Chapter 102
Elena's POV
I followed him to the door, suddenly reluctant to let him leave. Which was stupid—he was going to work, not war. He'd be back in a few hours. But the thought of being here without him made the house feel too big, too empty.
He shrugged on his coat, then turned to look at me. For a moment, we just stood there, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him again.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," he said quietly.
He reached out, his hand cupping my cheek. Then he pulled me close and kissed me, pressing me back against the wall. It wasn't gentle this time—it was deep, possessive. When he finally pulled back, I was breathless.
"Can't you work from here?" I heard myself ask, my voice small.
He smiled against my mouth. "I need to be there in person. But I'll make it quick."
His thumb brushed my lower lip. "This is the first time leaving feels like a punishment."
Then he was gone, and I was left standing there.
---
I tried to be productive. I opened my laptop, pulled up job search sites, and started scrolling through listings. But every time I saw something remotely interesting, my brain would immediately jump to: But that's at Vance Industries.
I couldn't work for Caleb's team. That much was clear. It would put a target on both of us—Marcus would see it as defiance, and they would drag me back home.
I closed the laptop and pressed my palms against my eyes. My phone buzzed.
I grabbed it without looking, assuming it was Caleb checking in.
Damon's number: Your mother is hurt. She's in the hospital.
The words didn't make sense at first. I read them twice, three times, waiting for my brain to process. Then my chest seized. I stared at the message, my heart hammering so hard it hurt.
Vivian. Hurt. Hospital.
What happened?
I called the number immediately. It rang. And rang. Finally, on the sixth ring, someone picked up.
"How did she get hurt?" The words tumbled out. "Is she okay? Which hospital?"
Silence. I could hear background noise—the distant beep of machines, the low murmur of voices. Hospital sounds.
"Hello?" My voice was urgent. "Please—"
"Elena." Damon's voice cut through, sharp and cold. "You're good at this, you know. Ignoring every message I send, every call—but the second I mention your mom, you can't dial fast enough."
I forced myself to calm down. Maybe this was just Damon's trick to make me contact him.
"Is what you just texted true?"
"How interesting. You think I'd use such a cheap lie to trick you?"
My blood went cold. "Where is she? What happened?"
"She got beaten," he said flatly. "Her face is swollen. She didn't look well."
The room tilted. I gripped the edge of the couch.
Mom had called last night to warn me. Why would she be hurt and in the hospital today? Did Dad do it? Did he find out she was protecting me?
I couldn't breathe. "Send me the address. I'm coming right now."
"Pull me out of your blocked contacts first," Damon said coldly. "Then I'll send you the location."
I wanted to scream. But I couldn't. Not when my mother was lying in a hospital bed, hurt and helpless.
"Fine," I bit out.
I hung up, unblocked his number with shaking hands, and waited. A moment later, a location pin dropped into my messages.
I grabbed my coat and ran.
---
Damon's POV
The VIP ward smelled like antiseptic and dying flowers. I sat beside Grandfather Randy's bed, watching the monitor's green line spike and fall. He'd been sleeping for three hours. His condition was slowly improving, but he couldn't handle another shift.
I checked my watch. Eight fifteen. Time to pick up his medication.
I looked at my phone. The message she still hadn't answered.
Then I smelled it.
A familiar scent.
But something was wrong underneath. The scent was corrupted by copper and fear.
I turned.
A small figure stood three people ahead, bundled in a coat, hat pulled low. A surgical mask covered most of her face. But I knew that posture.
"Mrs. Cross?"
She went rigid. Slowly, she turned.
Even through the mask, I could see her eyes—Elena's eyes, but older, harder. Vivian's gaze held zero warmth.
"Damon." Her voice was flat. Professional. Like I was a stranger.
"Is everything alright?"
"Just a cold." She turned back to face forward. "Picking up medication."
The words were dismissive. Final. But that smell—blood and terror—told a different story.
She collected her prescription without looking at me again. Anti-inflammatories. Fever reducers. Nothing that would explain the fear-pheromones rolling off her.
She walked away fast, heels clicking against linoleum.
---
I followed her scent to the general ward. She pulled down her mask, taking deep breaths like she'd been holding them.
When she turned, I saw everything.
Her left cheek was swollen, mottled purple and black. The bruise spread up to her eye socket, down to her jaw. Her lip was split at the corner. Dark fingerprints circled her throat.
My stomach dropped.
"Why are you following me?" Her voice was sharp, angry. She yanked the mask back up, but the damage was done.
"Who did this to you?"
"Move, Damon."
"Mrs. Cross, please—"
"It doesn't concern you." She met my eyes, and there was nothing soft in her expression. "My family's problems are our own."
"I have tension with Elena right now," I said.
"You rejected her in front of everyone. You made her cover for your girlfriend. Having problems is normal—even if you were just friends, you shouldn't have hurt her like that."
The accusation landed like a punch.
"I didn't mean to—I know I should've thought things through better, but I never wanted to hurt her."
Vivian's eyes grew colder. "Intent doesn't erase damage."
She pushed me out of the room and closed the door.