CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN
BRIELLE

The penthouse felt warmer than usual when we got home.

Maybe it was the armful of thoughtful gifts we carried in, or the way the late afternoon light poured through the windows, or maybe it was just the leftover glow from the park — the laughter, the kite fiasco, the little girl who called Damien scary. Whatever it was, I felt lighter than I had in weeks.

Damien set the gifts down carefully on the coffee table, then immediately guided me to the couch, fluffing pillows behind my back like I was a fragile antique.

“You’re hovering again,” I teased, catching his hand before he could fluff another pillow.

“Can’t help it,” he murmured, sitting beside me and pulling my legs across his lap. His fingers started massaging my swollen ankles without being asked, thumbs pressing in slow, perfect circles that made me sigh. “You had a crowd around you today. Fans. Strangers. I didn’t like how exposed you were, even for a few minutes.”

“It was sweet,” I said softly, leaning back against the pillows. “They really loved the book. One girl told me the chosen family theme made her feel less alone. That’s… everything I wanted it to mean.”

Damien’s hands paused on my ankle. He looked up at me, those sharp grey eyes darkening with something deeper than just pride. “You have no idea what you do to people, Luna. What you do to me. Watching you light up when they recognized you… it made me want to wrap you up and keep you all to myself.”

I smiled, reaching down to thread my fingers through his hair. “You already do that. Every day.”

He leaned forward, capturing my mouth in a slow, deep kiss that tasted like mango ice cream and sunshine. His hand slid from my ankle up my calf, then higher, resting possessively on my thigh. The kiss grew heavier, hungrier. I parted my lips and he took the invitation immediately, tongue stroking mine in that deliberate, claiming way that always made my toes curl.

I tugged him closer, needing more. My fingers tightened in his shirt as heat pooled low in my belly…the kind that had nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with how much I still craved this man. Pregnancy had made everything more intense. Every touch felt electric.

Damien groaned softly against my mouth, shifting so he was half over me, careful not to put any weight on my belly. His hand slipped under the hem of my shirt, palm warm and rough against my skin as he stroked up my side.

“Fuck, Brielle,” he breathed, lips trailing down my jaw to my neck. “You have no idea how much I want you right now. How badly I need to spread you open on this couch and bury myself so deep you forget every name except mine.”

The words sent a shiver through me, dark and possessive in that way only Damien could make sound like poetry and sin at the same time. I arched into him, dragging him back down when he tried to pull away.

“I want you,” I whispered, voice shaky with need. “Please.”

He kissed me again, harder this time, like he was fighting himself. His hand cupped my breast through my bra, thumb brushing over my nipple until I gasped. For a moment it felt like we might actually lose control 

Then he stopped.

Damien pulled back with a low, frustrated sound, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard. His eyes were stormy, jaw clenched tight like it physically pained him to stop.

“I want you more than you’ll ever know,” he rasped, voice rough and dark. “I want to fuck you until the only thing you can feel is me. Until you’re shaking and crying my name and so full of me you can’t think straight. But I can’t, Luna. The doctor was very clear… no penetration, no real strain until we get the all-clear. Not after what happened.”

I let out a soft, disappointed whine, tugging at his shirt. “Well… that sucks.”

He let out a low, pained laugh, pressing one more gentle kiss to my lips before sitting up straighter, clearly trying to get himself under control. “Tell me about it. I’m dying here. You’re carrying our daughter, glowing like some kind of goddess, and I’m supposed to keep my hands to myself? It’s torture.”

I pouted, though I knew he was right. “You could at least let me take care of you then.”

His eyes flashed with heat again, but he shook his head, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Not today. I’m not risking anything that could hurt either of you. Very soon, though… once the doctor gives us the green light, you’re mine. I’m going to take my time with you. Hours. Days, maybe. Until you can’t walk straight.”

The promise in his voice sent another wave of heat through me, but I could see the restraint it was costing him. I sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’m holding you to that. No take-backs when I’m no longer on bed rest.”

“Never.” He leaned in and kissed me again…softer this time, full of love instead of hunger. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine for a long moment. “I love you. Both of you. More than anything.”

“I love you too,” I whispered.

Damien lingered for one more kiss, slow and tender, before pulling away with visible reluctance. “I need to go freshen up,” he said, voice still rough around the edges. “All that kite-flying and chasing after you made me sticky. I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t move from this couch unless you need the bathroom. Promise me.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled, reaching up to fix the collar of his shirt. “I promise, Mr. Overprotective. Go shower before you start stress-testing the couch with me again.”

