Chapter 3
2199words
Sinclair Dominion Hospital | Private Wing
Late Afternoon
Lucian hated hospitals. The sterile scent, the hushed voices, the dull hum of medical machinery—all of it made his skin crawl. But this wasn’t any regular hospital. This was Sinclair Dominion Hospital, a high-security facility buried beneath layers of bureaucracy and privacy. The kind of place you didn’t end up in unless your last name held power.
The doctor said his injuries were minimal. A couple of bruised ribs, superficial cuts, and a fractured ego. It was Sebastian who had taken the worst of it—two bullets and a collapsed lung. Still in surgery when Lucian had been wheeled in.
The room felt like a cage despite its luxury: dim lights, sleek walls, and a silence too heavy to soothe. It was located on a quiet corner of the Dominion’s top floor—more of a penthouse than a ward, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a private garden courtyard far below. Yet none of it calmed him. He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, until a slow, rhythmic knock broke the quiet.
"Still too stubborn to die, I see," said a familiar voice.
Lucian turned his head. His grandfather, Harold Sinclair, stepped into the room with the subtle authority of a man used to control. Eighty-one years old, but he moved like he still ran empires. Silver hair, tailored gray suit, no tie. His steel eyes scanned Lucian, assessing.
"I told you, didn’t I? Not enough security. But no, you thought you were invincible. Now your guards are dead, your driver too. Sebastian may not make it."
"I’m aware."
"Then act like it," Harold snapped, his voice sharp. "I'm assigning you bodyguards. Not one or two—an entire detail. Ten, minimum. We’re not risking another incident."
Lucian raised a brow. "Ten?"
"Yes. Maybe more if I decide you’re still being an idiot," Harold said, brushing a speck of lint off his sleeve. "I've spoken to an old friend—one of the few left who still knows how to handle things properly. He’s from my time, and he understands the weight of responsibility. You’ll listen to him, and to me. This is not a debate."
Lucian didn’t answer. Not yet. Harold gave him one last look, cold and resolute, before leaving the room with the same finality he arrived with.
As the door clicked shut, Lucian exhaled slowly, chest tight. His thoughts drifted, not to the blood or the wreckage, but to her.
The woman.
She had moved like smoke, precise and lethal. He couldn’t place her face—not even a flicker of recognition—but something about her presence gnawed at the edge of memory. It wasn’t just her precision—it was the calm. The way the air felt colder when she was near. He didn’t know her, and yet… part of him was sure he had. Like a scent he’d smelled before, or a voice half-remembered from a dream. That unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
His phone buzzed.
"Eli," he answered.
"Lucian," came Eli Voss’s voice, clipped but concerned. "Order's done. I've pulled the data from the cameras near the site. We’re still sorting through footage. Also... how are you holding up?"
"I’ll live. Sebastian’s still in surgery."
"We’ll find who did it," Eli said. "And who saved you."
"That’s what I need to know," Lucian said. "That woman—who the hell was she?"
Maxim Thorne’s Estate
Late Afternoon to Evening
She arrived home the same way she always did—quiet, precise, unseen.
The estate was tucked deep in the forested outskirts of the city, where steel and glass rose in clean, deliberate lines against towering black pines. Inside, warmth met order: dark wood, structured light, silence where she needed it most.
She moved through the familiar halls without pause. Her bedroom welcomed her like a memory—undisturbed, untouched. No one entered. Not the maids. Not even her Papa. It was the one place that remained hers.
She peeled off her combat jacket, unzipped her boots, and laid them aside with practiced ease. She folded her clothes on autopilot, lining every seam, smoothing every edge. Each piece slipped into the laundry bag like a ritual. Her boots—already cleaned—went on the wardrobe’s lower shelf, soles out, laces tucked in. Symmetry was law. Precision soothed her nerves more than sleep ever had.
The hot water was brief but grounding. She let the steam fog the mirror, the heat press against her skin until her muscles loosened. When she stepped out, she was already calmer. Still alert. Always alert.
Black clothes again. Different fabric, same silence. Tailored, unadorned, efficient. No armor, but still a shield. The kind of black that didn’t draw attention—only erased it. She moved as if the clothes had been waiting for her.
She lay down without intending to fall asleep. Just a reset. Enough to wait. And when the first distant sound of an engine reached her—not staff, not delivery, his—her eyes opened at once.
She was already in the front hall when the door opened, standing beneath the grand staircase as if she had been carved from the stillness.
When Maxim stepped inside, she moved to meet him, already reaching for his coat.
"You always beat the staff," he murmured with a smile.
"They know not to interfere," she replied simply.
She walked beside him to his quarters—a library turned private suite, lined with old maps, older books, and shadows that stayed where he left them. She left him there, then went to the dining room to wait.
Dinner began in silence, as it often did. The room was quiet but never cold. Firelight painted the edges of the space in gold and amber. Her chair, always the same one. His presence, steady. The scent of old paper and cedar still clung to him.
Midway through the meal, Maxim cleared his throat.
“There’s been news about the ambush. Harold Sinclair called me.”
She kept her eyes down, one finger tracing the rim of her glass.
“I know I said two days off,” he went on, quieter. “But this can’t wait. Harold wants bodyguards—ten, maybe more.”
She didn’t respond.
"I saw the footage," Maxim said gently. "You intervened."
The pause stretched.
She shrugged, still not meeting his gaze. "It felt necessary."
"Because it was him," he said, finishing what she hadn’t said aloud.
She stayed silent. She didn’t need to answer. He was right.
His voice was steady. “You’re gonna be his bodyguard.”
Her pulse didn’t quicken. She wouldn’t let it. But something old and unspoken stirred.
That made her look up. Just a fraction. But enough.
