the angle no one else has considered. And if you can't do it alone, accept help from people who care about you."
"Like you?"
"Like me. And like whoever this woman is you're in love with." He raises his glass. "To third options and the people stubborn enough to create them."
I clink my glass against his. "To third options."
We drink, and for a few minutes there's comfortable silence. Just two friends sharing whiskey pretending that the world isn't complicated and dangerous and full of impossible choices.
"Can I ask you something?" Damon's voice is quiet now.
"You can ask. I might not answer."
"If you succeed… if you solve this impossible problem in six days… will you be able to tell me about it afterward?"
"Probably not." The truth tastes bitter. "Some secrets have to stay secret."
"And if you fail?"
"Then it won't matter what I tell you because I'll likely be dead." I say it matter-of-factly, without drama. "Along with several people I love."
"That's remarkably grim."
"That's remarkably accurate."
Damon is quiet for a moment. Then: "Promise me something."
"What?"
"If you survive this… whatever this is… you'll introduce me to this woman you love. I want to meet the person who makes you look like that."
"Like what?"
"Like maybe there's something worth living for besides solving impossible problems." He smiles. "She must be extraordinary."
"She is." The words come easily. "She's brave and brilliant and she's dealing with her own impossible situation while somehow staying kind. She shifted… " I stop, realizing I've said too much.
"Shifted what?"
"Her perspective. Recently. Changed her entire worldview." Nice save, Lucien. "She's adapting to circumstances that would break most people."
"Sounds like you two are well-matched." Damon stands, stretching. " I should let you get some sleep. Though given your track record, you're probably sneaking out again in a few hours for some mysterious meeting."
He's not wrong. I'm meeting Nikolai at 7 AM to discuss research on blood curses before tonight's meeting with Thalia.
"Thank you," I say, standing as well. "For this. For caring. For offering help even though I can't explain what I need help with."
"That's what friends do." He clasps my shoulder briefly. "And Lucien? Whatever happens in the next six days.. survive it. Because I'd really like to meet this extraordinary woman and maybe get the full story someday."
"I'll do my best."
He heads to his room, closing the door quietly. I'm left standing in the living room with an empty whiskey glass and the warm feeling of genuine human connection that I didn't realize I'd been missing.
My phone buzzes. Text from Nikolai: "Research update. Blood curse can potentially be redirected but requires specific conditions. Discuss at 7?"
I type back: "Confirmed. Will be there."
Another message, this one from Thalia: "Sorin visited. Long conversation about prophecies and his son. Need to discuss tonight."
"We definitely need to talk. I love you. Stay safe."
"Love you too. See you at midnight."