The Ultimate Soulreach - Dontthinktoohardaboutme (2024)

Chapter 1: Just My Luck

Chapter Text

"Why can't we go a month without having to go into lockdown?" I ask myself as I begin making my way over to the corner of the classroom. As silently as possible, the rest of the students make their way over to the back right corner of the room, trying to hide out of sight of the door’s viewpoint. If the attacker ever decided to come through the window, though, we were in trouble. The administration either didn't consider this or didn't care.

"I don't see how this will help us if they decide to smash through the windows," Samantha, or Sam, my best friend, echoes my thoughts.

Our history class is on the first floor of the school, which boasts floor-to-ceiling windows in an attempt to create a sense of modernity. This isn't surprising since Gotham Academy was a state-of-the-art modern monstrosity surrounded by historical landmarks on the Upper East Side. Everything here is sleek steel, concrete, and the blue lights of modern technology. You would think a school as well-funded as this one would invest in bulletproof glass or a panic room to protect the lives of "Gotham’s future" (not my words). But no, the money is better spent on cutting-edge athletic facilities.

"Keep your voices down and huddle together," our history teacher, Mr. Reiner, softly urges as he lowers himself to the floor in front of us. "We don't know if this is a drill yet," he adds as he stretches his legs out and turns to face the classroom door in case he has to protect us from raining bullets.

Mr. Reiner could be considered one of the few "cool" teachers at Gotham. Being in his early thirties, and with his relaxed approach to teaching world history through fun Kahoot exercises and John Green videos, he has become one of my favorite teachers. He was tall and moderately fit, which made him a hot topic discussed outside of his class by the female population, despite the fact he was married.

Gotham Academy, as elite and competitive as it is, only accepts around 30 students a year in total, out of the hundreds of applications it receives. Out of the 78 students in our senior class, at least 50 come from the ruling elite of Gotham, and the rest, although not considered blue bloods, are still insanely wealthy. A few students have been accepted through scholarships and grants, but only to make Gotham seem more accommodating to the "less fortunate" (once again, not my words).

Our senior class is the smallest Gotham has seen in over 10 years, which means the dating pool is also the smallest it has ever been. This is one of the reasons why the girls flirt with Mr. Reiner so blatantly. But like the good sport he usually is, he just laughs it off and continues with his lessons.

Sam leans over to whisper, "How much longer do you think we'll have to stay cramped in this corner for?" Looking over, I can see her blue eyes sliding to mine with heavy lids as she suppresses a yawn.

We were all pretty used to these lockdowns because they only ever happened when some lunatic somehow breaks out of Arkham Asylum – for the umpteenth time. It happens more frequently than I care for. You'd think they'd do something about their security there, but honestly, it didn't matter. The escapees were never out for long. Batman and his protégés are always on top of it. On average, they have them back in the loony bin within 24 hours (thankfully).

Before I can answer Sam, the sound of crackling static draws my attention to the loudspeaker. After a brief pause, a disembodied voice states, "Attention students and teachers, this is the end of the lockdown. Please resume your lessons." With an audible click, the speaker goes silent.

"Well, that answers that question," I say to Sam as I begin unfolding my cramped legs and standing up. We make our way back to our seats in the front of the classroom. With Mr. Reiner already talking about the Franco-Prussian War as he makes his way back to the front of the room.

The rest of the period passes by without incident. The next thing I know, the bell rings, and we all begin shuffling out into the hallway.

On my way out, Sam catches up to me and asks, "Who do you think it was this time?"

"Probably the Joker again. For some reason, he really likes Friday," I say nonchalantly, making my way over to the 300's hall where we both have Calculus BC together.

"So true. He should really aim for Tuesday or something; nobody likes Tuesdays," Sam replies absentmindedly.

Walking through the hallways, we start discussing our upcoming calc class, reminding me about the exam we're about to get back. Just the thought of her handing back our grades makes my palms begin to sweat, and my heart rate kicks up a notch. Looking back over to Sam, I can tell that we're both nervous about getting our Calc exams back from Mrs. Camino, a woman notorious for being a militant teacher and harsh grader.

For students who are doing well in the class, she treats them like they could do no wrong. However, if you aren't... well... she can be snappy, to say the least. Walking into class, Sam and I find our usual seats in the back. Settling in, I lean over and grab my notebook and pencil case out of my tattered bag - one that I've had since middle school, if the faded straps and small ink stains near the front pouch were any indication. In front of me, Sam is already leaning over her desk - probably doodling away in the corner of her notebook or trying to finish the homework assignment at the last minute.

For the next few minutes before the late bell rings, I stare out into the courtyard, admiring the giant oak tree with its long and billowing limbs swaying in the light breeze. We've only been in school for about two weeks now, so the weather is still fairly nice. Come September, the temperature will drop significantly, signifying the start of my seasonal depression’s death grip on me.

Lost in my thoughts, I almost miss Stephanie, a girl in our grade, who says, "Do you think Mrs. Camino curves her exams? I mean, what happens if all of us fail?"

"I doubt it. Not with The Mr. Genius being in our class. He’s totally going to be the curve killer," Sam replies with an eye roll. Mr. Genius in question would be none other than Damian Wayne.

"A seriously hot curve killer, though," Stephanie replies breathlessly, resting her head in her hand.

One of the reasons why Sam and I got along as well and as quickly as we did was because of our mutual distaste for the unabashed obsession the female population had with him. Being the new girl sophom*ore year, moving from a different city, I had no idea who the Waynes were, nor did I care to join the cult of loyal followers that seemed to plague all of Gotham.

During sophom*ore orientation, I sat in front of Sam in the auditorium when both Damian and his older brother, Tim (who graduated that year), strolled in, eliciting a collective, audible sigh from at least 10 girls around us. When Sam snorted loud enough to warrant dirty looks from at least half of them, I knew then that she and I would be fast friends.

Now, I have nothing against crushing on a guy - I mean, we're all hormonal teenagers after all - but this goes beyond that. The territorial nature that overcomes the girls when he's around is next-level.

Sometime in sophom*ore year, Damian and a sweet girl named Aubrey were paired up as lab partners for biology. One day he made the grave mistake of waving to her in the hallway. As a result, Jennifer (aka the leader of his so-called Fanclub) spent the next week thoroughly bullying and threatening her to "stay in her own lane if she knows what’s good for her." Suffice to say, she requested to change lab partners the next day, which the biology teacher granted with a look of pity in his eyes.

Not everyone was as intense as Jennifer and some of the others, but most Gothamites did revere the Waynes to a certain extent. I suppose that Sam and I are immune, or less susceptible since neither of us lived in Gotham until relatively recently. Sam moved here her freshman year, and I the following year. Being the two new kids in the school made us outcasts, but we were lucky to find each other. It also helped that we knew virtually nothing about Bruce Wayne or his sons. What we did learn was through idle gossip among the student population or from teachers after the occasional successful eavesdropping.

Just as the late bell rings, Damian Wayne strolls through the door and immediately finds his usual seat at the back left corner of the class. He used to sit in the front until a girl complained about not being able to see the board, which is fair since he is a literal giant. I could see why the girls had a crush on him; I wasn't blind after all.

He is tall, well over 6’0 tall, and has pitch-black hair that falls right above his eyes and curls slightly at the ends. He is muscular, but it's the compact, lean type. Not like Rob, the wide receiver, who was nearly as wide as he was tall. He looked as if he was always poised and ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. His olive skin tone set off his bright green eyes - the kind of green that could be spotted from far away. They were so unusual in their emerald quality that it was hard to believe they weren't contacts. But the most intriguing part of Damian, at least in my opinion, is his intelligence.

He is brilliant.

He's at the top of the class, always effortlessly scoring the highest marks on exams (except for the rare times when I beat him by a point).

We have 7 out of 9 classes together, and our grades are nearly identical. In calculus specifically, between quizzes and homework so far, I have been able to maintain a higher average by a hair, which I can tell royally pissed him off. He is arrogant, that was for sure.

Despite his physical allure, I could never understand why people flocked to him as they did. His demeanor is a total turn-off. Between his arrogance and "holier than thou" attitude, I have no idea how he even had time to pull off the "don't touch me, peasant" sneer that he's perfected.

But beyond his outward arrogant facade, I could see that he was a bit... socially awkward. Sometimes, in moments when he isn’t looking, his posture softens, and I can see that wandering mind of his work. I know for a fact that he thinks going to school is a waste of time, not because he knows more than everyone else (which of course he does), but because he doesn’t feel challenged. He also doesn’t have a lot of friends; actually, I don’t think he truly has any friends here, despite all the attention he receives.

I can tell the attention on him from both students and faculty alike makes him uncomfortable, which surprises me. If girls gawking and guys giving him serious side-eye makes him uncomfortable, I don’t know how he deals with the paparazzi. Being a Wayne in Gotham was like being a Kardashian in LA. Paparazzi are constantly swarming them, no matter where they go. Some of them even wait outside the school’s gates at the end of the school day, hoping to get a glimpse of him. Don’t even get me started on the absolute frenzy the photographers get into when Bruce Wayne hosts any sort of event. That is like their golden ticket to Charlie’s Chocolate Factory.

I don’t pity Damian or his brothers, but I know I wouldn’t want to deal with the constant scrutiny of the media…

Before I can finish my thought, my eyes connect with the emerald gaze belonging to Damian. I didn't notice him twist in his chair to look my way. My initial reaction is to look away or look down, but for some reason, I can’t. It feels too cowardly, so I maintain eye contact. Even when he squints his eyes and raises an eyebrow in question, I maintain eye contact and return the gesture with a smirk.

Mrs. Camino clears her throat, breaking the spell, and begins her lesson, "Eyes up here, class, today we're going to be determining the average value of a function using definite integrals..." Damian turns to face the front of the class, but I could have sworn I saw a ghost of a smile on his face. We’ve never actually spoken to each other before, but every once in a blue moon, our eyes will lock onto one another, usually after getting a test back or solving a hard problem on the board.

Mrs. Camino interrupts the class’ idle chatter with a withering look, "C’mon, guys. The sooner we get through this lesson, the sooner you get your exam grades back." This effectively shuts the whole class up.

I return my full attention to taking notes feverishly while keeping my eyes glued to the board. I can’t afford to glance at a certain someone, or I’ll miss something important. Gotham Academy wasn’t joking about their "fast pace and rigorous course load," which, although exhausting, helps the time fly by.

The next thing I know, Mrs. Camino is putting down the dry erase marker and saying, "Ok, with 5 minutes left of class, I will begin handing out exam booklets." Shuffling through the papers, she pauses to tap at the bundle, consideringly. "Actually… Damian, can you hand them out?" Without waiting for a response, she holds the papers out towards him expectantly.

Damian gracefully rises to his feet, walks up to the front, and gently takes the papers from her. He proceeds to walk around the classroom, quickly placing each of our exams on our desks. He starts to head to my desk but stops just shy and hands Sam her exam. My eyes pull away from him as I try to peer over Sam’s shoulder to see how she did.

"So… how’d you do?" I ask expectantly. We always share our grades and compare what we got right and wrong.

She turns around quietly and says, "I got a 92." A slight frown,

"But I lost points for some of my proofs and explanations."

I nod, understanding. I too, have lost points for my lack of details in my proofs. That is where Mrs. Camino’s tough grading hits the hardest.

When I look back up, my eyes lock onto Damian’s as he comes back our way, looking a bit agitated. As he reaches our aisle, he easily steps over Sam’s extended legs, since she’s turned to the side, and holds out his hand for me to take the exam from. As I go to grab the paper from him, my finger brushes his. At the contact, his eyes snap to mine, and both of our eyes widen at the sudden jolt of electricity.

That’s when it happens.

The Soulreach.

We are physically in the classroom, but our minds aren't. Visions and sensations whirl past me, too quick to fully comprehend. Us laughing while a dog trots in the snow. Me, cradling him on the ground. A hand on the back of my neck, holding me close. An embrace...

Faster and faster the images go, dragging me deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole. Just when I think I’ve grasped onto one, it’s ripped from my hands. Then another. And another. And another. My breathing is getting faster. And faster. And then…

And then I blink. And I’m back in the classroom. Air floods my depraved lungs; sunlight to a starving flower. My head buzzes, overflowing with everything I just saw. I shake my head, trying to silence the buzzing, but I only manage to make my eyesight blurry once more.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I force myself to breathe. In. And out. In. And out. I need to ground myself or risk my thoughts carrying me away once more.

In. And out. In. And out.

I feel my heartbeat slowing down. The pressure in my head eases, my thoughts now glide around and tap against my skull rather than the aggressive stampede it was doing before.

As my body calms, I cautiously open my heavy eyes and am immediately caught in a gaze of green. Damian. Wide with bewilderment and shock, he stares directly into my own eyes – almost as if he is looking into my very soul. In a way, he is. Or, well, he was before.

Then, in the blink of an eye, his features smooth out into stony disinterest. I feel a twitch against my fingertips, and it is only then that I realize our hands are still touching over my long-forgotten paper. I blink in surprise, then pull my hand back. My mouth unconsciously flaps open and closes like a gaping fish, my mind reeling, wondering what to say.

The class is dead silent as Damian and I continue to stare at each other in bewilderment. The shock of it all can be seen plainly on his face, but almost immediately he schools his features into stony disinterest. Pulling my hand back, I open and close my mouth like a gaping fish, not knowing what to say. Only I don’t get the chance to say anything. Instead, Damian mumbles a quick, "Congratulations, (Y/N)," and spins on his heel to finish handing out the rest of the exams.

Everyone is staring, Sam is sputtering, and I am too stunned to speak. Did he just say "congratulations" for discovering him as my soulmate? Sam must be able to read the question on my face because she quickly taps on my desk, pulling my attention back to my exam. No, he was congratulating me (begrudgingly) on my 99. I'm still so surprised by what just happened that I can’t even muster excitement over my score.

Blessedly, the bell rings and breaks everyone's trance, and they all begin to pack up their bags. In robotic movements, I do the same, still not fully comprehending that I just found my soulmate in the middle of class.

f*ck.

f*ck.

Of course, this has to happen right in front of our entire calc class. The news of this will spread like wildfire. I haven't even made it out of my seat and am already receiving glares from some of the girls.

"Duuuuuude!" Sam practically yells as she grabs onto my arm. "(Y/N), you totally just had your Soulreach in front of everyone."

"Yeah, I know; I’m never going to hear the end of this." I snap back. A cold sweat begins to form on my skin. Bran is going to absolutely lose his sh*t when he finds out, but thankfully he's abroad right now and won't be back until the start of the next week.

The same realization that dawns on me must also dawn on Sam. "Oh man, what are you going to do about your guardian?" Sam asks in a rushed, whispered tone. Both of us haven't moved from our spots in the back of the classroom. When I quickly look up to make sure nobody is in earshot, my eyes land on Damian. Whose watching us with questioning eyes, presumably waiting for me.

"I don't know, but I'll call or text you later," I say before heading towards Damian. Now is not the time or place to talk about Bran or theorize about what his reaction will be.

"You better!" Sam calls after me, still packing up her bag. I turn and give a quick half-heart with my left hand, which she mimics with her right, creating a whole. When I turn back around, Damian is still watching me with his hands in his pockets. He’s just as thrilled about this discovery as I am, if his rigid stance is any indication. He sweeps his arm out for me to leave the room first and follows closely behind.

Stepping through the doorway, I immediately notice the instant scrutiny of almost everyone in the hall. I instinctively reach for my phone and AirPods to make myself look unapproachable, but I stop when I realize Damian has turned toward me.

"We need to talk soon… After school, meet me by the back doors," he says in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I can’t; I have track practice right after classes," I reply quickly.

Annoyance flashes in his eyes. "Fine, meet me after your practice finishes," he clips out.