Her face was blank, unreadable—but he had always been the exception. He always saw through what others couldn’t name.
“I’ll send two other men with you.”
She frowned faintly. “Just three of us? I thought he said ten or more?”
“Only you would have been more than enough,” Maxim said, a flicker of pride tucked into his tone. “I just don’t want Harold to die of a heart attack seeing you alone, so I’m sending another two.”
She didn’t speak again. But her fingers curled slightly around the edge of her plate, tension small but unmistakable. She stared at the flames across the room, watching them shift in and out of pattern. Something unsettled moved beneath her stillness—not defiance, not fear.
Just the press of something she hadn’t been ready to feel.
Tuesday | June 22, 2010
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Private Entry Road
Lucian’s estate sat at the crest of a private hill, surrounded by high walls, electric gates, and discreet surveillance. A blend of old money aesthetics and new world paranoia. The morning was crisp, sky iron-gray, as the black vehicle pulled up.
Eli Voss stood near the main gate, arms folded across his chest, the cool bite of morning wind tugging at the edges of his coat. The estate behind him sprawled across the hilltop like a fortress in repose—old stone, modern glass, and walls high enough to keep most things out. Clouds moved like steel across the sky, and the air held that coastal damp that whispered of a storm not far behind.
Beside him, Harold Sinclair stood like a monument carved out of will and contempt—sharp suit, clipped expression, his cane angled slightly forward as if ready to strike. They had been waiting for twenty minutes.
Eli had expected a convoy—black cars in a long procession, at least ten guards, maybe more. After all, Harold hadn’t been subtle in his demands. And Maxim Thorne wasn’t exactly known for compromise.
So when a single black SUV pulled up instead, Eli’s brow ticked.
The doors opened—and three figures emerged.
Two men in dark suits stepped out first—disciplined posture, silent, efficient. But it was the third figure who held his attention. A woman, dressed in black. Nothing flashy. No insignia. Her movements were crisp, calculated. No wasted energy. Her face was partially obscured by dark sunglasses, her expression unreadable. There was something about her presence—composed, quiet, but impossible to ignore.
Eli's expression barely shifted, but he noted everything. The cut of her jacket. The way the men deferred half a step behind her without instruction. The silence around her like it was trained.
One of the men stepped forward and spoke, voice clipped and neutral. “We’re the assigned team. I’m Ash. This is Vex,” he said, gesturing to the other man. “And that’s Raven.” He nodded to the woman beside him.
Eli’s gaze returned to her. Raven. Not a real name, clearly. But it landed with a kind of weight.
“I’m Eli Voss. I work for Lucian. This is Harold Sinclair," Eli said, his voice calm, gesturing to the older man beside him. "Lucian’s grandfather."
Harold didn’t speak at first. He studied the three of them like they were a disappointing lineup at a failed auction. His eyes narrowed when he realized what Maxim had done—stripped down the requested detail, ignored protocol, and sent... this.
Finally, Eli asked what Harold didn’t. “Only three of you? And—” his eyes slid toward Raven, “—a woman?”
Ash met his gaze squarely. “She’s the one keeping him alive. We’re just the support.”
There was a beat of silence.
Harold's eyebrows shot up. “She’s what?”
Even Eli blinked. “What?”
His tone wasn’t mocking, but it held disbelief. Not just at her being the lead—but that this was what Maxim Thorne had sent as the answer to an ambush.
Eli didn’t show much. He never did. But when Ash named the woman their lead, something shifted behind his eyes. A recalibration. Not doubt—just curiosity sharpened like a blade.
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | The Grand Terrace
The Grand Terrace stretched along the rear of the estate, a seamless blend of wrought iron and weathered stone overlooking the sloped gardens and the distant sprawl of the city skyline. Ornate lanterns lined the balustrade, unlit in daylight, their curved silhouettes casting long, elegant shadows across polished flagstone. It hadn’t been built for guests. It was built for observation—for solitude. From here, Lucian could see everything. And more importantly, no one could see him.
From that high perch, Lucian leaned forward against the iron railing, silent as stone. His suit jacket was undone, tie abandoned, one hand wrapped loosely around a porcelain coffee cup, long gone cold. He hadn’t moved in a while. Not since the gates opened.
He’d been watching the arrival carefully—measured steps, exchanged words, body language. Evaluating.
But the moment she stepped out of the SUV, something in him went taut.
He didn’t know her. Not really.
And yet—he did.
There was something in the way she stood, in the controlled weight of her silence. Not confidence. Command. The kind of presence you didn’t teach. The kind that came from surviving things most people didn’t walk away from.
His eyes tracked every detail—how the others stood slightly behind her, not out of habit, but hierarchy. How she didn’t speak, didn’t need to. How Harold, of all people, had gone still when her name was mentioned.
Raven, they’d called her.
But that wasn’t it. Not really.
Lucian’s grip tightened slightly on the cup. She hadn’t looked up once. Hadn’t acknowledged the house or the man watching from it.
Still—he had seen her before.
Not her face. Not even her voice.
Just... the shape of her silence.
The precise, deadly stillness of someone who moved like smoke and struck like inevitability.
His jaw locked. His heart kicked once beneath his ribs.
And for reasons he couldn’t yet explain, it didn’t feel like a stranger had stepped onto his property.
It felt like something inevitable had come home.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet, as if even his breath might give something away.
She didn’t glance up—not once—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew he was there. Not in the conscious way people know they’re being watched. In the way predators sense another watching from the brush.
Lucian set the cup down on the ledge beside him. It clinked softly, forgotten.
He would learn her name. Eventually.
But Raven was only the surface.
And whatever lived beneath—was already shifting the ground beneath his feet.
Some truths don’t need names to be known—only silence deep enough to feel them.
—To be continued.
