Chapter 190: Damian

I locked the phone and instinctively started to slide it back into my pocket before catching myself. Dean might have overlooked it earlier in his rage, but he would be scrutinizing my every move now. Crouching quickly, I unlaced my sneaker and slid the thin device beneath the soft tongue of the shoe, resting it flat against the top of my foot. Fortunately, the phone was compact enough that it wouldn’t disrupt my gait.

I had barely tied the laces into a tight double knot when the lock clicked and the cabin door creaked open.

Dean stood in the doorway, his sharp, icy gaze sweeping over me and the visibly tense Adam.

"Dinner is served," he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. "And since your personal physician is so strict about your diet, he’s coming along. I trust that your time in the dark gave you a chance to reflect on your disgraceful display back at the pier, and—"

"Yes, absolutely. I’ve thought it through," I interrupted smoothly, cutting off his lecture before his eyes could wander around the room. "I realized I’d like to hear how you’ve been living and what you’ve been up to all this time. After all, it’s been a while, and I’m sure we have plenty to talk about."

The last thing I needed was for him to inspect the storage locker. While searching for anything useful, Adam and I had used a concentrated pipe cleaner to corrode the metal lock mechanism from the inside, and we hadn’t anticipated him returning so quickly.

"Oh, I certainly have plenty to tell you, sweetheart," a crooked, smug grin spread across his scarred face, though his eyes remained as cold and sharp as razor blades. He stepped back into the hallway, standing sideways to clear the passage. "After you."

We walked out obediently. I did my best to avoid staring around too conspicuously, yet I memorized every turn and corridor leading back to our cabin with razor-sharp focus.

When we stepped into a spacious, sunlit dining room anchored by a grand circular table heaped with an array of aromatic dishes, my initial suspicions were instantly confirmed: we were far from alone on this ship.

An armed guard stood watch inside. Two hulking, heavily tattooed enforcers with hollow, merciless eyes stood frozen like stone sentinels beside the doors. Through the floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows overlooking the main deck, I spotted several more muscular figures carrying military-grade firearms. Their pungent, hostile pack scents clung to the air like smoke. We were hopelessly outnumbered.

"Sit," Nyland said, stepping forward with mock chivalry to pull out a heavy, carved chair for me.

I perched on the very edge of the seat, straining every muscle in my face to maintain a neutral, serene expression. I refused to let him see how his suffocating proximity—and the sickening, rancid stench of his rogue Alpha aura—made my stomach churn with nausea. Swallowing the lump of terror lodging in my throat, I forced myself to scan the spread before us.

Dean had outdone himself; the table groaned under a banquet of refined, luxurious delicacies, though the sight of it made my stomach turn. Still, keeping up this charade of civil conversation was vital. I needed information—anything that could help us survive.

Adam took his place beside me like a steadfast protector. When Dean leaned back with a self-satisfied smirk and gestured toward the feast, Adam adopted a calm, professional posture and spoke directly to the rogue Alpha:

"I require a set of kitchen scales."

Dean gave a terse nod to the enforcer guarding the entrance, and the giant promptly vanished down the hallway. He returned moments later carrying a compact digital scale. With practiced, painstaking precision, Adam set to work.

He weighed the raw vegetables, meticulously trimming away any excess, until my massive plate held only thinly sliced cucumbers, a few small boiled potatoes, and a tiny piece of skinless chicken breast. I was profoundly grateful for the meager portion; swallowing even a single bite was going to require every ounce of my willpower.

When Adam finished and stepped back, Dean glanced down at my nearly empty plate, a dark eyebrow arching in mild disbelief.

"And the wine? I ordered the finest vintage."

"Alcohol is strictly forbidden," Adam replied, his voice cool and unbothered. "Salt, sugar, fats, and spices trigger severe inflammation in Luna Jane’s stomach. A single glass would plunge her into excruciating agony."

"Not even sweets...?" Dean murmured, leaning back in his chair. "Then what can she eat?"

"A single baked apple of moderate size," Adam continued without missing a beat, his expression unreadable. "Peeled, and strictly from a sweet variety."

Adam’s clinical demeanor was so utterly convincing that Dean bought the lie, relaxing against his backrest. My eyes drifted to a third, vacant chair at the table, and a sudden wave of tension coiled in my chest.

"May Adam sit with us?" I asked, gesturing tentatively toward the empty seat.

Dean’s brow furrowed, his expression instantly hardening. "No. The guards will escort him to the galley and feed him there. I do not dine with servants."

Before I could object, one of the hulking guards stepped forward, grabbing Adam roughly by the arm and dragging him from the room.

My heart sank as the heavy doors clicked shut. I was left alone with the monster. My mind flashed back to Magnus—my true mate—who had never hesitated to sit at the same kitchen table with Adam and me. Magnus possessed true strength; he had no need for petty arrogance or cheap displays of power. Dean was nothing compared to him.

"Then who is that for?" I asked, fighting to keep the growing dread out of my voice.

"Ah, I did promise you a surprise, didn’t I?" Dean said, a sudden, unhinged enthusiasm animating his features. "My dear, I know all about your little child, but there is no way that bastard Magnus’s spawn will ever live under my roof. So I came up with a brilliant solution!" He snapped his fingers loudly.

At the signal, one of the guards dragged a struggling, dark-haired boy into the room. He looked to be around six years old, maybe slightly older. Speechless, I stared at the child in pure horror. He was terribly thin, exhausted, and covered in grime. Fresh bruises mottled his small body, and his knuckles were raw and bloody.

The guard shoved him forcefully into the empty chair. The boy snarled like a cornered wolf pup, his fingers immediately curling around a heavy ceramic plate as if to hurl it against the wall in defiance. But before he could throw it, he froze. His wide, dark eyes locked onto my chest—right where the hidden vial lay concealed beneath my sweater.

"Meet Damian, my love!" the sick bastard declared, beaming with mad pride while I stared at the battered child in absolute shock. "Our future son."

The boy slowly raised his exhausted gaze to mine. In that split second, I saw the very last flicker of hope die in his eyes. His dry, cracked lips trembled as he whispered, almost soundlessly:

"Do... do you know where my Amelie is?"

At those words, my heart shattered into a million pieces. A burning, primal urge to plunge a steak knife straight into Dean’s smiling carotid artery shattered every remaining trace of my restraint.