He gave me one last searching look, like he was memorizing every detail of my face, then disappeared down the hallway toward the master bathroom. I heard the door click shut and the faint sound of water starting a moment later.

Alone for the first time since the park, I let out a long, contented sigh and turned my attention to the small mountain of gifts spread across the coffee table. The late afternoon light made everything look softer, almost magical. Flowers in soft pinks and creams, handwritten notes folded neatly, bookmarks with quotes from The Veiled Heart printed in elegant script, and that tiny knitted baby hat sitting on top like a crown.

I picked up the hat first, running my thumb over the impossibly soft yarn. It was pale lavender with tiny white stars stitched along the edge. My throat tightened with sudden emotion. Aurora. Our daughter. She was going to be so loved.

One by one, I went through the notes. A young woman had written that the book gave her courage to leave an emotionally abusive relationship. An older man said the chosen family theme reminded him of the friends who became his real family after he lost his parents. A teenage girl had drawn a beautiful sketch of the two main characters on the back of her note, with a heart around them.

I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. These weren’t just fans..they were people who had found pieces of themselves in my words. It made every late night of writing, every doubt, every moment I wondered if I was good enough, feel worth it.

I reached for the bouquet next. The flowers were gorgeous — white lilies mixed with soft pink roses and sprigs of baby’s breath. I brought them closer, inhaling deeply. The scent was sweet and clean, with that faint earthy undertone that always reminded me of spring. I closed my eyes for a second, letting the fragrance wash over me, and felt a wave of gratitude settle in my chest.

This is real, I thought. People connected with the story. With me.

I was still smiling when I noticed a single, perfect white rose tucked deeper into the bouquet. It stood out.. the stem wrapped in delicate black ribbon instead of the usual green florist tape. A small cream-colored envelope was attached to it with a tiny silver pin.

Curious, I carefully unpinned the envelope and set the rest of the bouquet aside. The paper felt thick and expensive under my fingers. My name was written on the front in elegant, looping handwriting that looked almost too perfect. No stamp. No return address. Just my name.

I slid my finger under the flap and pulled out the card inside.

The handwriting matched the envelope. Beautiful. Almost artistic.

Dearest Brielle,

In the shadowed pages where the Veiled Heart beats, the Shadow King rises — the husband cloaked in silver and night, the one who binds the light with chains forged from love and power. He wears the face of salvation, yet his crown is built on silence and control. The Shadow King who calls himself Damien must be unmade. Only then can the true dawn break free and the veiled heart shine unburdened.

I see him clearly now. I see what he truly is.

I shall not let him harm you any longer.

The veil is thinning. Soon, the light will be set free.

Your devoted guardian of the dawn

I read it once, slowly. Then again.

At first, it felt… poetic. Almost flattering in a strange way. Fans often wrote to me in the language of the book, quoting lines or imagining extensions of the world I created. The Shadow King was one of the most discussed characters — complex, magnetic, the possessive force the heroine had to navigate. This note sounded like an artistic interpretation, someone deeply immersed who saw parallels between my story and real life.

But then the name hit me.

Damien.

My breath caught. The elegant words suddenly felt colder. The Shadow King who calls himself Damien. The one who “must be unmade.” The promise that someone would not let him “harm” me any longer.

I stared at the card, my pulse picking up. Was this… a threat? Or just someone who had blurred fiction and reality so completely that they thought they were helping the heroine of my book? 

A chill ran down my spine despite the warm sunlight pouring through the windows. I glanced toward the hallway where Damien was showering, the faint sound of water still running. Part of me wanted to call out to him immediately. Another part — the stubborn, independent part that had fought so hard to have this book be mine  hesitated.

It was probably just an overly enthusiastic fan. Someone who got too immersed in the story and blurred the lines between fiction and reality. It happened. I’d read about it online. Right?

Still, my fingers trembled slightly as I folded the note and slipped it back into the envelope. I tucked it under the stack of other cards, out of sight, and picked up the white rose again. It smelled sweet, almost too sweet now. I set it aside quickly.

But the words kept echoing in my head.
 “The Shadow King who calls himself Damien must be unmade. Only then can the true dawn break free and the veiled heart shine unburdened.

I heard the shower turn off down the hall. Damien would be out any minute. I forced a smile onto my face and reached for another note, pretending to read it as footsteps approached.

He didn’t need to worry. Not right now. Not when we were finally having a good day.

I’d figure out what to do with the note later.