The Torrance estate sat on twelve acres of manicured hell. Iron gates, stone walls, gardens that looked like they belonged in a magazine—if you didn't know what happened behind them. It was a Thursday evening, and the October air had teeth.

Ellie was in the kitchen, barefoot on cold marble, wearing one of Damon's oversized black t-shirts that hung to her mid-thigh. Her belly was enormous now—beautiful, round, undeniable. She moved carefully these days, one hand often braced against the small of her back, her center of gravity betraying her at every turn.

The house was quiet. Too quiet for a house with thirty-six men on rotation.

He came through the back door like a storm front. Heavy footsteps, coat still on, the collar turned up against the cold. Two of his soldiers followed him in—young guys, barely twenty, one with a split lip and the other holding his ribs like they might be cracked.

Damon didn't look at either of them. His eyes went straight to Ellie in the kitchen, and something shifted in his face. The hard line of his jaw softened. Just barely.

There she is.

He shrugged his coat off and tossed it at the nearest soldier without looking.

Get the car detailed. Wait for me outside.

The soldiers scrambled. The door clicked shut behind them.

Damon crossed the kitchen in three long strides, his hand finding Ellie's hip.

How's my boy doing in there?