XXXIX

**"Once a glass breaks, it never comes back."**

Darius's voice was quiet—dangerously quiet—barely above a whisper, yet the weight of his words felt like they echoed off the walls, sharp as shattered glass slicing through the silence.

The heaviness in his tone didn't just hang in the air; it *landed* squarely on Sasha's chest, sinking like a stone.

Something inside her cracked at that moment—something fragile she had spent months, maybe years, trying to hold together with trembling hands.

Her fingers tightened reflexively around the small, warm body she cradled.

Lowering her gaze to the sleeping baby nestled in her arms, she focused on the delicate tufts of black hair crowning his tiny head. It was easier than looking at Darius. Easier than facing the fury and betrayal radiating from him like a wildfire.

Her thumb traced gentle circles over the baby's soft scalp, a motion meant to calm *him* but also to steady herself.

Tears prickled stubbornly at the corners of her eyes, hot and unwelcome, but she bit the inside of her cheek, forcing them back.

No. She wouldn't give Darius the satisfaction of seeing her break again. Not tonight. Not anymore.

The door slammed shut behind him with a final, decisive bang.

The sound reverberated through the room like a gavel's strike, sharp and unforgiving, leaving the air charged with something unfinished—something jagged.

Damien startled in her arms, his tiny body flinching, his little lips quivering before a heart-wrenching wail broke from his mouth.

Sasha immediately shifted, instinct overriding everything else.

She rocked him gently, her voice dipping low, weaving soft hums into the air like fragile threads.

"Shh, baby… Mamma's here," she whispered against his ear, the words a fragile promise, one she *desperately* wanted to believe herself.

Slowly, gradually, his cries subsided, his tiny fists unclenching as his breathing evened out.

She kissed his forehead, her lips lingering there, trembling slightly—not from exhaustion, but from the ache lodged deep inside her.

Her mind, however, wasn't quiet.

Darius was furious. That much was undeniable.

And maybe… maybe he had every reason to be.

But knowing that didn't make it easier to swallow.

Time passed in heavy, uncomfortable increments. Minutes? Hours? She couldn't tell.

She stood by the window now, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her shoulders tense.

The cool night air filtered through the open pane, brushing over her skin like a whisper from a world she couldn't quite reach.

It used to calm her, standing here.

She had lost count of how many nights she spent staring out at the Paris skyline, the glittering lights reflected in her eyes as she tried to make sense of her choices, her mistakes, the person she'd become.

But tonight, she wasn't searching for answers.

She already had the two pieces of her world she thought she wanted most—Darius, Damien.

And yet… why did she still feel like she was standing barefoot on broken glass, each step forward cutting deeper?

The sound of the door creaking open pulled her from her thoughts.

She didn't turn immediately, her gaze fixed on the dark horizon, steadying herself before facing whatever storm was brewing behind her.

His footsteps echoed deliberately, measured and heavy, like he carried the weight of more than his body.

When she finally turned, her breath caught in her throat.

Darius stood there, his broad frame rigid, drenched in sweat.

His chest rose and fell sharply, as if he'd run miles, fought a battle, or wrestled with something far more exhausting—something inside him.

The sleeves of his shirt were pushed up, his knuckles reddened and raw, veins pulsing beneath tensed skin.

There was a darkness swirling in his eyes, a storm he hadn't yet named.

Was it rage? Was it guilt? Or was he, like her, desperately trying to outrun something neither of them dared admit?

Their gazes locked, the charged silence stretching thin between them.

It was Sasha who broke first, voice deceptively cool despite the pulse thudding wildly beneath her skin.

"If you want me to live here," she began evenly, tilting her chin up just slightly, "there are some rules you need to follow."

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Darius's face—surprise, perhaps, or maybe recognition.

Recognition because she had flung his own words back at him—the same cold, clipped words he'd used when he first forced her into his world, into a marriage she hadn't asked for.

That flicker vanished in an instant.

In a blink, he was moving.

Sudden. Controlled. Predatory.

Before she could step back, her shoulders hit the wall near the window, the cool surface pressing sharply against her spine.