Before I can respond, he walks away, and in a mere two strides, he’s lost to the throng of students. I stand there for a moment, and it dawns on me—that is the longest conversation we’ve ever had. Most people only experience a Soulreach when they know someone well. More often than not, they don’t experience it the first time they touch either.

Damian Wayne is your soulmate, and you barely know him.

Back in the day, most people found their soulmates. But today, with a population of 7 billion and people spread out across the world, it's uncommon. It's not exactly rare or unheard of, but maybe 1 in 500 people will discover their soulmate, usually after knowing them for a little while and already establishing some sort of relationship.

I have a soulmate.

An actual soulmate.

Still standing in the hallway dumbfounded, I snap out of it and begin walking numbly to my next class, when for the second time today, I am stopped dead in my tracks by another realization. I was so wrapped up in my visions that I missed the sensation of tingling somewhere on my body that would indicate where my Soulmark would be.

With that realization, I change course and practically sprint to the girls’ locker room. Thankfully, it's the third period, and there is no gym class right now, so I am blissfully alone. As I tear into the locker room, I throw my backpack down on the floor near the cubbies and start whipping off my blazer. Walking to the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the changing stall, I steal a glance at myself.

The first thing I notice is my wild and bewildered (E/C) eyes, which are looking too big for my face at the moment. Thanks to me practically running here, my cheeks and neck are flushed. A light sheen of sweat makes some flyaway hairs stick to the side of my face, which I furiously wipe away. My (H/L) (H/C) hair frizzes in the humidity, which prompts me to quickly pull it up in a bun off my neck. Once I've done that, I begin fumbling with the buttons of the mandatory, crisp white button-down that sports an intricate, cursive GA for Gotham Academy.

Upon initial inspection, I don’t notice any new symbols or tattoo-looking marks on my skin. Perplexed, I check my arms by lifting and swinging them, hoping for a glance at something dark.

Checking my legs is easy because with a skirt, all I have to do is lift, but even then, I can't seem to find anything. Next, I start untying the laces of my shoes and pulling off my socks to see if maybe the Soulmark is on either of my feet.

Nope, nothing there.

Looking back at the mirror, I stare at myself in just my school skirt and bra. Just as I’m about to give up and redress, I turn around, catch a glimpse of something, and snap my gaze back onto my reflection. Gasping, I go wide-eyed at the sight.

Holy sh*t.

Along the entire length of my spine, a baroque, labyrinthine, shadowy tattoo delicately traces each vertebra from the base of my head to the small of my back.

Every soul pair has their own markings that look like tattoos. They’re always dark, but the color can vary from black to navy blue, deep green, or even crimson. Each pair has different marks, but they are always complementary or corresponding designs. Size, shape, and placement vary as well, but I have never heard of a marking appearing this large on anyone before.

But then again, nothing about this is normal.

Just as I am starting to appreciate the beautifully delicate and intense marking on my back, I realize that the material of my button-down is sheer enough that the pigmentation will show through. Not thin enough to see the shape, but certainly enough to see that there is something there that wasn't before. Even though I have my blazer, I usually slip it off during class because of its stiffness and insulating effect.

Soulmarks, just like Soulreachs, are an intimate and private experience—at least, they're supposed to be. Very few people, other than your Soulmate, are supposed to see it. Usually, the marks appear in spots that aren’t visible to prying eyes in normal clothing.

If I keep staring at myself in the mirror, I'm going to be late for my next class. That will result in drawing more attention to me, which is the last thing I want. After throwing on my shoes and blazer, I pick up my bag and book it for English class. As I'm walking, I wonder what Damian’s mark looks like, if he also forgot about it, and how large it might be. Size can range vastly between pairs; some may have one the size of their fist, and others may have a small mark the size of a fly. Secretly, somewhere deep down inside me, I hope his mark is as large as mine.

I make it to class just before the bell rings, but that doesn’t lessen the chance of everyone staring at me in disbelief. Not only is experiencing a Soulreach with someone you don't know well rare, but it is also unheard of for it to happen to teenagers. Most who do find their soulmates discover them in their 20s or older, which makes us an outlier in another category.

My f*cking luck.

As I settle into my usual seat, keeping my head down and my attention solely on the teacher, my mind races over every detail from earlier today. Luckily, despite being preoccupied and definitely not paying attention, the rest of the day flies by, and before I know it, I’m back in the locker room changing into my track uniform.

Of course, this time, the locker room isn't empty, and I'm faced with a mixture of blatant, judgmental glares (mostly from members of the Damian Wayne fan club) and curious yet (attempting) to be subtle glances from others. Either way, there are way too many people paying attention to me here. Luckily, Sam is also on the track team, and I have her to thank for keeping me distracted.

"So, what did he say when you guys got into the hallway?" Sam asks as she’s tying up the laces of her sneakers.

I look up at her and spot a couple of girls inching a bit closer, whispering under their breaths as they try to listen in on our conversation.

"Nothing really," I say, pleading with her to hold off on the conversation with a pointed look. Thankfully, Sam, being Sam, picks up on it and nods discreetly. Done with tying up our laces, we make our way to the outdoor track. As we are passing some of the girls, I hit them with a withering look that has them flinching and quickly averting their gaze.

Satisfied, I square my shoulders and hit the ground running, literally. Throughout practice, I push myself harder than I have ever before, which grants me pleasing looks from the coaches and less pleasing looks from everyone else- except for Sam, of course, who has elected herself as my personal cheerleader.

On lap whatever, I get a prickly sensation on the back of my neck that makes the hair on my arms stand on alert. Slowing my sprint to a fast run, I casually do a sweep of my surroundings while controlling my breathing to help my heartbeat slow down. As I pass the bay window of the east wing, I notice a certain emerald-eyed boy sitting with a book on his lap, completely forgotten, as he distinctly watches me run.

The surprise nearly makes me stumble and fall, but I catch myself quickly, which he no doubt notices. Looking back, I can see he's fully turned his body toward the window and put the forgotten book down. Well, that's not intimidating at all—him with his hands clasped behind his back like a sergeant drilling his cadets.

"Well, that's not weird at all," Sam says, out of breath as she comes up from behind me. I'm relieved to know I'm not the only one who noticed or finds it weird.

"Tell me about it," I mumble, maintaining the rhythm of my feet.

"You should put on a show for him. You know, dazzle him with your talent," she puffs. I'm a good runner, not because I have a natural affinity for it but because I've been running for more than half my life. Even though I thought about doing just that when I first noticed him watching me, I nix the idea almost immediately.

"I don't think that's a good idea; I don't want him to think I need his approval or that I care about what he thinks of my track skills." I reason with Sam, who at this point can only nod her head enthusiastically.

By the 4-mile marker, we both begin our cool-down and focus on our breathing rather than talking, as if we could actually hold a conversation at this point. Ready to collapse would not even begin to describe how I am feeling at the moment.

More than that, though, I want to shower, change, and get the hell out of the locker rooms before the rest of the team tries to jump me for questions. A record-breaking shower and a few minutes later, I’m in the hallway, walking toward the rear entrance with my soaking wet hair and my face still aflame.

When I turn the corner, my heart skips a beat as Damian's figure comes into view. He's leaning against the wall with an air of casual confidence, engrossed in the same book from before. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing his strong forearms

Very nice forearms at that.

Wow… I've never truly taken in the sheer size of him until this moment. He exudes a presence that's magnetic and intimidating all at once. As I come to a stop in front of him, I clear my throat to shake off the haze of my thoughts. He lifts his gaze from his book, and as he pushes himself off the wall, he stands to his full height. My earlier estimate was off; he's not merely 6’0; he has to be at least 6’3.

Holy sh*t, he's hot.

Drawing in a deep breath, I force myself to meet his emerald eyes. It's like locking eyes with a predator, the intensity of his gaze sending a thrill down my spine. I can't help but appreciate the fine details of his face.

His eyebrows are perfectly arched, his dark, naturally curled eyelashes casting shadows on his chiseled cheeks. And his lips... those full, pouty lips have a natural, light cherry tint that draws my attention, especially as they now turn slightly downward.

"(Y/N)? Did you hear anything I just said?" Damian's voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I realize he's addressing me, albeit with a hint of annoyance.

My heart races, and I respond a beat too late, my voice betraying me. "No… No, I'm sorry, I didn't… I'm just catching my breath." I hope my attempt at sounding convincing doesn't falter.

"Mmmhmm," he hums, skepticism evident in his voice. But there's also a glimmer of something else in his eyes—a faint hint of a grin that sends warmth rushing through me.

His next words bring me back to the present, and I mentally shake off the electric undercurrent that crackles between us. "We need to coordinate when we're going to the town hall to register as soulmates," he states with a casual nonchalance, resuming his position against the wall, arms now crossed.

A very fine view it is... Stop it! That’s not helpful right now.

"Right. Yes," I force my thoughts back to the conversation at hand. "I won't be able to go until late Sunday afternoon. I have a bachelorette party today and tomorrow, and a bridal shower on Sunday. I’ll probably have to come straight from it to City Hall."

Surprise flits across Damian's eyes, his eyebrows lifting almost imperceptibly. But he swiftly regains his calm facade, the mask of indifference falling back into place.

"Alright, how does 3:30 work for you?" he asks, his voice smooth as silk. My heart beats faster as I mentally mark the time and date.

As he lists the required documents—“Don’t forget to bring your ID, passport, social security card, and at least two witnesses over the age of 18”—my eyebrows shoot up in genuine astonishment. "You researched this while I was running, didn’t you?" I ask, a mix of disbelief and curiosity.

"Maybe," he responds, his lips quirking into a half-smile. There's an undeniable tension in the air now, an unspoken awareness that lingers between us.

He pushes off the wall, heading toward the doors. I watch his retreating form, before I turn to head to the parking lot. But then, unexpectedly, Damian's raised voice echoes through the corridor. "What are you wearing on Sunday?"

My heart skips a beat, and confusion mingles with a strange excitement. Did he just ask me what I'm going to wear? The thought sends a thrill through me, igniting a spark of anticipation that I can't ignore.

"Excuse me?" I respond, my voice a mix of bewilderment and a burgeoning eagerness.

"What color are you wearing?" he calls back, his voice taking on a low, gruff quality. His hands tuck into his pockets, a subtle sign of nervousness that peeks through his composed exterior.

A flush rises to my cheeks, my heart pounding as I contemplate his question. "I’ll be wearing emerald green," I admit. I consider mentioning the pantsuit, but a mischievous urge prompts me to keep it a secret. I want to see his reaction in person, to gauge his response.

With a sense of finality, I turn, ready to make my way to the parking lot. But before I can take another step, his voice—low and intimate—whispers through the air, "That's my favorite color."

My heart races anew, my breath catching in my throat. I whirl around, searching for his gaze among the dwindling distance. Yet, all I see is the outline of his retreating back as he climbs into what appears to be a Rolls Royce.

Chapter 2: The Demon's Karma

Chapter Text

Damian’s POV:

This is the last thing I needed.

Damian could not believe the absurdity of this situation. The complications that will arise from this will surely make his life another degree more miserable. He thought back to what his mother used to say about soulmates,

"Soulmates are nothing but a distraction and a weakness, if you are ever unlucky enough to find one, end them immediately and swiftly." Making him inadvertently furrow his brow.

Luckily Pennyworth and the others have not discovered thisinconvenience yet, but soon they surely will. Damian decides he must be the one to tell them, in order to control the narrative and field the questions that will surely arise. None of his brothers have yet found a soulmate, but none have actively looked either.

Neither has he.

As he sits in the back of his father’s Rolls Royce, he leans his head on the buttery leather of the seat and closes his eyes in an effort to thwart the oncoming headache. He supposed this was his karma, being strapped with a vulnerable liability after all the years of carnage and chaos he's caused. Or that's what he imagines Todd and Grayson will say as they laugh in his face.

To make matters worse, they Soulreached right in front of their entire math class, making it impossible to hide this information from the media. That thought alone causes knots to form in his stomach and settle like cinder blocks. The thought of the media frenzy that was certain to ensue had Damian clenching and unclenching his fists.

f*ck

He couldn't believe his luck; he wished he could have just placed her exam on her desk without touching her, but he wanted the slight contact; he wanted her to notice the difference. He had noticed her before, on the first day she attended Gotham Academy. He noticed how she didn’t turn to gawk at him and his brother Tim but rather looked around confused, scrunching that adorable nose of hers. He noticed how her eyes sparkled when that girl, Sam, sitting behind her, snorted, and the laughter that filled her eyes. How her nostrils flared, trying to stifle a chuckle but failing miserably, earning glares from the others around her.

She further intrigued him by her unwillingness to conform to the standards and trends of Gotham Academy. Small rebellions like keeping her earrings in her double-pierced ears, wearing dark nail polish (oddly frowned upon), or not carrying around a designer handbag in lieu of an actual backpack.

But the most fascinating thing about her was her intelligence, which was far superior to that of their peers. Damian could nearly see the gears turning in her head while solving a puzzle or equation—the spark of curiosity and challenge lighting up her (E/C) eyes.

Often, Damian found himself disengaged in class, not needing to put in the effort to maintain the highest grade point average. But that all changed when (Y/N) came to Gotham Academy. They shared most classes, but not all. He secretly looked forward to their classes together, often stealing glances at her when she wasn't looking. Occasionally, their eyes would meet, secretly impressing him with the challenge he found within their depths. She knew they were academic rivals yet equals, and she knew that he did too.

He was so enthralled in his thoughts of her that he barely noticed that Pennyworth had pulled up to the gate of the manor. He dreads telling his family about her and the chaos of questions that are certain to follow.

Stepping out of the Rolls, Damian takes a deep breath and steels his nerves, but with Pennyworth being the annoyingly observant butler he is, asks

"Everything quite alright, master Damian?" in his classic British formality.

To which Damian simply nods his head, "Tt".

"It’s just that you appear as if you are about to march into war, is all," Pennyworth continues, with a curious glint in his eye.

"I might as well be Pennyworth," he says, beginning his walk up to the manor without any further clarification. He'll know why soon enough.

His home was not a house but rather a stately, imposing manor boasting 20 or more bedrooms and double that in bathrooms. The manor is nestled in between grand oaks and pristine landscaping down a several-mile-long driveway, engineered for privacy and luxury. Bruce inherited the home from his father and his father’s father, and one day it would be Damian’s as well.

Immediately after walking through the front door, Damian sheds his oppressive blazer and starts up the stairs, just to pause and say,

"Pennyworth, gather everyone in the parlor… there is an announcement I must make". And with that, he climbs up the rest of the stairs, hearing,

"Very well, master Damian."

After changing into his much-preferred turtleneck and slacks, Damian makes his way into the parlor room and is greeted by 5 sets of eyes waiting expectantly.

Good. They’ve gathered.

Damian notices they’ve chosen their usual spots. Bruce in his favorite navy, velvet wingback chair; Grayson and Drake on the complementing couch across from Bruce; and Todd, as usual, leaning against the bookshelves, looking like he’s about to initiate his fight or flight response. (Most likely fight). Pennyworth stands exactly where he always does, just slightly behind Bruce.

Discerning their looks of nervousness, he decides to rip off the Band-Aid,

"I’ve met my soulmate", he says firmly, quickly meeting their stares to gauge their reactions.

He catalogs a slew of reactions. Bruce brings his clasped hands to his mouth as if pondering what that could mean for his future, but he doesn't look concerned or upset, which surprises him. As expected, Todd bursts out laughing, leaning over, slapping his knee, and wheezing like the uncontrollable idiot he is. Grayson also reacts as he assumed, with a quick "Congratulations" and swift hug from the grinning fool. But it's Drake’s reaction that surprises him the most. He looks genuinely happy for him, with a big smile on his face and a look in his eye that conveys relief. Why he would be relieved is beyond Damian, but all in all, he supposes it could be worse.

Which of course, it gets.

