Dark Prince: An Age Gap, Forced Marriage Romance (Silver Fox Daddies)

Anger courses through me as I march down the hallway, each step heavy with self-inflicted fury simmering within. How could I have allowed myself to become so ensnared in the trivial aspects of my work, isolating myself in my study, far from where I truly needed to be? The fact that I wasn’t there for Maura when she needed me ignites a storm of self-criticism within me.

Catching sight of Grigori stationed near Maura’s door brings a momentary pause to the raging storm within. Deciding to put him on watch, to alert me the moment Maura emerged from her room, now strikes me as the best single piece of foresight in a fog of errors. The wave of relief at this realization is tangible, momentarily cutting through the anger.

The chilling “what ifs” loom ominously, threatening to pull me into a vortex of grim possibilities I refuse to entertain fully. I forcibly dismiss these thoughts, focusing instead on the present relief, thankful for Grigori’s vigilance in my absence.

I walk quickly, my gaze scanning him for any signs of injury. He’s unscathed, thank God. Without wasting a moment, I demand, “I need to see Maura.”

Grigori hesitates, a flicker of protest crossing his features, but I’m already moving past him, propelled by the need to see her with my own eyes and to confirm she’s safe. I push open the bedroom door, my heart hammering in my chest with fear and urgency.

“Luk, I don’t know if that is a good idea,” I hear him say as I enter the room.

The sight that greets me is one of relief and tension in equal measure. Maura is there, and so is Elena, a scene that’s comforting yet fraught with unspoken questions. “Are you okay?” is the first question I manage, and it tumbles out on its own, laced with concern that is resonating deep within me, a vulnerability I’m not accustomed to revealing.

Elena stands when I enter. She approaches me, placing a hand gently but firmly against my chest, a silent command for restraint. “Pause, Luk,” she says, her directive resonating with empathy and authority.

I comply with Elena’s request, my body calming under her tender touch. I stand there, my gaze instinctively searching Maura, taking in every detail of her physical state. She’s visibly shaken, a vulnerability in her eyes that I’ve seldom seen. It strikes a chord within me, causing a deep, aching sadness. Worse still, I notice the tension in her body seems to be amplified by my presence, a realization that cuts deeper than any physical wound ever could.

My eyes catch sight of the bandage on her arm. A visceral rage surges within me at the thought of her being hurt, an emotion so potent it feels like it could consume me from the inside out.

Elena seems to sense the growing storm within me. With gentle but insistent guidance, she leads me away from Maura and out into the hallway. The space feels colder and emptier without Maura’s presence, and I ache to be near her.

“She was hurt, but it’s just a flesh wound that won’t require stitches,” Elena explains with an undercurrent of serious concern once we’re outside of the room. “Right now, what Maura needs is calm, something that you are unable to provide given your current state.”

The words sting, but I know she’s right. The simmering anger inside me begins to subside.

“Stay with her, please. Get her anything she needs,” I instruct, my voice steadier. I am warmly grateful for Elena’s unwavering support.

Elena nods, her determination clear. “Of course. I’ll keep you updated,” she assures me before slipping back into the room and closing the heavy door that once again separates me from Maura.

I stare at the door for a moment longer, reciting a silent vow to do better, to be what Maura needs in the wake of this ordeal. I turn to Grigori, finding a sense of purpose in taking back control. “Double the security,” I command, the need for action to ensure this never happens again taking precedence.

Grigori meets my purposeful gaze, his expression solemnly agreeing. “Already done. More men are on their way; they’ll be here within the hour,” he responds.

As we stride down the hallway together, the air between us is charged with anger, tension, and confusion. “Talk to me, Grigori. What do we know about the attacker? Who is he? And how the fuck did he get into my house?” I ask, eager to understand the assailant who dared to breach the safety of our home and put Maura in danger.

Grigori’s response comes with a hint of a grin, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. “We caught him alive. The guards are taking him downstairs as we speak, preparing him for a little personal time with you,” he says, the implication clear. The idea of facing this intruder head-on, of extracting the information we need directly, sparks a grim sense of satisfaction within me.

The notion of interrogation carries with it a weight of responsibility and a chance for retribution. It’s a critical opportunity to gain insight into how we were breached and to learn how we can prevent any future attempts against us. Yet, as these thoughts solidify, the moment is shattered by the sudden ring of Grigori’s phone.

He answers swiftly, his demeanor shifting from ambiguous to alert as he listens to the voice on the other end. I watch closely, noting the change in his expression and the sudden sharpness in his gaze. When he hangs up, the news he delivers cuts through the hallway’s previously charged atmosphere like a cold blade.

“The assailant has escaped,” Grigori reports, his voice tight with frustration and disbelief. “He took out one of the guards that was escorting him. But he’s still on the grounds.”

We sprint down the hallway, urgency fueling our every step as I press Grigori for more details. “Where is he?” I demand, my voice a low growl of barely contained anger and concern.

“Near the garden,” Grigori replies, his tone just as biting. Our eyes scan ahead as we navigate the mansion’s labyrinthine corridors, each turn bringing us closer to our target.

The pounding in my chest is relentless, a cacophony of adrenaline and determination as we burst through the final door. The cool night air greets us with a sharp bite. The garden looms ahead, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, a serene location suddenly transformed into a battlefield.

Amidst the eerie calm stands the assassin, cornered but defiant, a half-dozen of my security team already in position, their firearms drawn and aimed with deadly precision. The unknown man, in a desperate bid for survival or perhaps sheer defiance, reveals his own gun, a sinister grin splitting his face like an evil jack-o’-lantern. From across the garden, I watch as he turns his attention toward me.

Time seems to slow, every detail sharpening under the moon’s watchful eye. I’m about to shout to my men to hold their fire, to take him alive. We need his intel—we might be able to find out who sent him and understand the depth of the threat against us. But the situation quickly escalates beyond any chance of shouting commands, the assassin’s next move triggering a silent, deadly standoff.

Shit.

Without warning, the man raises his gun.

“No!” I shout, desperate to prevent what I know is going to happen next.

But it’s too late. My security detail opens fire. Gunshots begin popping off in the dark, orange flashes flickering across the garden, the smell of gunfire replacing the sweet scent of the beautiful blooms.

“Enough!”

The guards stop firing at once. As expected, the assassin is dead and lying in a heap on the ground.

There is a hushed silence; the only sounds are the soft night breeze and the collective, subdued breaths of my security team. With the immediate threat neutralized, I approach the downed man cautiously, my senses still heightened from the adrenaline rush.

Kneeling beside him, I examine him closely, searching for any clue that might reveal his motivations and affiliations. It’s then that I spot it—a tattoo barely visible on his inner wrist beneath the sleeve of his dark attire. It’s a Celtic cross, intricately designed, its lines sharp and deliberate. It’s not just any tattoo; in our world, symbols like these are more than mere decorations. They connote allegiances and declarations and are symbols of honor.

A new resolve takes hold of me. The Celtic cross tattoo is a lead—a tangible piece of evidence in the shadowy world of loyalties and betrayals that define our existence. It’s a clue that could unravel the mystery of who dared order someone to invade my home and threaten the person I hold most dear.

Turning to Grigori, I see the same realization reflected in his eyes. “This isn’t over,” I state, the weight of my words heavy with promise and vindication. “This tattoo, it’s a clue that could lead us directly to who’s behind this.”

I won’t stop until I find them.

But first, I need to see my wife.