His arms braced on either side of her, caging her in, his body a solid, immovable force in front of hers.

The space between them shrank to nothing.

Sasha's breath hitched audibly.

Her heart pounded, each beat reverberating in her ribs like a drum.

The scent of sweat and that familiar, maddening cologne wrapped around her, dizzying.

It pulled her backward—to the night he first kissed her.

To the way it made her tremble against her will.

Darius's head dipped low, his breath warm against her lips, his voice rough, a dangerous whisper.

"You will not dictate me, Sasha," he said, the steel in his voice unmistakable.

His next words, sharper, possessive, left no room for doubt.

"You are in *my* territory."

That single word—*my*—snaked down her spine, tightening something low in her stomach.

She forced herself to inhale, to keep her face neutral, though her pulse betrayed her.

Her voice, when it came, was barely more than a breath.

"Can you be quieter?" she murmured, tilting her head just enough so her lips brushed past his cheek. "Damien is sleeping."

For the briefest second, she watched something shift in his eyes.

Darius's gaze flicked toward the bassinet in the corner, as if truly registering—for the first time—the small life that had entered their world.

When his eyes returned to hers, the anger hadn't vanished, but something else lingered beneath it. Something uncertain.

She lifted her chin slightly, almost daring him to acknowledge it.

"His name is Damien," she added softly, deliberately.

That name hung heavy between them.

Darius stilled, his jaw tightening, a muscle ticking beneath his skin.

His gaze darkened—not with anger, but something deeper, unreadable.

For one taut, stretched moment, neither of them spoke.

She wondered what thoughts ran through his mind.

Did he approve of the name? Did it matter to him at all?

But then, like a flicker of light between shifting shadows, she *saw* it.

That flash of realization—subtle, but unmistakable.

Did he notice?

Did he recognize that Damien's initials mirrored his own?

That even after betrayal, after all the blood and broken promises, she hadn't erased him completely from her life?

For a heartbeat, Sasha held her breath, her heart thudding loud in her ears.

But Darius only stared, his expression carved from stone—yet beneath it, something fragile, something raw threatened to surface.

And neither of them dared name it.

Later that night, Sasha sat perched on the edge of the bed, her back resting against the headboard, nursing Damien.

The room was wrapped in silence, save for the rhythmic sound of her son's gentle suckling. The soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp spilled over them, casting warm shadows that danced along the walls. It painted Damien's delicate features in gold—the soft slope of his nose, his flushed cheeks, his tiny fingers curled securely against her bare skin as if she alone tethered him to this world.

This had become her routine. His warmth pressed against her, the faint weight of his body grounding her. She had grown used to it—the quiet intimacy, the instinctual bond between them, the way he clung to her like she was his entire universe.

She no longer bothered covering herself.

Maybe it was exhaustion, dragging her limbs heavy, leaving her stripped of self-consciousness.

Maybe it was defiance, quiet and simmering beneath the surface.

Maybe, she admitted to herself, it was something else entirely.

Something more calculated.

She wanted to see him—wanted to see **how Darius would react.**

Would he cast that same unreadable gaze her way, cool and detached as always?

Or would there be something lurking beneath it—a flicker of the intensity she remembered, the storm that used to rise in his dark eyes?

She swallowed the knot in her throat as the sound of the bathroom door creaked open, slicing through the silence like a blade.

Darius stepped out, the soft towel slung low around his hips clinging to his sharp frame, water dripping from the ends of his dark hair. Droplets traced a slow path down his sculpted chest, gliding over every plane of muscle, disappearing beneath the edge of the towel.

Her pulse stuttered.

Even now—after all the pain, the betrayal, the distance he kept between them—he still carried himself like the world bent to his presence. A force that demanded attention, effortlessly.

He raked another towel through his damp hair as he strode toward the closet, his movements controlled, unhurried. His jaw was sharp, set in that familiar, unreadable line.

His gaze flicked toward her—heavy, lingering—but he didn't speak.

Sasha's breath caught somewhere between her ribs.

A coil of anticipation twisted low in her stomach, so tight it almost hurt.