For the next 30 minutes, he fields questions left and right, including:

"So, who's the unfortunate soul?" Coming from a smirking Todd,

"How’d it happen?" asks Grayson, and

"What's her full name?" asks Drake, with his phone ready to scan every known database for every piece of information there is about her. Damian reluctantly recounts everything, from the Soulreach in our calculus class to the conversation in the hallway.

"Dude, you seriously asked her what she’s going to wear—not subtle, man, not subtle at all?" teases Todd, still smirking.

"Is that all your two brain cells could pick up from that?" he snaps back.

"Don’t start you two," Bruce says, "we’re all going to go on Sunday and meet her ourselves, and I expect you all to behave accordingly," meeting each one of his son’s gazes sternly. And to Damian’s satisfaction, they all nod.

"Alfred, would you like to join us on Sunday?" Bruce asks.

"I appreciate the invitation, although it is wholly unnecessary since I already plan on being in attendance," Pennyworth says cheekily with a wink, making Damian’s mouth twitch.

"Well, now that that’s settled, we can begin our evening activities," Bruce states while standing and making his way to one of the Batcave’s secret entrances. "I expect you all to be in your uniforms in 15 minutes, ready for patrol", he concludes, tipping a book from the shelf to expose a secret sliding door.

Before any of the others can harass him for more information about her, he swiftly and silently slips through the doorway and makes his way upstairs to change.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Armed to the teeth in his green and yellow uniform, Damian comes down to the cave to find everyone around Bruce’s batchair in front of the supercomputer with her profile already pulled up. Gritting his teeth, he tries his best to keep the bite out of his voice when he says,

"What the hell are you doing?" Taking a deep breath, he waits expectantly as the others finally swing around to meet his enraged eyes with their surprised ones. Batman, being the exception, as always, with his clasped hands under his chin, continues to study the screen quietly.

"How much do you know of (F/N) (L/N), Damian?" his father politely asks.

"Barely anything outside of the fact, that we share most classes and she happens to display high levels of intelligence," Damian responds dryly, not willing to give anything more away.

With a co*cked brow, Bruce responds, "Well, I think it would be best if you learn as much as you can about her before Sunday." He states this honestly.

Looking at his brothers, he notices their quiet stillness as they take in the interaction, waiting expectantly.

They're probably hoping for a show, those nosy bastards .

Hesitantly, Damian responds, "I don’t disagree, but nothing more than surface-level digging, understood?" eyeing Drake especially. Tim Drake, Batman’s third protege happens to be the smartest and best detective out of all of them, making him the most likely to be guilty of an invasive probe.

Walking down the rest of the stairs to where the others are still silently gathered, he comes up behind his father and says,

"What do we know so far?" clasping his hands behind his back and reading the screen.

"Well, first we hacked into Gotham Academy’s database, and you weren’t wrong, she happens to have one of the highest GPAs in the entire grade, second to you," Drake states objectively, but mumbles, "for now," under his breath. Although Batman was in the ‘Batchair’, Drake was able to pull the keyboard to his right, resting it in front of him.

Squinting his eyes, Damian glances at him before returning to look at her most recent school photo blown up on the batcomputer. She is wearing her school uniform, a crisp white collared shirt with the GA emblem on the right breast. Her (H/C) hair is down, but the left side is tucked behind her pierced ear. Damian spies the double piercing again and feels a small tug of a smile on his face when he realizes that they are silver-coated hummingbird skulls .

Against the school’s dress code.

A small fact that makes Damian smirk. (making sure that nobody was looking while he did)

His eyes continue to rove over her face, tucking away every little piece of information he can glean from her features. He notices the slight dimple on her left cheek and the small freckle on her jaw, but most unexpectedly, he can see the pain behind her eyes. As if she's trying to hide a wince.

A fierce sense of uncontrollable anger rises swiftly, stealing his breath for a moment and making the blood coursing through his veins roar. Hearing only his heartbeat pounding in his chest, he senses an unfamiliar emotion stirring in his gut. Settling heavy, making his tongue feel like lead as he continues to simmer.

Noticing the shift in Damian’s posture, Todd puts his hand on his shoulder, gives it a light squeeze, and says, "What’s got your panties in a twist, demon boy?"

Ready to rip his arms off, Damian is about to snap when he looks over and catches the barest flicker of understanding. Before he can think about what it means, he turns back to the monitor and mumbles, ‘nothing, let’s continue."

Tim, none the wiser, moves on,

"Not only does she have a 4.0 GPA, but her record is clean—no in-school suspensions, regular suspensions, or even detentions. I can’t find any complaints against her behavior or character, but there isn't much here to begin with. Her immunization records are all up-to-date as well." Tim says nothing to anyone in particular while grabbing his coffee mug. Taking a sip and placing it back on the exact coffee ring that was there before, he continues,

"There’s nothing out of the ordinary other than her IQ and her extreme extracurricular schedule. She's been on the track team since she arrived sophom*ore year, plays the viola for orchestra, and is a part of the poetry, environmental, and animal rights club."

The last one mentioned peaks Damian’s interest the most. He didn't even know the school had an animal rights club.

Shifting gears, Tim pulls up another page with more information,

"Says here she lives in the Diamond District with her Guardian, Bran Toremin, in a high-end townhouse. Give me a second while I pull up the city hall records…Their house was built in the late 1800s and is one of the few remaining original brownstones in all of Gotham. This screams old money to me." Damian’s brow creases at the word "guardian, ignoring the rest of what Tim said.He never really thought about her home life before, but with the mention of her having a guardian, he finds himself intrigued.

"What of her parents?" Bruce asks delicately, already knowing the answer. At this point, his brothers, Bruce and Alfred, who are standing quietly behind them, reposition themselves around Damian. Closing in the ranks, protectively anticipating unpleasant news.

Pulling up more tabs, images, and news articles, Tim says in a quietly respectful voice,

"It looks like they were killed in an ‘accident’, but there aren’t any details that I can find." He says releasing a frustrated breath.

"The articles clearly state it was a double homicide, but the case went cold. One article mentions that they left behind a young daughter. "Let me see if I can find anything beyond the public record."

Gritting his teeth, Damian hates the idea of digging deeper into her past, especially since he said not to just 10 minutes ago.

It feels invasive and disrespectful, but his curiosity and need for knowledge win out. After a few minutes, Tim pulls up an official police record recounting the event. Leaning in, everyone reads silently, taking in the information with a solemn weight settling on their shoulders.

Victim: female, approximate age: 37; found in home with multiple lacerations across the abdomen, face, and neck; cause of death: blood loss. Time of death: 10:47 p.m. February 18th, 2012

Victim: male, approximate age: 40; found in home with a single laceration to the throat; cause of death: asphyxiation. Time of death: 10:36 p.m., February 18th, 2012.

We believe this to be an isolated incident of an attempted robbery gone wrong. Upon further inspection of the home, the unit noticed destruction of property, most likely in an attempt to find valuables. Further inspection resulted in the discovery of a young girl, approximately 7 years old, hiding in a cabinet under the kitchen island. DNA tests confirm that she is the daughter of the victims. Has not been able to recount the events leading up to the double homicide, and upon psychiatric evaluation, it is confirmed she is in a state of shock.

Damian read all he needed to read. The others continue assessing the report, but all he can think about is how she must have felt being there when her parents were murdered. Still thinking about it, Damian can’t help but mention,

"The extreme violence against the mother doesn’t line up with an average ‘attempted robbery gone wrong."

"I agree; the circ*mstances of their deaths don't sit right with me", Bruce says grimly.

The others nod in agreement, icy stoicism settling on their faces. He can see the wheels turning in all their minds, trying to see how the police could come to the conclusion that they did.

"We’ll circle back to that," Tim says quickly, "onto Bran Toremin, a 49-year-old bachelor who seemingly has no other connections to (Y/N)’s family other than being friends with her father through their mutual connection of being diplomats. According to these records, neither of her parents had any living relatives, but what strikes me as odd is the fact that when they died, he immediately petitioned the court for adoption. But since he was a 39-year-old bachelor at the time, they would only allow him guardianship for 6 months. However, after 6 months, they were supposed to reevaluate the situation and see if she was adjusting well to her new environment. But I can’t find any official records of the so-called ‘reevaluation’ occurring. It’s like the court forgot, or more likely, was paid off to forget."

All this new information about her is making Damian’s head spin, and with every question answered, another one arises.

"Alright, that’s enough digging for one day; we need to start our patrols," Bruce says, looking at the time and shifting into his Batman persona.

"Tim, Damian you two are downtown tonight."

"Oh, c'mon, Batman, that’s always my gig," Grayson protests, following Batman to the Batmobile.

Turning around and squinting his eyes, he gives him a level look, saying, "No. Tonight, you're with me and Jason on the docks. I believe Falcone is getting a shipment, which I doubt he'll actually be in attendance for, but I have good intel that his right hand will."

Usually, Damian would challenge Batman’s decision to exclude him from the action, but tonight, he lets it go. He needs this time to digest everything that he has learned about her so far.

With a pointed look at Jason and Dick, Batman says firmly, "This is strictly a reconnaissance mission; at no point will we make ourselves known. The sole objective is to confirm whether or not Falcone’s right hand is spearheading this job. Have I made myself clear?"

Faster than Damian could blink, Grayson says, "understood, undercover it is," while climbing into the back of the batmobile.

Quickly followed by Jason, with his usual bullsh*t response, "yes, daddy," earning a withering glare from Batman, a snort from Dick and Tim, and a chuckle from Alfred.

"Do me a favor; when that plan goes out the window, try not to get too bloody and drag it into the cave. I've just power washed the floors from the last reconnaissance mission you had." Alfred says in his quintessential British accent.

Ignoring his snarky comment, Batman, Nightwing, and Red Hood speed out of the cave, leaving just Tim and Damian to finish double-checking their gear before starting their own patrol.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Well after midnight, Damian and Tim are still swinging from rooftops, intently looking and listening for more signs of crime. Of course, the one night that Damian craved nothing more than a good fight and bloodshed, the only things the lowlife criminals of Gotham can muster are petty theft, attempted grand theft auto, and public intoxication.

Tim mentions that he is calling it a night and extends the invitation to grab a takeout pizza before heading back to the manor. Declining, Damian tells him to be safe while watching him grapple away. He needs some time to be alone, which he relays to the others through the coms.

Once he is finally alone, he pulls out his phone, promptly opening the tracking app that Tim developed especially for the Batfamily and Justice League. With her name, he is able to run it through multiple government databases in order to track her location without her knowing. Yes, Damian admits that it is slightly creepy, but with the Wayne family being as high-profile as they are, he can't be too careful. Let alone the kind of threat it would be to her if someone discovered Robin’s true identity.

Damian involuntarily shivers at the thought of anything happening to her. The realization dawns on him then that if anything were to happen to her, not only would he feel responsible, but he'd be upset. He can't truly identify the emotion, but he knows it would be bad. Never before had he cared for anyone in this particular manner.

Yes, he did find himself caring for his brothers, Bruce and Alfred, but not for a woman, not even his mother. They are a distraction, one for carnal release, but nothing more. But when he thinks of her, he can’t bring himself to think in such a manner. She is so much more than that. There is a complexity and intricacy to her that he is (begrudgingly) looking forward to untangling.

Perching on the top of a gargoyle on one of the tallest and oldest buildings in Gotham, he allows himself to get lost in his thoughts, but a brisk gust of wind swiftly brings him back to the present.

Looking back down at his phone and typing furiously away, he looks for her location.

Gotham Village

A small part of Damian is relieved she is there and not somewhere like The Narrows, notorious for being plagued by gang violence and crime and close enough to Arkham Asylum to make him sweat.

Zooming in, he finds her precise location and proceeds to grapple himself along rooftops, the wind whipping his cape up around his face. After what seemed like forever but is actually 10 minutes, Damian lands quietly on a rooftop across from… A speakeasy?

Double-checking his phone, he confirms his original conclusion: she is in there.

Underage.

Not that he cares whether she drank or not; she is 17 after all, so it isn’t a big deal. But if his memory serves him right, which it always does, she mentioned a bachelorette party this weekend, which meant she is only with other women.And Damian knows there is nothing predators enjoy more than a group of intoxicated women. Actually, no, there is one thing they like more. A lone, intoxicated woman. Which is easy enough for a man to find in a crowded basem*nt establishment like the one she is currently in.

Once again, Damian finds himself gritting his teeth at the thought of anything happening to her, but this time it is accompanied by an unfamiliar emotion: fear. How can she have such a high IQ and be stupid enough to be getting drunk with nobody to watch out for her? He knows he was jumping to conclusions—maybe she isn't drinking, or maybe it isn’t as grimy on the inside as it looks on the outside. But either way, he doesn’t like it.

Damian decides right then and there that he will dedicate the rest of the night to making sure she gets back okay, even if it means intervening or staying out all night. He will not let his soulmate be victimized by Gotham’s lowli-

Just then, a familiar head appears, skipping up the stairs of the speakeasy, laughing carelessly and loudly, arm tucked into the crook of another female who was also laughing just as fiercely, albeit silently. Damian watches with fascination as she and her friend (wearing tacky pink sashes with the word bridesmaidbejeweled on them) both struggle to climb the rest of the way up due to her inability to stop laughing and hers to stop wheezing.

The are both cracking up.

Damian has never seen her smile, let alone laugh, before, and at this moment, he decides that it is one of his favorite sounds. It isn't dainty; it doesn't sound like wind chimes or twinkling; it was full, deep, robust, and the most honest sound he's ever heard.

After a couple of minutes, they both catch their breath and wipe the tears out of their eyes, still smiling so much that she can’t help but squint. Surveying her, Damian notices that she is wearing a black top with sheer sleeves tucked into her burgundy leather skirt that comes up to her upper thigh.

That is one short skirt.

Not indecent, but certainly displaying more legs than he has ever seen before. He can’t complain. Actually, he can, because right then he notices the bouncers give her an appreciative once-over as she turns her back to them, heading down the street. Even though she is a smaller woman, her legs in that skirt look a mile long and toned. Damian can’t bring himself to look away from them, wishing his uniform had more space.

Baring his teeth in silence, Damian notices something else: she is wearing heels. Heels that will alert anyone and everyone nearby to where her exact location is. In horror, he notices that all of her friends are also wearing heels, making it impossible to hear if someone comes up behind her to attack.

He knew his features darkened when he notices her trip and almost fall flat on her face. Oh, she is certainly inebriated, a fact that brings back the red-hot anger from before. Following silently along the rooftops parallel to the street, she is all stumbling down, and he also comes to realize how cold it is. Even through his uniform, Damian can feel the bite of Gotham’s windy, cold air. Despite it being the middle of September, the nights tend to dip down into the 40s, and none of them, NOT ONE, has a jacket on.

She's now interlocked her fingers with the female she ascended the stairs with, swinging her arms and talking animatedly without a care in the world. Quickly glancing at the others, it is obvious to him which one is the bride. Other than her white ensemble, she is the only one who looks like she could be in her 20s, albeit early 20s.

As he continues jumping from rooftop to rooftop, breaking each of his falls silently (like the league of assassins taught him), he wonders when one of them plans to call a car. The farther she walks with her friends, the higher he can feel his blood pressure rise, and just when he was contemplating jumping down and demanding someone call an Uber, Lyft, or whatever, the bride pulls out her phone and does just that.

At last

After several more moments of waiting at the corner of the street, huddling closer, and doing little dances to keep themselves warm (he will never admit how cute that actually is), the car finally comes, and everyone piles in without incident.

Releasing a tense breath, Damian follows the car with his grappling hook, unnoticed, right to the hotel where they are all staying. Waiting and watching, he sees her get out of the car last and follow the rest of the group into the lobby, but right before she goes through the revolving door, she pauses. Damian, knowing she senses him, dips into the shadows of the rooftop just as she turns around and stares directly at him.There’s no way she could have known he was following her, not with the training he had. After a few seconds of scanning the general area, she relents and heads into the warm and safe lobby of their hotel.

Not trusting a bunch of drunk females to stay in one location for too long, Damian waits across the street, in the shadows, for another hour to make sure none of them leave. Mercifully, neither she nor any of her friends emerge, making his departure that much easier.

None of his brothers nor Bruce bothered him the past few hours, meaning more than likely they knew exactly where he was and what he was doing. He doesn’t look forward to the questions and looks he is bound to receive from the lot of them, so he decides he won’t go to the Batcave tonight but rather straight to his room.

Getting back to the Wayne manor without a car takes longer than he likes, but since it is the weekend, he can allow himself an extra 15 minutes of sleep in the morning, considering it was already 3 a.m.

Slipping over the tall, wrought iron gate with Ws incorporated into the design, Damian strategically maneuvers around the motion sensors, weapons systems, and floodlights he knows Bruce placed over every inch of the property.

Finally climbing through his window, he immediately and silently locks the door to his room and begins shedding his uniform. Stalking to the bathroom, he quickly washes his face, brushes his teeth, and takes care of whatever other hygiene needs he has. Once he is in his silk pajama set, he climbs into bed, positions himself directly in the center, and closes his eyes, hoping for a restful sleep.

But that doesn’t come. His mind can’t stop recounting today’s events, from our Soulreach in front of the class to being impressed by her graceful, powerful, and even strides as she ran to the less than graceful, powerful, and even strides as she stumbled out of the bar intoxicated with her friends.

If he is being honest with himself, he'd acknowledge that thissituationthrills him just as much as it frightens him. Damian already knows he will detest what the media is about to do to her. He can already feel his skin crawling at the thought of perverted old men hiding in bushes in hopes of catching a glimpse of her unguarded. Making a promise to himself, no matter what happens between the two of them personally, he will always protect her in any way, shape, or form, against anyone and everyone if need be.

With that resolution settling deep in his bones, he feels himself starting to relax. The last thought he has before he drifts to sleep is that he won’t be able to take up all the space in the middle of the bed one day.

Chapter 3: Coming to Terms

Chapter Text

Damian's POV: Sunday

The media frenzy has begun, and as Damian Wayne, there is nothing he can do.

Even as Robin his hands are tied.

It would be too obvious for Robin to intervene on her behalf, most likely giving his identity away.

He is furious. After his morning training routine, he returned to his room to find his phone blowing up. Almost literally, if being nearly too hot to touch was any indication. Sweat dripped down his back, face, and neck as he tried to even out his breath without crushing his phone in his hand.

Of course, the first news outlets to jump on this were the sleazy ones like the Daily Mail, TMZ, and others like it.

Headlines ranging from "Damian Wayne finds his soulmate—who’s the lucky mystery girl", and "Everything you need to know about Damian Wayne’s Soulmate - exclusive content", to deplorable ones like "Orphans stick together—the tragic parallel lives of (F/N) (L/N) and Bruce Wayne." and "The orphan with ambitions—read all about the premeditated run for the Wayne fortune".

For the next half hour, he scours through the articles, text messages, and social media outlets for anything and everything about her. The deeper he goes, the worse it gets. Some outlets claim an inside source told them that she has secretly been planning this for months in advance; others claim it was love at first sight, but the ones that send his heart racing are the profiles on her. The ones that tear apart her life come to whatever conclusions they want. Conclusions the general (stupid) public won’t question.

Forgetting about the time and whatever else he was supposed to be doing, Damian sits down in the chair near his bed, leans his elbow on the arm, and continues scrolling through. Sucking in a sharp breath and pausing on one article, he almost cannot believe his eyes. They have printed a blown-up picture of her on picture day junior year, and next to it is a copy of the police report detailing her parents’ deaths.

f*ck.

How the hell did they even get access to that? He will ask Bruce or Tim about this particular one. He knows that he can’t do anything publicly to these reporters, but he can arm himself with knowledge of who these people are, who they love, and what they value most in life.

He barely knows her, and that makes his extreme reaction to these articles even more confusing. Why should he care? It’s not like he didn’t expect this to happen, but seeing it happen is something entirely different. Having decided he's had enough, Damian puts his phone down and starts getting ready for the day.

Freshly showered and dressed in his usual black turtleneck and slacks, Damian enters the dining room to see that his brothers and father have already started breakfast without him. Sparing him a glance, Tim gives him a small smile as he sits down next to him in his usual seat to the right of his father.

"I’m assuming you’ve seen the news today," Bruce says without looking up, lifting a cup of coffee to his lips.

"I have, father. Have you seen the one with the police report yet?" Damian responds with an even tone, while Pennyworth places his breakfast of a Mediterranean omelet in front of him with feta, spinach, and diced tomatoes.

Despite his attempt to mask the quiet fury in his voice, his father looks up with a knowing gleam in his eye and says, "No, I have not yet," with his brows slightly raised.

"I did," Tim pipes up, adding, "I’m surprised they let that go to print, it has all the details of her parent’s death."

Looking at his brother next to him, Damian catches a flicker from the corner of his eye, surprised to see Todd’s features darkening as he says,

"Do these people have no class? Who the f*ck- ",

"Language…master Jason" Alfred chides gently.

"No, f*ck that; who’s in charge of overseeing what goes to print? Aren’t there any boundaries in place? Can we sue?" Jason exclaims while rising.

He is surprised to see his older brother so emotional. but then again, he has always been a drama queen.

Before he can open his mouth to retort, Bruce interjects, "No, any public action we take against these reports will add fuel to the fire, making them likely to produce more vulgar articles. The best course of action is to do nothing," while looking pointedly at Damian.

"Do nothing?" Damian now stands, outraged. "How can you expect me to do nothing while these mongrels attack her like this?" The others, forgetting their breakfast, look around at each other and silently come to the same conclusion. They will support Damian in whatever decision he decides upon. Bruce must realize this too, because he sighs, puts his fork down, and responds,

"I’m not saying that we aren’t going to do anything; all I’m saying is that the Wayne's" gesturing with his hands to the group, "will not be seen reacting, retaliating, or responding to these articles."

After a few beats of silence, Grayson, with a suspicious gleam in his eye, says,

"So, what do you have in mind? We can’t exactly retaliate as any of our vigilante identities, and we can’t dignify it with any sort of reaction as a public-facing family, so what can we do?"

Tim catches on sooner than the rest of us because he suddenly jerks upright as if he had a eureka moment,

"Cyberattack!" he practically shouts.

"I won’t be condoning any such actions," Bruce mumbles into the coffee mug he has almost forgotten about. Looking back at Bruce, it is clear to Damian that he may not outright approve but won't stop them if they try.

With another glance at his brothers, he knows they’ll be reconvening later to discuss a course of action, but before anyone can say anything, Bruce’s phone rings, interrupting their thoughts. Pushing his chair back, Bruce grabs his mug in one hand and raises the phone to his ear in the other,

"Clark, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he says while walking into the formal sitting room and closing the door behind him.

"Big Blue is calling Bruce Wayne; what do you think it’s about this time? Did Bruce somehow piss off Lois again?" Jason asks while leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest, making them look larger than they already were.

"Doubtful," Grayson adds, "After the first time he popped in on the Kents unannounced, Batman came back sullen as if he were a kid chastised for bad behavior" a smile creeping onto his face, remembering it as a fond memory. "Man, I’ll never forget how snappy he was a whole week after that. At the moment, it was miserable dealing with him, but in hindsight…priceless."

"Why are we wasting time going down memory lane like a bunch of prepubescent girls when we should be listening in on their conversation?" Damian bites out while slowly making his way to the doorway that Bruce went through.

The others look at each other like it didn’t even occur to them... Of course it didn’t; they're half-rate Robins at best. As if hearing his thoughts, the others begin glowering at him, but they still stand up and make their way toward him.

Thankfully, Alfred followed Bruce into the formal sitting room and is most likely serving him tea, which means there is no chance of him catching them in the act of eavesdropping.

Inching closer to the door, being careful not to step on creaky floor panels (this house was hundreds of years old, and no matter how well maintained, there was always creaking to be heard), he and his brothers hold their breath, hoping to catch some part of their conversation.

Their ninja training pays off when they hear the muffled voice of Bruce saying,

"No, Clark, it's true; it happened at school." A few seconds pass by. "Yes, Damian’s found his soulmate; she’s in his grade, which makes it easier to keep an eye on her." They can’t hear what Clark is saying, but they can guess from how Bruce responds.

"It’s true; she was orphaned as a young girl… Any inside scoop from the Daily Planet on who and how they were able to get their hands on that police report? ... Currently? No, she’s not with us. Why? In front of her house…how many?" They can hear the rising frustration in his voice.

"I’m tracking her right now," making Damian tense up. Have they all added her to their tracking app? Looking up at his brothers, they can see the question in his eyes. Glancing at one another, they look back at him and slightly nod their heads.

Surprisingly, this makes him relax a bit. He wasn’t expecting to feel so relieved that his brothers were watching out for her, but he did. Before he can analyze the emotion further, they hear Bruce speak again,

"Tomorrow, late afternoon… No, Clark, you cannot come. It’ll be intimidating enough for the poor girl with all 6 of us there… Yes, Alfred will be joining us…Maybe another time. Yes, sometime soon… Tell Lois I say hello, and make sure Diana and Oliver get the message that there is no open invitation for any Leaguers to crash tomorrow's event. I’m serious, Clark, there will be enough of a media storm without adding another billionaire and a demigod into the mix…Fine, tell them I’ll host a dinner at the manor where they can meet her in a private and controlled setting, but only if she agrees to it. Goodbye Clark."

Once the conversation ceases, the boys all scurry back (gracefully, of course) to their respective seats, looking bored as if they weren’t just eavesdropping. Opening the door, Bruce looks at them and says,

"How long were you 4 outside the door snooping," casually returning to his seat to finish reading his morning newspaper. None of them respond, which is enough confirmation for Bruce.

Deciding to give up the act, Damian says,

"Why do Clark and the others even care about this?" copying Jason’s stance and folding his arms over his chest.

"Because they’re intrigued." He speaks simply.

"And they want to know who is unfortunate enough to have their soul tied to the Demon head," interjects Alfred, eliciting a chuckle from his brothers and a small smirk from his father.

Traitor.

Scowling further, he decides he's had enough of this chitchat and stands up, making his way to the Batcave to start finding dirt on the author with the audacity to print the police report article. Yes, this is exactly what he needs right now—an outlet to vent his frustrations. He doesn’t want to think too hard about how emotionally invested he already is in her well-being or how much it bothers him to see people say such vile things about her without really knowing her. But most importantly, he doesn’t want to take the time to think about how every time he thinks about her, he feels a warmth flood his chest, making his heart flutter. He barely knows her; none of this makes sense, nor is it acceptable.

______________________________________________________________________________

Sunday Afternoon:

Standing in front of the mirror in his dressing parlor, Damian gives himself a once-over. Custom-tailored black Italian suit with a matching black silk button-down underneath and a simple yet luxurious emerald, green tie for a pop of color. Thinking about it, everything he is wearing is Italian—his suit, shoes, cufflinks, watch, tie, and shirt…all Italian, except for his boxers. Those are Hanes.

Satisfied with his appearance, Damian makes his way downstairs to the foyer to find himself alone. Taking a quick look around confirms that he is the only one down here. Frowning, he glances down at his watch and reads 2:15… He is early—by a lot.

Not wanting to stand around for another 30 minutes, he decides going to the library for a light read is a good way to kill some time. Staying precisely in the middle of the hallway runner, Damian silently makes his way to the large oak double doors that lead to the library. Just before entering, Damian freezes at the sound of voices on the other side of the door, and for the second time this weekend, he finds himself creeping closer to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"Everything that I know about soulmates, Alfred, indicates that their souls are two pieces of one whole, which worries me. Does that mean she has the same temperament or willpower as Damian, or does it mean she’s the exact opposite but just as willful?" Bruce voices his concern.

"We will know soon enough, master Bruce; between the 6 of us, I’m sure we’ll know off the bat," Alfred says reassuringly.

"Did you really just make a pun?" Damian can tell from the sound of his voice that he has a smile on his face, despite the disbelieving tone of his voice.

"Quite right, sir." Damian can hear his footsteps coming toward the door, signaling it is time for Damian to feign innocence. Practically leaping 10 paces away, Damian immediately pretends as if he were just about to walk up to the doors when Alfred opens them.

"Oh, master Damian, I see you’re all ready to go, albeit a bit early." A knowing smirk growing on his face.

"That I am Pennyworth, think you could fetch me a tea with brown sugar and a slice of lemon?" He asks impassively, strolling past him.

"Very well, sir," Alfred says, closing the door behind him.

Turning around, Damian notices his father is similarly dressed but with a pale blue silk button-down and a navy-blue corresponding tie to match. The quality and brand, however, are identical.

"I take it the others are still getting ready?" He says while adjusting his cuff links.

The older Damian gets, the more he realizes how much he resembles him. The tall and broad frame is the most obvious, and now that they are the same height (a secret insecurity he always had), the shape of their jawlines and noses are the same as well. Pronounced cheekbones, thick lashes, and almost too-thick eyebrows conclude their similarities. But where Bruce has an almost alabaster complexion with icy blue eyes, Damian has a warm olive skin tone (thanks to his mother’s mixed Arabic and Asian ethnicity) and slightly more almond-shaped, green eyes.

"It would seem so." He responds casually, making his way to the bookshelves.

Rows upon rows of fine, dark oak bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, creating a maze of various literary legends. Both he and Bruce have always loved literature, especially the classics, a preference they surprisingly share with Todd. In the entire manor, Damian would guess this room held the most valuable things throughout the house, more so than the vault full of jewelry and gems Bruce has tucked away in a secret location. With the sheer volumes of first editions and ancient texts preserved behind the glass panels, it is no surprise to Damian that the insurance policy for this room alone is worth millions. The library is not so secretly his favorite room, a fact that his brothers, except for Todd, like to tease him mercilessly over.

"How are you feeling?" Bruce asks him sincerely, surprising him enough to crack his neutral mask.

"Why do you ask?" he responds quickly.

"Well, it’s not every day someone goes to city hall to register with their soulmate." Despite his relaxed outer appearance and his nonchalant tone, Damian knows that he will scrutinize any answer he gives.

Deciding the best course of action is neutrality," he says,

"I suppose I’m a bit anxious, a tad curious, and mostly worried that one of the idiots will say something to frighten her."

Surprised by his uncharacteristically honest answer, Bruce responds,

"That’s to be expected as far as the emotions you’re experiencing, but as for your brothers, they won’t be a problem." Flatly.

"How can you be so certain, father?"

"I’ve made it very clear that they are to be on their best behavior around (Y/N)". Now standing right next to him, examining the first edition of War and Peace, he says, "They won’t do or say anything to harm her, but if she’s your soulmate, maybe try giving her some more credit."

Turning to face his father fully,

"I barely know her, let alone her tolerance for whatever my brothers plan to dish out," Damian says with raised eyebrows.

"All I’m saying is that for her to be your Soulmate, it would mean that she is your equal in every way, and even you admit she gives you a run for your money in school. It’s not a stretch to believe that she will pick up on any teasing there may be". Bruce says, putting the book back on the shelf. "Now, let’s harass the others to finish getting ready; it won’t look good for us to arrive late. Which reminds me, I’ve decided I want us all to ride together; I think it's best to present ourselves as unified as possible. I’m sure the paparazzi are going to have a field day; we might as well give ourselves as much exposure as possible to shift the attention away from the other articles." He concludes.

His last comment surprises Damian enough that he almost forgets his excitement about bothering his brothers to hurry up. Catching up to Bruce, he realizes that his father must have been planning this since hearing of the article.

"You don’t even know her; why would you go out of your way to do that for her?" Damian asks, with a slight hint of suspicion creeping into his voice and a raised eyebrow.