He reached for his clothes, but his fingers faltered.

Because his eyes landed on her.

And they stayed there.

She kept her gaze averted, pretending not to notice. But she felt it—his stare like a tangible thing against her skin.

The way his gaze dropped, trailing slowly over her bare chest, to the curve of her breast, fuller now, swollen from feeding their child.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

His hand, poised midair, twitched.

He muttered something under his breath—low, rough, a sound that vibrated through the quiet—but it was indecipherable.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the closet, the door closing behind him with quiet finality.

Sasha let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Her heart was pounding, traitorous and loud in her ears.

Did he feel it too?

This pull neither of them seemed able to sever?

This unbearable tension simmering just beneath the surface?

She shifted Damien in her arms, her fingers absently stroking the soft tufts of his hair as her mind spiraled with questions she couldn't voice.

Later, Sasha stood in the small kitchen, the sharp scent of basil and garlic still lingering in the air. She plated the pasta carefully, trying to ignore the absurdity of what she was doing.

**She had cooked for him.**

Darius's favorite dish—one she had memorized back when she hadn't known why she cared enough to notice.

Now, she didn't even understand her own reasons. Maybe she didn't want to.

The plate felt heavier than it should as she carried it back into the room.

Darius was seated on the bed, his long frame relaxed but unmoving, one arm cradling Damien as if the child's weight was the only thing anchoring him.

He hadn't shifted since the baby had fallen asleep in his lap.

Sasha hesitated at the doorway, her heart tight in her chest.

"Darius," she called, her voice quieter than intended.

He didn't look up immediately. Instead, he hummed—a low, noncommittal sound—but kept his eyes trained on Damien's sleeping face.

Swallowing her hesitation, she cleared her throat.

"I brought your food."

Finally, his gaze lifted to hers.

Unreadable.

Impenetrable.

For a moment, she braced herself, expecting him to dismiss her entirely. To ignore the effort, as he often did, cloaked in his indifference.

But then—

"Bring it here," he said, voice rough but steady.

Her brows flicked up faintly, surprised.

Still, she stepped forward and carefully placed the plate on the bed beside him, watching as he shifted Damien just slightly to free one hand.

He reached for the fork with his right, his left never once letting go of their son.

Before he could lift the utensil, his phone rang sharply, slicing through the fragile moment.

Without thinking, Sasha grabbed it, glancing at the screen before pressing the answer button. Wordlessly, she held it to his ear.

Darius spoke in that quiet, measured tone of his, his eyes flickering between her and Damien.

But Sasha's attention was elsewhere.

His food sat untouched, cooling quickly.

Her hand moved almost of its own accord—fingers curling around the fork, twirling the pasta carefully before lifting it toward his lips.

Her eyes met his, unsure what she expected.

Defiance? Dismissal?

But instead, after a beat, he opened his mouth and accepted the bite.

Something shifted.

The air felt heavier, thick with something unspoken, as she brought the fork back to the plate and prepared another bite.

He chewed slowly, never breaking eye contact, as if trying to unravel her intentions with nothing more than a stare.

Her chest tightened as a memory surfaced—

The night he had fed her. Her hand broken, her pride bruised, and yet he'd sat by her side, patient, careful, relentless.

Now it was her turn.

But this felt different.

More charged.

More dangerous.

By the time the phone call ended, the plate was nearly empty, though neither of them had spoken.

Sasha reached for the glass of water, holding it delicately before bringing it to his lips.

Darius's mouth quirked into something that almost resembled a smirk, though his eyes remained dark.

"Planning to poison me this time?" he asked, voice edged with something sharp—almost cruel, but laced beneath it was something she couldn't quite name.

Her stomach twisted painfully.

She said nothing. Just held the glass steady as he drank, swallowing hard under the weight of his gaze.

When he finished, she placed the glass back on the nightstand, turning away quickly.

The ache in her chest pulsed deeper.

He was still angry.

And she couldn't shake the sinking suspicion that no matter what she did, no matter how many fragile olive branches she offered, he might never forgive her.