"Whether you’ve fully accepted it or not, she’s a part of this family now, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s never had to deal with media attention before. She’s going to need our support, and especially yours." He says now, looking at him sternly as if he didn’t already know.

"I don’t know what you expect me to do?" Damian responds honestly as he feels his throat drying.

"Just be there for her when she needs you. Listen when she talks and be a steady presence in her life. I know you’re out of your depth here, and I’m sure your mother’s training has hardwired you to believe that having a soulmate is a weakness, but it’s not. It’s a gift, and a rare one at that. So don’t mess this up just because you have a narrow vision of what it’s supposed to be, and try to exercise patience, which I know isn’t something you’re used to."

Damian is still taking in everything his father just said when he realizes that he is still looking at him, waiting for an answer.

Trying to subtly clear his rapidly drying throat, he says, "I suppose it’s the least I can do, and that I owe it to her to make an honest effort, regardless of how useless I’ve been told it is." Satisfied by his father’s nod, Damian goes back to thinking about how it was his father, not him, who thought about getting the attention off her. It should have been him that came up with that idea; she is HIS Soulmate, and yet he failed to come up with any solutions.

He was already off to a bad start in the whole soulmate department, and that thought alone puts him in a sour mood.

15 minutes later, he and his brothers are all assembled in the garage, waiting for Alfred to pull up in the escalade. Despite wanting to draw attention to themselves, they don’t want to be obnoxious, which is why when Grayson suggested taking one of the flashier cars, both he and his father shot down the idea.

Within another 20 minutes, they are well into downtown Gotham, with only another 10 minutes to go before they expect to be hounded with flashing lights and have their personal spaces invaded. None of them are fond of the photographers, and usually they all make a distinct effort to elude them one way or another, but today, none are complaining.

When Bruce explains his plan to them after they had settle into their seats, surprisingly, none of them protesting the idea. It would seem that (Y/N) has gotten them all under her spell without even meeting them. The idea thrilled and infuriated him, to the point that it felt like lead knots were settling in his stomach.

Jason breaks his trance, saying, "You know, other than what we found out yesterday, you haven’t said anything about what she’s actually like." That gets the others to quiet their side conversations and even Bruce to adjust the rear-view mirror, which promptly gets readjusted by Alfred, who needs it to drive the car.

Damian stays quiet for a moment, which probably makes the others think he didn’t want to divulge too much just yet, but in actuality, he doesn’t know her well enough to make any sort of claim about her personality. So he decides to give surface-level observations,

"She’s... quiet, studious, and honestly not very outgoing. The only time I ever hear her speak is when she’s called on in class, which she always answers correctly, by the way." Damian says with a small smile. "If I think about it, I’m pretty sure she’s always tried to avoid me, or at least maximize the distance between us when she can." He realizes with a start.

It is true that they always sat on opposite ends of the classroom, and in the hallways, she’d always take a long way around to class to avoid walking with him, even though their schedules were nearly identical. The realization makes him wrinkle his nose in displeasure.

Breaking his line of thought, both Todd and Grayson laugh deeply, one that comes straight from the gut. "I doubt it’s actually you; she’s avoiding," Tim adds, while the others continue to crack up, now silently.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean, Drake?" he replies bitterly. All the while noticing the look exchanged between Alfred and his father. He can’t see their mouths, but he is sure at least one of them is smirking.

Squinting his eyes, he glares at Tim as he says,

"I think she’s avoiding your fan club, Damian; I don’t think it has anything to actually do with you."

"My what?" he says, unable to keep the questioning tone out of his voice.

"Oh c’mon, you have to have noticed the hordes of girls who practically follow your every move." Jason manages to say as he tries to recover his even breathing.

"I have no idea what you’re talking about," Damian says turning away from his brothers to look out the window. Gotham was an old city—a decrepit one that Bruce was trying so hard to restore. If you looked close enough, you can see the beauty in the architecture and the cobblestone streets in some areas, but with rampant crime and neglect, the city quickly deteriorated into a mangled mess of crumbling buildings, pothole-ridden streets, and graffitied alleyways.

"Sure, you don't," Grayson adds smugly.

"Fine, I’m not blind, but I don’t see how that has anything to do with (Y/N)."

"Well, from the sound of it, it seems she’s not one of your devotees," Todd says with a sh*t-eating grin. Damian is glad to know this high school drama was just so entertaining for his oldest brothers.

"You still haven’t answered my question." He bites out.

"God, you’re absolutely hopeless when it comes to women. It means, bone brain, that she’s not avoiding you; she’s avoiding the swath of girls that flock to you, which can be interpreted as her having zero interest in you whatsoever." Jason says, now fully laughing again.

"Oh, this is too good, your luck man. Of course, the only girl at Gotham Academy who does not fawn over you is your soulmate. And by the sound of it, she actually seems to be genuinely repulsed by it. Why else would she put as much physical distance between you two?" Dick explains.

Before he could tell him where to shove it, Tim quietly adds,

"If what you said is true, Damian, and you’ve only noticed her because she’s your only academic rival, I’m sure it hasn’t gone unnoticed by the other girls that are... part of your fan club or something. I’ve seen firsthand how brutal those girls can be to other girls they deem a threat. When I was a senior and you were a sophom*ore, you waved to your lab partner in the halls once, and I overheard some other girls talk to her friend about how some of the others cornered her in the bathroom and made her cry."

"that’s why Aubrey asked for a new lab partner," Damian accidentally says out loud, dumbfoundedly.

"Dude, you’re missing the point. She’s not avoiding you; she was trying to avoid you giving her any attention so she could skip out on the harassment from the other girls at school." Grayson concludes with his arms behind his head and a small smile on his face.

Of course, he’d find this entertaining.

But was he right? Was she just avoiding the consequences of him paying any attention to her? He knew that being a Wayne meant there would be a certain kind of fascination with him, but he never really cared about that.

He knew that girls followed him around like they had his brothers when they went to Gotham Academy, but he also never realized that they were so vicious. He had no interest in dating, not any of them or anyone at all, for that matter. He had more important matters to tend to as both Damian Wayne and as Robin. He couldn’t afford the distraction or the weakness of caring for someone, but it looks like fate had a cruel sense of humor. Not only did it send him a soulmate, but a soulmate that wants nothing to do with him.

Before he knows it, they are pulling into the parking spot. The mood sobering, they all do a once-over to make sure their ties are in place, their cuff links are secure, and their shoes have no scuffs on them. Once they all mutually agree they are ready, they climb out of the car expecting to meet flashing lights from cameras, but to their pleasant surprise, there aren’t any.

"Well alrighty then," Grayson says, barely containing his smile.

Saying nothing more, they all climbed the marble stairs of city hall. Damian appreciated the ancient landmark of City Hall; it is one of the last original structures still standing in Gotham. Every inch of the exterior was covered in a thick, heavy white marble slab, lightly veined with thin blue lines.

By the time they climbed the stairs, people were beginning to notice them, which means that soon enough, the paparazzi are sure to descend on them like hounds. He must find her soon and get inside before they are all overwhelmed. Increasing his pace, his brothers, father, and Alfred fall into step with him as he rounds the corner of the historic building.

There, maybe 100 feet away, she is talking animatedly with her friends, with her back turned to him. He didn’t know what to expect when she said she was going to wear emerald green, but he certainly didn’t expect it to take his breath away.

As they all get closer, it is clear she is telling a story, but they are still far away enough that they can’t hear what she is saying. Her friends are so engrossed with whatever she is saying that they don’t even notice us walking closer; all they can do is lean in more and watch her with anticipation. Before any of them can shout to get her attention, she says something while gesturing wildly with her hands which makes them throw their heads back with booming laughter.

And there she is laughing alongside them, albeit quieter, still unaware of our presence. One of her friends looks up then, wiping the tears from her eyes, and makes eye contact with Damian, eyebrows raising and a slow smile creeping up. She looks at her and nods her head, signaling to look behind her, which prompts her to whip around, her hair flying around her with a massive smile on her face as she turns fully to look at him.

He'll never admit it, but she takes his breath away. The suit is emerald, like she said it would be, but it hugs her legs tight, and the split towards the bottom in the center gives the illusion of a longer leg. The blazer’s sleeves match the pants in an effort to achieve the same lengthening aesthetic. He notices that even the shirt, or whatever she is wearing underneath, is the same color and material as the other pieces. Monochromatic, except for the heels and lipstick.

Damian never really understood how some women could wear those perilous shoes so effortlessly, but she is one of those skilled enough to. He feels a swell of pride and desire take him by surprise, but he welcomes it as he keeps looking at her. He notices that she has cut and styled her hair. Instead of (H/L) locks of wavy (H/C) hair, she has shoulder-length pin-straight hair, which frames her face delicately.

Damian finally meets her eyes, never having seen her wear makeup before, and finds himself at a loss for words. Her beautiful, vibrant (E/C) eyes are surrounded by thick, long lashes accentuated by mascara, making her eyes even more disarming and electrifying. Secretly, her eyes are his favorite feature, followed closely by her pouty, now blood-red, lips. Such a pronounced and sharp cupid's bow, even more, pronounced by the color staining them. He can just imagine capturing them in a deep kiss.

A grave sense of longing and an uncomfortable shift in his pants have his blood rushing to his face and other unmentionables. Stealing a quick look around, it seems his sudden change goes unnoticed by her and her friends, except for the one male who looks at him knowingly.

However, he is not so lucky to have it go unnoticed by his party. Clearing his throat, his father intervenes, saying,

"It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss (L/N)" while extending his hand towards her, which she confidently meets with her own outstretched one.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Wayne, please call me (Y/N)," she responds smoothly with that same vibrant smile he’s never seen before. He must admit, everything he thought he knew about her might have been wrong—a fact that secretly thrills him.

Chapter 4: The Fated Registration

Chapter Text

Y/N POV: Sunday

The bridal shower had been amazing, and by the bridal shower, I specifically mean the beautiful spread of meats, cheeses, jams, and fruit. As well as the adorable and delightful finger sandwiches that were skewered with pastel cellophane-tipped toothpicks. The entire event was perfectly executed and went off without a hitch, except, of course, for the mother-in-law, who wore white, feigning innocence when her son called her out for it.

Overall, the weekend had been a complete success; between the luxurious spa treatments, drag show, axe throwing, and speakeasy, I was exhausted. Currently, I'm in the passenger seat of Alina’s navy blue 2015 BMW, hanging on for dear life as she guns it down the highway since the venue for the shower is nearly 45 minutes away from city hall. Alina, the bride, and her sister Izzy are chatting away about some of the best gifts she received from her family, while her fiancé, Eduardo, and I casually talk about how perfectly the surprise turned out.

Since the shower ended at 2:30, they had an hour to get to city hall in the heart of Gotham, which was projected to take 45 minutes, but with the way Alina is driving, we would be there in 30, which still didn’t give us enough time to go to my house and change. As a result, we're dressed to the nines and going to city hall to get me registered with my soulmate.

I had tentatively floated the idea of Alina and Eduardo being my witnesses, knowing that it would fall on the same day as her bridal shower, and I didn’t want to take away from her moment, but they both immediately jumped on it. In fact, they couldn’t be happier and kept on saying that it would be an honor, which may or may not have made my eyes sweat ... a lot.

I would have asked Izzy to be my third witness if it weren’t for the fact that she is also 17, but regardless, I knew I wanted her there as well. It was a pretty important day for me, whether or not my soulmate thought so too. They're more than friends to me at this point; they're my family by choice, a choice that was mutually made years ago and is still going strong today.

The closer we get to City Hall, the more conversations in the car cease in nervous anticipation. Earlier today, Eduardo grilled me on anything and everything Damian related, in a protective brotherly way, to which I embarrassingly had very few answers. Despite us sharing nearly every class together for the last three years, I know little about him. I know he's highly intelligent, with extreme confidence that crosses the border into arrogance, and an entire horde of girls are absolutely obsessed with him.

The older and taller he got, the larger the fan club grew, which was a huge source of entertainment for Sam and me and a source of irritation for Damian. Although he never outright said anything to them, even though he probably should, it was obvious (at least to me) that the attention made him bristle.

For as long as I’ve known him, I have never seen him seriously date anyone. Every once in a while, he would take Jennifer Van Buren to a school dance, but I could tell he was always uncomfortable. Unfortunately, she wasn’t as perceptive as me, or she simply chose to ignore it, because she never seemed to notice or care that he was totally uninterested in her. I think he did it because she had the right pedigree, and it just made sense. They were cut from the same cloth, and their fathers knew each other well, so why not? However, it seemed that what little attention he did give her went straight to her head because shortly after the first ‘date’ they went on, she appointed herself his ‘girlfriend’ and the leader of his fan club. Now, any and every girl that looked at him was a threat that she was more than happy to squash, meaning I was now at the top of her hit list... Lucky me.

I’ll never admit it to him, but I noticed him the first day of my sophom*ore year (the first year I attended Gotham Academy), which isn’t surprising considering he was the son of a billionaire whose family practically built half of Gotham. But that’s not what I noticed about him at first; it was the sadness in his eyes that called out to me. A lonely kind of sadness that for some reason beckoned me to pay attention, and for the next 3 years I did, quietly though.

Only ever daring to look at him from beneath my lashes and only when his back was to me in the first place. He was intriguing, but the publicity surrounding his life and his personal fan club kept me from ever trying to get closer. If it were up to me, I’d still prefer to be on his periphery, but as fate would cruelly have it, I was now in his center.

Pulling my gaze away from the passing cityscape, I look at my friends. Alina, the bride, who is only 22 years old, is wearing a simple white satin co*cktail dress that sports a Sabrina neckline and a backless... back. She pairs the dress with equally modest, yet elegant white satin stilettos that make her olive skin tone stand out. She and her sister are full-blooded Italians, with their long, shiny, straight dark hair matching their large dark chocolate eyes and high cheekbones. Both Alina and her younger sister, Izzy, share the same coloring and features, but Izzy is a few inches taller.

Izzy is wearing a pale blue floral high-low dress with lightly tiered ruffles and a plunging V-neck, giving her ample ladies some space to shine. Both Alina and her sister have impressive boobs—boobs I used to envy until I realized the limitations they faced as busty women. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t pity them in the slightest, but I do enjoy my button-downs and back pains being from something entirely different.

Eduardo, Alina’s fiancé, was a well-built Ecuadorian man, with the circumference of his biceps rivaling that of my thigh. He wasn’t very tall, maybe 5’7, but what he lacked in height he compensated for in intelligence and strength. Both Alina and Eduardo just started their Ph.D.’s at the same university, one in biostatistics and the other in physics. Eduardo has wavy dark brown hair that falls into his eyes and caramel brown eyes that look more auburn in direct sunlight.

They met in a math class during their undergrad and became fast friends after discovering their love for ‘cringe’ subreddit. They realized they were soulmates months later, when they finally tried holding hands for the first time. Finding your soulmate was rare, and they were the only other pair that I knew of. When I first told them about my Soulreach experience and how we are still virtually strangers, they too were baffled.

Finally, Alina pulls into the parking lot across the street from City Hall and parks as far away from other cars as possible. After all, her car is her baby.

"Alright, let’s do this", Eduardo says enthusiastically trying to break the death grip my anxiety has on me.

Clambering out of the car, I’m pleased to see there are no photographers anywhere in the near vicinity. News had spread quickly, and by the time we met up at the hotel for Alina’s bachelorette party, strangers and students alike were blowing up my social media accounts trying to figure out who I was and where I found the audacity to Soulreach with Damian Wayne.

Thankfully, I never took social media too seriously, so when I decided to deactivate my accounts other than Facebook, it wasn’t difficult to do so. I know deleting my Instagram seems like I’m trying to avoid conflict or judgment, and it’s true to a degree, but I mostly did it for my sanity. I know myself, and even if I say the opinions of other people don’t matter, I know it will affect me, so I decided to nip it in the bud.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t realize that we had already walked across the parking lot and made it to the marble stairs leading up to the doors. Phone in hand, I go to text Damian that we have arrived when I realize that I don’t actually have his number.

"Alright, so I don’t actually have his number, meaning I can’t text him where we are, so let’s just hang out here in front until he shows up," I say quickly.

"Good job, dumbass," Eduardo says with a teasing smile on his face.

"I wasn’t kidding when I said we never really interacted before," I say in mock defense.

We move out of the way of people coming and going and stand in a circle off to the side. Since we are 30 minutes early, we start idly chatting about memes and sharing videos we find funny to kill the time.

At some point, the conversation shifts, and I get roped into telling a story from when I went to Thailand on a service trip for a month. As I begin recounting the first day, I begin to relax and animatedly talk about how I ended up injuring myself within 15 minutes of setting foot in the country. With my back to the sun, I can clearly see the amusem*nt in my friends’ eyes as they graciously try to hold back their laughter while I talk.

"…And at some point, I just look at myself in the mirror, then at my bloody hand, and back to the mirror just in time to watch myself tip over… next thing I know, I’m coming too… but like an idiot, I tried washing my hands with foreign bacterial water that also made the airport bathroom look like a crime scene…I’m like ‘ oh sh*t’ I need to get out of here before I get arrested for murder…" At which point in the story, my friends can no longer hold back their laughter and throw their heads back.

Soon enough, I’m laughing along with them. Izzy, barely breathing at this point, doubles over when she looks beyond me and raises her eyebrows. Curious, I look at her just as she nods behind me, prompting me to turn around. I’m pretty sure I audibly gasp at the sight of them walking closer toward us, thankfully soft enough that Damian can’t hear but not soft enough that my friends can’t.

Silently, I beg them not to say anything about it as I take him in. Damian brought along what I can only assume are his older brothers, his father, and an older gentleman I didn’t recognize—maybe a grandfather. Damian is wearing an all-black suit, clearly tailored to his large frame, with shiny black dress shoes and an emerald tie. An emerald tie that matched my own emerald suit nearly perfectly. That discovery really has no right to make me feel as giddy as it does, but here I am suppressing the urge to smile. I can’t believe he not only remembered but has gone out of his way to match me, a fact that I know hasn’t gone unnoticed by my entourage.

The sun is directly in my eyes now, meaning I can’t get a good read on his facial expression, so instead, I look at his companions. The man directly to his right must be his father, Bruce Wayne. They are the same height and have similar builds, but his father is more buff…interesting. Looking at Damian and his father, it dawns on me how similar they look. Nearly identical in features, the biggest difference is their coloring. Where Damian is all lightly tanned skin and olive-green eyes, his father is all smooth porcelain skin with pale blue eyes. Like his son, Mr. Wayne is wearing an exquisitely tailored suit with a white button-down, a gray tie, and beautiful white mother of-pearl cuff links.

They are both highly attractive men, an opinion I keep to myself as my eyes continue to the right. Another tall man—not as tall as Damian or his father, but very close. He is interesting in that he has the same nearly black hair as Bruce and light turquoise eyes as well, but what makes him unique is the small tuft of white hair in the front that he pulls off exceptionally well. He too is wearing an expensively tailored suit, but instead of all black, he wears a dark red silk button-down underneath with a black tie.

Next is a face that is familiar to me: Tim Drake, Damian’s older brother of two years, who was a senior when we were sophom*ores. I’ve never actually spoken to him before, but I’ve heard he is a super genius, especially when it comes to computers. He is a bit shorter and thinner than the others but carries himself with quiet confidence. He seems like the type of person who is very sure of themselves. Unsurprisingly, he too has dark hair, but instead of light blue, his eyes are a stormy dark blue. Like his brothers, he’s wearing a suit, but this one is charcoal gray with a button-down that is a darker red than the previous brothers.

Finally, my eyes land on the final brother, who is taller than the last one but not as tall as Damian. He has a kind face, with laugh lines crinkling near his beautiful, vibrant ocean blue eyes. He too, like his brothers and father, has nearly black hair that has a slight curl to it. Where the others are muscular, except for Tim, he is lithe, with tight, compact muscles hiding under his light gray suit. His suit is the furthest from the others, not in quality but in the fact that it is light gray compared to their dark ones. With a light blue button-down and a cobalt blue tie, he stands out from the rest.

Before I can take them all in again, his father, Mr. Wayne, says,

"It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss (L/N)", while extending his hand out towards me, which I meet and grasp in a firm handshake.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Wayne; please call me (Y/N)." I try to say as brightly and confidently as possible.

My smile, paired with the firm handshake, must have done the trick because his shoulders visibly relax, and he returns my smile with a dazzling one of his own.

"Obviously you know my youngest, Damian," he gestures to his left. I look at him quickly and notice a slight tinge of red on his cheeks, but before I can analyze the reason, his father continues, "But let me introduce you to my other sons," now shifting to gesture to his immediate right, "This is Jason, my second oldest; then we have Tim, who I believe you may have met before at school; and lastly, my oldest, Richard." Now turning to someone behind him, "And this gentleman standing just behind us is a dear member of the family, Alfred Pennyworth."

I had almost forgotten about the older man, who exudes formal elegance and grace more than any of the others. This must be the grandfather; who else would be so…proper? I thought the others were dressed well, but compared to him, they were casual. He was wearing a full 3-piece tuxedo, complete with a waistcoat, trousers, and jacket, as well as a perfectly balanced bow tie to complete the look.

Knowing I must make a good impression on him as well, I step forward, hand extended, and say, "A pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Pennyworth, I’m glad you could make it today," with a smile that I hope is charming and welcoming. Meeting my hand, he shakes it while saying, "Not at all, miss (L/N), the pleasure is all mine, and I wouldn’t miss this for the world." For an older man, he has quite a strong grip, but what surprises me the most is his British accent.

Trying not to give my surprise away, I continue smiling and step back to introduce my friends,

‘This here is my best friend Izzy," who smiles and gives a small wave. "To her right is her older sister, Alina, and her fiancé Eduardo." Alina, mimicking her younger sister, smiles politely and waves from where she’s standing, but Eduardo, being the gentleman that he is, shakes everyone’s hands while saying "pleasure to meet you".

Watching everyone interact brings a smile to my face, and by the time introductions are complete, it is nearly time for our appointment. Realizing this, Mr. Wayne suggests we all head inside and check in. Agreeing, I turn on my heel, followed closely by my friends, who keep glancing at me with a smirk.

Entering the building, I immediately flinch at the sound of our heels clicking on the stone floor, drawing attention to us. Short of taking them off, there is nothing we can do about it, so instead, I huddle closer to Alina and Izzy while we make our way up to a polished young woman typing away on the computer.

Silently, Damian comes up on my right side, making us stand shoulder to shoulder—actually more like my shoulder and his upper arm. Even though we aren’t touching, skin to skin, my entire body stiffens, and all I can do is focus on the contact. I have no idea how many seconds pass, but it must be an awkward amount of time because Damian clears his throat and says politely,

"Excuse me, we have an appointment to register as soulmates at 3:30.".

Without looking up from her monitor, the woman with the severe low bun gives us a noncommittal "Mhhhmm" and resumes typing away with her unnecessarily long acrylic nails. Damian, clearly bothered by this response, bristles, making me look over at him, but since he’s so close, I have to tilt my head back to see his handsome face.

The others still behind us, wait patiently while the woman does whatever she is doing on the computer, while I take the time to really look at him. His skin is so smooth and even, but what I never noticed before are these barely noticeable, fine white lines that mar his otherwise flawless skin. They were scars, I realize with a start, which must show on my face because he looks at me with a co*cked eyebrow as if saying, "What?".

Shaking my head slightly, I turn back to the woman, still incredibly aware of where we are connected, making me tingle. Concentrating on my breathing, I will myself to clear my mind and focus on what needs to be done.

"Excuse me, miss, we would really appreciate it if you’d sign us in so we could get out of your hair and you can return to your important work," I say as I slap on what I hope to be my most charming and disarming smile. At that, she looks up and finally notices Damian, or better yet, the Waynes. Face heating, she immediately says,

"Yes, of course. My apologies. If you could just give me your names, that would be great."

After a few minutes, we successfully sign in, all the while ‘little Miss couldn’t be bothered’ is practically making ‘f*ck me’ eyes with any of the Waynes she can make eye contact with. It's good to know she isn’t picky. An uncontrollable sense of possessiveness takes over me when she shifts those eyes to Damian, making my back go ramrod straight as I level her with a withering glare. Thankfully, she sensibly lowers her eyes immediately, earning me an amused grin from my friends who can’t seem to mind their own business.

Taking the clipboards from her, we find seats near the middle, where there are two long benches facing each other. My friends and I sat with our backs to the door while Damian and his family have theirs to the attendant, who barely helped us. Normally, I’d never allow myself to have my back to a door or window, but for the sake of keeping a low profile and making a good impression, I don’t complain.

Crossing my legs, I rest the clipboard on my left knee and lean over to fill out the questions. They’re generic, like name, date of birth, address, etc. Once I get to emergency contact, though, I hesitate. For an outsider, my guardian would be an obvious contact to put down, but anyone who knows me knows I would never. My second option is either Alina or Eduardo, but they live so far away at school, only coming back to Gotham for wedding stuff. I also don’t want to put that sort of pressure on them.

Deciding to leave it blank, I move on and fill out the rest of the pages with ease. Once complete, I look up and find Damian looking at me.

"If you’re finished, I’ll bring up the clipboards." He says in a low voice.

"Oh, sure, thanks," I mumble out in reply.

Standing up to his full height, he takes the clipboard from my hands, gently brushing his fingers against my own while he does.

I flush, looking down, not willing to meet his eyes in front of his family, afraid of what I might see there if I do. Now, all we can do is wait until we are called into the private room in the back to start the registration process. I have no idea what to expect, but from what Alina and Eduardo told me the other day, it’s a fairly simple and quick thing.

We wait out here for another 20 more minutes while Eduardo and Bruce chat with surprising ease about the rampant economic crisis Gotham is still facing. While they continue their conversation, I talk with the boys, which leads to me discovering that Richard, or Dick as he prefers to be called, is a Gotham City detective currently stationed in Bludhaven.

As the conversation continues, I zone out, looking around the room, when my eyes land on another young couple. They look like the perfect storybook couple, with their intertwined fingers and the inability to look away from one another. Every now and then he’ll place a quick kiss on the top of her head, and she’ll respond by giving his hand a squeeze and leaning into him.

It makes my heart yearn for that kind of intimacy, and sitting there, across from Damian, I wonder what the two of us must look like to the outside world. How awkward and stiff we must seem to people.

"I propose, after all the papers are signed, we go out for a celebratory dinner to my favorite place in town," Bruce says enthusiastically. Looking toward my friends, I eye them to gauge their reaction.

"Oh, I’m always down for food," Jason responds.

"I don’t think he was asking you, blinkard," Damian says, glaring at his older brother. "What would you like to do (Y/N)?" he says, now looking at me with kinder eyes.

"I’ll never say no to food, you could easily kidnap me with a taco truck", I say, leaning back into my seat, eliciting a laugh from the boys and my friends.

"Yeah, it's official; I like her," Dick says, smiling my way, making my cheeks flush. Damian’s head swings toward his brother and gives him a small scowl, which just makes Dick laugh even more.

Another 10 minutes later, Eduardo has a drink and Doritos in hand, idly scrolling through his phone.

"Another one’s come out", he says, still looking down. Alina, Izzy, and I already know what he’s referring to, so we all whip out our phones. Glancing upward, I realize that Damian and the others don't, so I quickly explain,

"Every day Buzzfeed will drop a new quiz, usually a really dumb one like ‘design this house and we’ll tell you what Disney princess you are’, which we started doing together a few weeks ago and we haven’t been able to stop." Looking around, I realize I probably should have kept the information to myself considering the confused and bored looks I was getting from them.

"Here, I'll airdrop it to you," Eduardo says, not picking up on their clear disinterest.

"Oh, this one’s good today," Alina says, "It’s ‘prepare a full day’s worth of food and we'll tell you which Bat-member you are’," snickering at the word ‘Bat-member’. At that, the others seem to perk up a little.

"Now, this I have to see," Tim, the quieter one, says.

All of us, except for Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth, have our phones out and begin the quiz. Looking up periodically, I notice a quickly shared glance between the two but think nothing more of it as I build my breakfast.

"Obviously an omelet," I mumble under my breath, to which Damian looks up expectantly at me.

"Just building my breakfast," I continue, now aware of the others looking at me.

"Tt," he nods to himself, returning his attention to his screen.

Completing the quiz, I wait patiently for the others to finish before revealing my results, smiling to myself as I see them. Once the others look up, Eduardo says,

"Alright, I got Batman…probably because I said I’d rather have a glass of water with my dinner instead of red wine," with a slight frown. "Not that I’m mad, because he’s the caped crusader and is badass." Alina chuckles at his quick addition and then says,

"Well, I got Nightwing, which is cool, because it says here that "you’re brave, smart, and nimble enough to fight off any enemy with ease. Your intelligence and work ethic make you an asset to Batman, and your reliability is what he counts on most.’ See, Eduardo, I’m reliable and intelligent." While poking her fiancé lovingly in the ribs.

Snorting and rolling his eyes, he says, "Yes, dear, whatever you say," with a look of clear adoration in his eyes as he wraps an arm around her shoulder, enticing her to lean into him. They truly were the pinnacle of couple goals; I mean, he radiated ‘Gomez Adams’ level of infatuation with Alina, and she adored him just as equally.

Oblivious to the couple, Izzy says, "I got Red Robin, because, and I quote, "you think of every step before you make the first one. Never moving too soon or too late, you always anticipate your opponent’s moves, making you a force to be reckoned with and an ally to Batman’…ooooh look at that." While waggling her eyebrows with a smug expression. Smiling, I look at the others and find myself looking at 6 very entertained men, all leaning forward with interest radiating off them. Who would have thought a Buzzfeed quiz would enrapture the Wayne clan?

Those eyes now shift to me, expectantly and patiently waiting for my response. Looking down at my phone again, I say,

"I got Red Hood because ‘I’m willing to go the extra mile to ensure the safety of the city and my loved ones. There is nothing that can stop me once I’ve made up my mind, even if Batman does not approve. There is no price too hefty and no threat too grave to hold me back. I am an asset to Batman when he needs me to cross a line that he cannot.’" Adding a touch of dramatic flair at the end.

Looking up at Damian, I see laughter light up his eyes as he tries his best to repress a smile. Jason and Dick have no such reservations and are outright smiling, while Tim just shakes his head, looking back down, with a hint of a grin.

"Yeah, no, I can totally see that," Eduardo says, interrupting my observations.

"What? Really, why?" I ask, baffled. Everyone knows that the Red Hood, although previously affiliated with Batman as one of his old Robins, has gone out on his own. It is also well known that Batman has a no-killing rule, which Red Hood often disregards, leaving a trail of dead bodies in his wake. Although gruesome, I don’t completely disagree with his methods if it means fewer people will have to die unnecessarily.

"I’m not saying that I think you’re down for murder, but if you had to kill someone, I think you’re the most likely out of all of us to get away with it." He rationalizes.

"That’s so true," Izzy tacks on, "remember the smoothies we tried to make that tasted like ass, but you knew that if we threw it out Bran would be pissed, so you orchestrated a whole plot to make it look like we ate it all?"

"Sure, yeah, but that was getting rid of a smoothie, not a whole dead body," I respond. "I get enough anxiety when I use Chegg for math homework, there’s no way I’d stay calm enough to successfully hide a dead body."

"I feel that," Izzy says while nodding unintentionally.

"But I mean, I guess that’s a compliment, because there has to be at least one transferable skill in there that is applicable," I say, now pondering.

"Rolling sushi maybe?" Eduardo adds quickly.

"How?"

"Well, you roll sushi, presumably in the same fashion you’d roll a dead body in a rug." He says informatively.

"Why would I want to ruin a perfectly nice rug?"

"you’re missing the point." He speaks dryly.

"No, I know what you’re getting at, but wouldn’t a missing person and a missing rug be really suspicious?"

"That’s a fair point." He says with his hand, brushing his beard in consideration.

Completely enthralled in our debate, I almost miss the attendant calling out our names. Of course, the second Damian’s name is called, just about every head in the building turns toward us. For the past hour, there were a few people who kept stealing glances at us as subtly as they could, but now with a confirmation of his identity and therefore the others, they’re looking straight at them without any reservation.

Standing up, we all turn to the heavy-set woman who called our names and make our way toward her. Noticing us walking in her direction, she says, "Follow me," without waiting to see if we are actually behind her.

Going through one of the doors in the back, we’re herded into a narrow hallway, forcing us to walk in pairs until we reach another doorway to go through. I find myself surveying the room, taking stock of every point of entry and exit. There are three doors and two windows, with only one wall having neither.

Walking around a large wooden desk, the attendant gestured to two leather seats directly across from it and says, "If the witnesses could please take a seat in the back until we’re ready for you to fill out some paperwork, that would be greatly appreciated".

Now, it’s just the two of us in front of the woman, which for some reason makes me anxious. Rubbing my clammy palms on the side of my pants, I sit down in one of the chairs. Damian, seemingly unaffected, descends gracefully into the seat next to mine. Once she notices we are seated, she places her glasses on her face and begins typing on the computer.

"Date of birth?" she says robotically, not looking at us.

Giving her the information she requires, she then asks for our passports and social security cards, which I pull out of my jacket pocket. With each question we answer, her fingers fly across the keyboard, recording our answers. On and on it goes, and I’m just starting to wonder when it will end when I hear,

"Soulmarks. Where are they and what size?"

Taken aback, I freeze for a moment, and out of the corner of my eye, I realize Damian has as well. Neither Alina nor Eduardo mentioned anything about them needing information about the Soulmarks.

"What?" I ask incredulously.

Tilting her head downward, she looks at us through her glasses and says,

"The marks that appeared on your body when you first Soulreached. I need to know their location, size, and color, which you can either tell me or show me."

Neither of us saying anything, I quietly weigh my options, but before I can think about it for too long, she says,

"Alright, everybody out. C’mon, I don’t have all day, move." Standing up and signaling for them to go through the same door we entered.

"I’ll call you back in when it’s time for you to sign the documents."

I can feel my face getting hot, and I just know that I am sporting a serious blush. And not a cute one either—the kind of blush that runs down your neck and makes you look like you’re about to pass out from exertion.

Looking over at Damian, I’m slightly comforted to see he looks just as uncomfortable as I am, albeit with the same olive tone as he did minutes ago. The only way I can tell he’s annoyed is by the crease in his brow and the slight downturn of his lips.

"All right, you two, I’m going to need to see the marks. It’s important I have a description for the record."

Slowly I start taking off my blazer, resigned to the fact that he’ll have to see some of my scars, but luckily none of the bad ones. With the blazer folded over my arm, I’m able to hide my shaking hands as I turn around and lift my hair off my neck.

I hear him softly inhale as I’m certain he sees the Soulmark or scars for the first time. I don’t bother trying to look over my shoulder to see his expression. I’m not sure I’m ready to handle that.

"Ok, thank you, you can put your blazer back on, young lady. Just to confirm, the tattoo runs up and down the length of your spine and is jet black, correct?"

"Yes, ma’am," I say, looking at her and cataloging the look of astonishment she’s trying to hide.

"Alright, now it’s your turn, young man; let’s see it."

Still standing, I turn to Damian and see him begin to take off his blazer, then his tie, and the next thing I know, he’s unbuttoning his shirt. Unable to pull my eyes away, I watch him as he shrugs off his shirt and is left with just a fine white cotton undershirt. Grabbing the hem of the shirt, he pulls it over his head in one fluid motion.

Sucking in my breath, I take in his rich caramel skin and the way his tightly corded abdominal muscles work as the shirt comes off.

Holy sh*t.

Trying not to be an absolute creep, I quickly raise my eyes and focus on his left shoulder. There…covering nearly ¼ of his chest, lies his Soulmark. Awestruck, I take a step forward, and before I realize what I’m doing, I lightly touch the mark. Sucking in a sharp breath, I think he stops breathing as I rove my hand lightly over the mark.

"It’s stunning," I barely whisper, still staring at it in amazement. Breathing hard, I try my best but miserably fail to calm down as I look up at him. Now standing mere inches away, I crane my neck up to see him. Looking into his wide eyes, there is so much there that I can barely read it, but one thing I was certain of was all the questions I could see swimming in his eyes.

He tilts his head down, neither of us speaking but breathing hard enough that we can feel each other’s breaths. Finally, he breaks the eye contact and slowly turns around to show me the continuation of the Soulmark on the back of his shoulder as well.

It was exquisite.

The same baroque and intricate latticed style as my own, but somehow more masculine and sharper. Once again, my hand reaches out for him, lightly tracing the continuation with my fingertips, when I notice the other marks on him.

Scars. He also has scars.

And lots of them—some small, pale white ones, and others pinker, angrier, and more jagged. He was covered in them. Already at a loss for words, my brain can’t even begin to process this new piece of information.

"Alright, you two, that’s enough; I have what I need." The woman says, breaking our trance. Clearing my throat, I immediately step back and turn towards my chair, giving him privacy to redress and me a moment to collect myself.

Stupid… I can’t believe I touched his bare chest without his permission.

Too soon, we’re both sitting back down and waiting for her to finish up the report, looking everywhere but at each other. With my hands in my lap, I begin fidgeting with my nails, trying not to think about what just happened too hard. From under my lashes, I steal a peek at Damian and see him sitting utterly still, looking at the wall behind the woman.

Mortified, I keep my head down and wait patiently for her to tell us that we’re all set.

"Now that the paperwork is complete, all you have to do is take your photo for your identification cards, and you’ll be all set." She says cheerily. Looking at us, it’s clear she can see the awkward tension between us because she says in a gentle voice,

"By the way, in my 30 years of doing this, I have never seen Soulmates with such large and intricate Soulmarks on them." Scrunching my nose, I look away, not wanting to acknowledge the confirmation of what I already knew—that we were weird.

"In those 30 years, I realized that couples with larger Soulmarks usually shared a deeper connection."

"How so?" Damian asks almost too quickly, leaning forward in his chair.

"For example, the pairs with the larger marks are usually more attuned to one another’s emotions, as well as being more likely to feel withdrawals sooner and more intensely than others. Even on rare occasions, they’ll be able to sense each other’s presence within a certain radius without actually seeing them." Everything she was saying I’d heard from people or read online somewhere, so hearing it from her wasn’t a surprise. But by the look on Damian’s face, it was to him.

"Some say that those who have a particularly strong bond can feel when the other is in pain or in trouble." She tacks on at the last minute.

Now that I know, I look at Damian to see if I can guess what he’s thinking, and I’m thrown off by how pale he looks. Like the blood drained right out of his face…but why? Concerned, I turn to him fully, grabbing his attention, and mouth, "You ok?" to which he promptly nods and looks away, clearing his throat. Ok, that was weird, and if Sam were here right now, I bet she’d agree with me.

"Alright, while the two of you get your photo taken, I’ll get your companion’s signatures".

Standing up, we follow her through another door to a smaller room with no windows, a white backdrop, camera equipment, and the photographer. Closing the door behind us, we both look at the tall, lanky man standing there fiddling with the camera sitting on the tripod.

"Congratulations on your registration; this will be the last step before you’re on your merry way." He says without looking at either of us. Raising my eyebrows, I look at Damian to find him doing the same thing, bringing a small smile to my face. The color has returned to his face, and the haunted look in his eye is no longer there.

Good.

"Alright, I’m ready for you." He turns, signaling us to stand on the duct tape X in the middle of the floor. Both moving, we stand on the X and turn toward the camera. Unsure of whether or not I should wrap my arm around his waist, I decided to play it safe and keep my hands clasped in front of me.

The photographer, whatever his name is, looks out from behind the camera and waves his hand, motioning us to move closer to each other.

We both move an inch closer.

Sighing, he does it again, unsatisfied by the small step we took. Deciding to be bold, I gently bring my right arm behind him and lightly place it on his back, right between his shoulder blades. I’m suddenly very aware of his firm body pressed against my side. I’m not sure if it’s because of his muscles, or because he’s tense, but for every soft part of me that touches him, there is an equally firm part of him touching me.

I wonder if he notices or even cares.

I’m sure he’s had lots of soft women against him when he’s not in school, a thought that bothers me way more than it should. A beat later, I feel him shift, and then the warmth of his hand settles on my hip, BENEATHmy blazer. The heat that assaults me nearly makes me lose my balance, which I’m certain I would have if his grip on my hip didn’t tighten as he pulls me even closer to him.

"Perfect, stay right there… On three, you’ll see a flash…don’t close your eyes."

With his hand under my blazer, the weight of my dagger that I hid in the inner pocket rests against his hand, prompting him to ask what it is…to which I reply coyly,

"Oh, you know, just a dagger," I say while smiling and tilting my head to rest lightly on his shoulder. The bright light of the flash goes off, and too soon we untangle our limbs and make our way to the photographer. Immediately, I find myself missing his warmth.

"Perfect, in a few minutes the computer will spit out two polaroids for you to keep in your wallet, on your wall, or whatever."

True to his word, he hands us each a small square Polaroid, forever memorializing this moment. There is no way to deny it now; we’re soulmates, and whether we liked it or not, we were irrefutably a part of each other’s lives. Looking over at Damian, I can see him coming to the same conclusion, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

Looking back down at the photo, I begin to analyze it. Smiling, the colors begin to deepen, and I notice that the flash must have gone off the moment I mentioned the dagger because instead of looking at the camera, Damian’s head is turned down, looking at me with a ghost of a smile on his lips.

It dawns on me that with his hand visibly gripping my hip and my head tilted to rest on his shoulder, we look like real Soulmates.

Chapter 5: Uncharted Territory

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

The photographer opens the door that we came through, saying,

"Congratulations once again; you’re both officially registered soulmates," with more excitement than I was expecting.

Both of us mumble our ‘thank you’ and quickly find ourselves reunited with our party in the lobby of the building, all eyes turning to us as we exit.

Jason, Dick, and Eduardo are all waggling their eyebrows with mischief in their eyes, while Tim, Izzy, and Alina arenotdoing their best to suppress a knowing grin on their faces. Meanwhile, Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth are looking down at their phones seriously.

Damian, noticing his father’s serious face, asks warily,

"Is something the matter?" while ignoring the stares from his brothers. At his question, Mr. Wayne’s attention snaps towards them, his face relaxing while he says,

"Yes, I was just confirming the reservation for our dinner party. We need to be there in thirty minutes, but there is a slight problem."

"What sort of problem?" Damian replies, his voice dipping. Unintentionally, he angles his body in front of mine, partially blocking me from view.

"Nothing too serious, son. The paparazzi have discovered our location and are currently blocking all the exits. We’ll have to go through them."

Damian huffs out a breath and takes a step back, seemingly unsurprised by the answer.

"That was bound to happen." He says nonchalantly, but with a small frown tugging at his lips.

"How many are we talking about?" I ask, trying my best to sound uninterested when, in reality, I can feel my heart rate kick up a notch.

Frowning, Mr. Wayne answers, "Probably more than usual considering the circ*mstances." I inwardly wince at his response. That’s what I was afraid of.

"I will go ahead and get the car and pull it up as close as I can get, so your journey through the mongrels is a short one." Mr. Pennyworth says in a tight voice and promptly walks toward the exit. My friends outwardly recoil at the word mongrels, making me, in turn, flinch at their reaction.

"I think it would be best if you 3 left before us and just met us at the restaurant. If (Y/N) is seen with you, they’ll hound you, which can be dangerous to navigate since none of you have any experience with this." Dick says apologetically.

They look like they want to protest, but eventually nod solemnly.

"I’ll see you guys in 15 minutes, ok? Call me if something goes wrong…promise me." I practically plead. Of course, they agree, and after quick hugs, they make their way to the same doors Mr. Pennyworth went through.

Watching their retreating backs, I can’t help but feel as if my world is coming out from under me. Everything is changing so fast that I feel like I’m getting whiplash. Becoming a public figure isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me, but it’s certainly one of the most impactful ones. Nothing will ever be the same, I realize as I see the three of them all clasp hands, put their heads down, and walk into the flashing lights. Luckily, the lights only flash once, the paparazzi, realizing none of us were with them, lost interest.

I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing they’ll be okay this time. But what happens if I want to spend time with them outside again? Will they chase us? Will they chase them even when I’m not with them? What of my other friends, or anyone else who didn’t sign up for this? not like I have either, but that’s neither here nor there. Breaking my train of thought, Bruce suggests,

"(Y/N) I think it would be best if you were in the center. I will head out first, and I want you right behind me with Damian by your side. Jason and Dick, I want you flanking them, and Tim, I need you to take up the rear. Tight circle around (Y/N), ok?" Nodding grimly, the boys get into position wordlessly.

Like a well-oiled machine, we’re moving. Encircled in this impenetrable wall of muscle, I find myself beginning to silently panic, unable to see past his back. Damian, sensing my unease, wraps his arm around my shoulder, giving my upper arm a light squeeze, and whispers,

"Hold onto me; it’ll be disorienting at first and you might not be able to see, but I’ll make sure you stay upright."

All I can manage is to nod firmly, steel my nerves, and push my shoulders back, standing up straighter. We stop barely 5 feet from the doors when Mr. Wayne turns around and looks at all of his sons before his eyes rest on me.

"Everyone ready? I can see the car from here; it’s about 50 feet away, but half of it is down a flight of stairs, so watch your step. There will most likely be pushing and shoving. If you feel like you need to grab onto the back of my jacket, don’t hesitate to do so. It’ll be over before you know it."

"Lead the way," I say with more bravado than I feel. Turning back around, I catch the barest hint of a smile on the corner of Mr. Wayne’s mouth as he goes to push open the double doors.

Before the doors even fully swing open, the flashes begin, immediately blinding me. It takes every fiber of my being not to flinch and take a step back, but with Damian’s arm wrapped around my shoulder, I feel more secure than I expected to.

Then, we’re moving… quickly. Damian’s father wasn’t kidding when he said there would be shoving, but what I wasn’t expecting was all the shouting. I realize after a few seconds that they were shouting questions about me and to me.

"What is it like being the soulmate of aWayne?"

"Sources say that you’re faking it to make a run for his money."

"How do you feel about being connected to one of the most powerful billionaires in the world?"

And some questions are fielded to Damian.

"Are you guys in love?"

"What’s she like behind closed doors?"

"What do your Soulmarks look like?"

On and on, the questions come from every direction. Some expected, and many not. About halfway there, Jason gets pushed by one of the photographers, making him bump into me. Luckily, with Damian’s arm firmly around my shoulder, I’m able to keep upright and continue moving. Damian doesn’t lessen his grip on my shoulder and even folds me closer into him as we get closer to the car.

Now, 10 feet away from the car, Mr. Wayne opens the car door and steps aside, letting me enter first, followed by Damian, Jason, Dick, and Tim. Once we’re all in the back, he climbs into the front seat, and before we can all get our seatbelts on, Mr. Pennyworth floors it. Settling back into the sumptuously soft, warm leather seat of the car, I close my eyes for a moment, thankful for getting through that, unscathed.

Is this how it’s going to always be? Will my life now turn into finding creative evasive maneuvers to try to outsmart greasy old men with Nikons? As if reading my thoughts, Jason says,

"You know it won’t always be like this. For a little while longer, yes. But once they get used to you, they’ll calm down a bit. I won’t lie and tell you that you won’t notice them… you will, but it’ll eventually become a lot more manageable."

Blinking my eyes open, I let his words settle into me, calming my racing heart. Peaking over past Damian, I give a small smile and a quiet ‘thank you" before leaning back in my seat to look out the window. Thankfully, the windows are tinted, making it easier to relax in the car.

"You handled that very well, by the way," Damian whispers, leaning into me a bit. I’m taken aback by the compliment, and for a moment, all I can do is look at him and blink. Before I can stop myself, I feel myself smile.

Why does he have to be so damn handsome when he’s being sincere.

Much to my relief, we turn into the parking lot of the restaurant before I can say something embarrassing in front of him and his entire family. As we’re pulling into a parking space, I spot Alina’s cute little BMW a few cars down.

Good, they were already here.

One by one, we all climb out of the car and start walking to the front. As casually as I can, I take a quick sweep of my surroundings to see if any paparazzi are hiding in bushes or around corners. It was a small mercy that there are none around, nor are there any people casually idling about either.

Not one to test my luck, I duck into the restaurant as quickly as possible and stop behind Mr. Wayne as he is being greeted by the maître d’.

"Right this way, Mr. Wayne," she says in a beautifully lilting voice. We follow her through the restaurant in single file, with Damian at my back. I notice that we are being led straight to the back. Sliding open a door designed to look like just another wall panel, the maitre d’ begins placing menus around a large table in the center of the elegant burgundy room.

Taking in my surroundings, I notice how the walls are completely covered in dense, dark wood paneling that crawls all the way up to the ceiling. The grandeur of the room is accentuated by the coffered ceiling and the massive antique crystal chandelier. This room must have hosted many backdoor meetings and celebrities trying to avoid recognition.

I wait for everyone to situate themselves around the table before I take my seat, with Izzy to my right and Damian to my left. From the place setting, I can tell this will be a fine dining experience with the multiple, various-sized cutlery already resting before us.

Thanking the maitre d’, Mr. Wayne settles into his seat and begins studying the menu. Following suit, the rest of us take a moment to read our options. The farther down the menu I read, the more I begin to burst with excitement at the many magnificent dishes available. For the appetizer, I am stuck between the tuna tartar or fried calamari… and don’t get me started on the entrees.

"Anything piquing your interest?" I ask Damian once I’ve made my decision.

He looks up from the menu and meets my eyes, giving me a non-committed shrug while saying, "I’ve had everything on the menu at least once before, and objectively, it’s all high-quality ingredients."

"So, you’re not much of a foodie, or you find Italian to be repetitive." I say, giving him my best ‘I can see through your bullsh*t’ glare.

He ponders my response for a moment before answering, "I prefer innovation and creativity when it comes to my food. I find that many Asian, Middle Eastern, and African cuisines have a certain elevation to them that American and Italian food often lack."

For some reason, his answer excites me, which he must be able to tell because he quickly adds, "I think food is both nourishment for the body and for the soul. I enjoy it the most when it’s an intricate experience."

Nodding enthusiastically, we turn toward each other, leaning in to not disturb the other conversations going on. For the next few minutes, we discuss some of our favorite food memories. I tell him about the best-fried chicken I ever had while in the foothills of the Himalayas in Thailand, and he tells me about some of the places he’s been to and shared food with his father.

After taking our drink order, another waiter comes by and takes our food orders. I decided on the tuna tartar for my appetizer and the beef Wellington for my entrée, which earns me a round of raised eyebrows from Damian’s family and knowing glances from my friends.

While we wait for our food, the conversation continues to flow naturally between all of us, making my heart constrict with an unknown emotion. Taking this all in, it is the first time since discovering Damian as my soulmate that I really feel comfortable and totally at ease. Damian hasn’t spoken much but is attentively paying attention, taking in every word of every answer I give. He intently looks at me when I speak and even when I don’t, making the back of my neck tingle and my face flush.

I thought I would be uncomfortable with his intense gaze, but I find myself secretly yearning for more of it. When he looks at me like that, it makes my heart flutter and my body warm, reacting to his attention with a mind of its own.

"So, have you figured out where you want to go to school yet or what you want to major in?" Mr. Wayne asks, interrupting my thoughts.

Smoothly, without missing a beat, I reply,

"Yes actually, I’ve applied to a few different universities’ early decisions." My top three schools are Brown, MIT, and Gotham University, since I want to major in biochemistry."

"Gotham University is certainly the school for you then; they're in the top three in the country for biochemistry." Mr. Wayne says, impressed.

"I know; I’m excited to hear back from them in December or January. I know their STEM programs are incredibly competitive, so I’m not holding out too much hope." I confess. The others are now pausing their conversations to tune into ours.

"I’m sure you’ll get in; Damian tells me you’re one of the smartest people he’s ever met."

I chuckle and look over to see a blushing Damian with a hard expression on his face.

"That’s kind of you to say, Mr. Wayne; I do try my best," I say, trying not to look as embarrassed as I feel. "I just happen to really enjoy science and want to work with stem cells in the future. I think there are so many applications it can be used for. I’m currently in a lab right now that extracts cells of a particular organ and engineers them to regrow said organ outside of the body."

Discussing my lab and research always gets me into a bit of an excited frenzy, so I have to remind myself to calm down before I continue to word vomit nerdy sh*t. To my amazement, they all seem genuinely intrigued by what I just said.

"That’s quite an impressive feat. For someone as young as you to be working in a lab such as that one. The research you’re doing really could change people’s lives for the better," Mr. Wayne says with a slight awe in his tone. "And please, (Y/N), call me Bruce."

Smiling, I politely agree, and we delve further into the discussion of my research, with the others now pitching in or asking their own questions. Nobody, other than my friends at this table, has ever shown such an interest in my lab before, which makes a lump in my throat appear out of nowhere. Even Damian seems engrossed by the subject and interjects his own observations and questions as well, making me as giddy as a little girl getting a new toy (or in my case, the monthly scholastic science box).

All too soon, the first round of food comes out, effectively shutting us all up as waiter after waiter places the elegant dishes in front of us. Doing everything I can to hold myself back from being an absolute gremlin, I wait until everyone’s plates are in front of them. Taking small bites and allowing more than three seconds to pass between each one, I look to Izzy to see that she too is battling her food demons.

One of the many reasons we get along so well is because we have very similar eating styles. Some people like to eat slowly, talk between bites, or even take a break for several minutes.

Not us. No.

Usually, once the food is in front of us, we transform into the Hunchback of Notre Dame (our faces never more than a few inches above the plate) and we INHALE our meal. Generally, within 5 minutes flat, no matter the size, density, or complexity of the dish, our plates are wiped clean.

The instant we both recognize the mutual restraint we’re both displaying, we start cracking up. The sound of our laughter draws attention to us as the others, including Eduardo, look at us confused. But the more we look at their confused faces, the harder we laugh. After a few minutes, I try to calm myself down and even out my breathing. Back to my normal breathing pattern, I look at Damian and see a new sparkle in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.

I’m about to ask him about what he was thinking when I hear a wet sputtering down to my right. Whipping around in the direction of the sound, I see Eduardo choking on what I assume is an ice cube. After a few more seconds of heavy coughing that turned his face red, he begins to wave his hands, trying to signal that he’s ok

"Whew, sorry about that; there was a rogue ice cube that hit my vulva," he says calmly.

"Ugh, no, it most certainly didn’t," I respond barely containing another episode of laughter. Everyone else around me, realizing Eduardo’s mistake begins cracking up with me, including Damian. Now wheezing, I look up at Eduardo to see his confused expression still in place when he says,

"What? What did I say?" innocently.

Alina, barely able to breathe, tries to say, "Sweetie, the ice cube hit your uvula, not your vulva." Between breaths.

Laughter still ringing out, I see Bruce trying his best to smother his smile, and Mr. Pennyworth silently shaking in his seat, eyes more reflective than before. Izzy, sitting upright again after practically falling out of her seat, wipes her eyes dry with the napkin that is on her lap. Eduardo, now laughing, keeps trying to apologize but can’t manage to get the words out. After a few more minutes, we’re all calm enough to resume our conversations and enjoy the food in front of us.

After we finish our appetizers, the waiters hastily clear our empty plates and clean the crumbs off our table. Throughout the entrée, conversation flows effortlessly, and sooner than I would have liked, the dessert menu is brought out.

I steal a glance over at Damian as he reads the menu intently and notice that he’s somehow closer. When did he shift his seat closer to mine, and why? As my mind is racing with a million theories and ideas, he senses me looking at him and shoots me an inquisitive look. Blushing, I look away, but not before he catches me. Mortified, I study the menu, closely reading the minuscule font of the ingredients.

Subconsciously, I shift my weight from leaning on the right arm of my chair to the left, closer to Damian. We’re close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off his body and smell the fresh scent of soap with an underlying hint of warm floral spice. If I had to picture what he smelled like, I’d imagine warm, amber pool sandalwood with hints of jasmine. Subtly inhaling deeper, I find myself leaning into him further, practically intoxicated by his scent.

Bzzt bzzt.

Snapping out of it, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. Straightening out but still leaning on the left arm of the chair, I discreetly pull it out to check my messages. Ever since we Soulreached in our Calc class on Friday, I have been getting loads of messages from people—some that I know and many that I don’t. After deactivating my accounts, I thought it would stop or at least die down, but I was wrong. Alina, seeing that I have pulled out my phone, lights up and leans over, asking,

"Have you gotten any more?" in a hushed tone.

Handing my phone over to her, I say, "No idea, but here, have a field day, and don’t forget to screenshot the funny ones."

"What’s that all about?" Jason asks, looking at his brothers and father, who are now wearing suspicious looks on their faces. Right before I get into it, the waiter comes back and quickly takes our order, picking up our menus as he goes. Once the table is cleared and the waiter leaves with the stack of menus, I begin explaining.

"Well, when we Soulreached on Friday in front of our Calculous class, the news spread like wildfire through the school, and by my next class, I was already getting texts and DMs and whatnot asking me about it or trolling me. So, I decided to deactivate my social media accounts, except for Facebook, which I only keep to stay in touch with some foreign friends." Everyone listens intently and nods along with me as I continue, "By Saturday, I was getting some interesting messages from unknown numbers, or through Facebook Messenger." Most of them are on Messenger, from the girls at our school, conveying their dismay or whatever. Some of them are actually pretty funny… one girl in our class said she would ‘unalive me." No, really, she used the word ‘unalive’."

"Wait, are you getting any threats?" Dick asks, leaning his forearms on the table with his eyebrows sitting heavy on his browbone. I could see a tick working in his jaw as he looks at me intensely.

"I mean, most of them aren’t serious, like, who would send a death threat through Facebook Messenger and mean it when I have access to their profile? Anyway, they’re pretty entertaining. Alina, Izzy, and I sat around for like two hours reading through them and laughing. Which one was the minivan one again?" I ask Alina.

"Oh yeah, that one girl who said she’s going to hit you with her mom’s Honda Odyssey in the school parking lot." She says, starting to laugh at the memory.

"Oh yeah, that’s right!" I say now laughing too. "I plan on compiling screenshots of the really funny ones like that and then getting them printed onto a pillow for my room."

"Honestly if that girl can actually get her mom’s Honda Odyssey to go fast enough to kill you on impact, then I think she’s earned it." Izzy supplements with a wicked smile.

The look on their faces is a mixture of rage, confusion, and disbelief, which makes me smile even wider. Hearing a cackle from Alina, I turn my attention back to my friends, waiting expectantly.

"There are some good new ones from today’s batch. This is going to take a while; you have like 50 new messages on Facebook alone." Alina says, still scrolling through my phone. Her eyebrows crease as she stops at one, and after a few seconds, she cringes outwardly.

"Yeah, I would say 95% of them are harmless, but man, ever so often you get one of these crazy 3-page MLA format essays with a whole bibliography." She says, making me shrink. I was really hoping she wasn’t going to mention those.

"What is she talking about?" Damian asks in a frighteningly calm voice. Alina snaps her head up at the question and looks at me with wide eyes.

"You haven’t told him? You said you were going to tell him about the bad ones (Y/N)"

"It’s really not a big deal; I didn’t want to make nothing into something," I say, trying not to sound too defensive.

"It is not nothing," Damian says through clenched teeth.

"It is nothing." I insist. "For the ones that were more cornering and aggressive, I took screenshots, found their mother's profile through theirs, and sent it to them. All of whom responded with apologies. See problem solved."

"No, not problem solved. All you probably accomplished was infuriating them further, making it more likely for them to act out." Damian says, now practically shaking with rage in his seat.

"He’s right (Y/N), read this," Alina says gently as she hands my phone back to me. Dread pools in my stomach, and my hands go cold as I begin reading the message. Halfway through, I stop and go to put my phone away when Damian plucks it out of my hands. Normally I would have protested, but after reading that message, I let it go.

I watch him closely, noticing his nostrils flaring every now and then and the hard set of his jaw as he reads. After a few minutes, he reaches the bottom, places my phone face down on the table, and looks at me.

"How many like these have you received?" he asks in a strained voice.

Deciding it would be best to be honest with him, I answer, "I think maybe 7… 8" quickly adding, "But the others aren’t nearly as bad as this one."

His father puts his hand on his son’s shoulder and says, "It’s important you come to us if you receive any threatening messages, even if they do not seem as serious as this one. Your safety is important to us, and we cannot ensure it without you being forthright with us (Y/N)." He says gently but firmly.

"I understand what you’re saying and where you’re coming from. I never considered saying anything to Damian because it didn’t seem like his problem." I respond honestly.

"How could you think it isn’t my problem?" he asks, offended. His brothers nodding their heads in agreement, all with identical glowers on their faces.

"Why would I? I’m the only one getting the messages; therefore, it is my problem and my problem alone." I state.

"No, not at all; if it concerns you, it now concerns me."

"I’m not one to drag people into my problems; I can and will deal with this on my own."

"Why would you want to deal with this on your own, what makes you even think you can?"

"Well for starters, for every concerning message I received, each mother has responded to me, letting me know that it wouldn’t happen again, and guess what… it hasn’t. I’ll just do the same thing for this one."

"That’s all well and good, except this one is smarter than the others." He says more infuriated than ever.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask, now fuming myself.

"Unlock your phone." He says while handing my phone back to me. Reluctantly, I do, handing it right back to him. After pressing a few buttons, he holds it out for me to see.

"His profile is fake. His name is John Doe; he has no profile picture, no friends, and it says he joined yesterday." It is so silent in the room that I could hear a pin drop. As I process what Damian just showed me, I sit silently staring at my screen.

"This person, in detail, describes how they plan to rape and murder you. The cherry on top is their comprehensive plan to get rid of your body." He says, his voice taking on a deadly inflection.

Swallowing hard, I don’t really know what to say. I’ve never been in a situation like this, hell I doubt most people have. The only thing I can feel right now is the ice coursing through my veins, paralyzing my thoughts and squeezing my heart until it hurts. The pit in my stomach is growing, making me feel like it's hallowing out.

Looking at him again, really looking at him, I see his eyes soften. Finding my voice again, I say, "I don’t really know what to do. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit out of my depth here. I’ve spent the last 2 years flying under the radar; nobody ever really gave me grief other than the normal ‘new girl’ stuff. I’m just trying to take this day by day, you know?" I say trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice.

"We know this is tough for you (Y/N), but you have us now, and we’ll be there for you any way we can, even if that means just listening." Dick supplements kindly, to which I smile.

"My son’s right; if there is anything we can do to help you through this transition, I know all of us are more than happy to do so," Bruce says with a small smile on his face.

Damian, still furious, won’t look me in the eye as he struggles to get his anger under control. Nobody else can see him clenching and unclenching his fists under the table, squeezing so hard that he’s leaving half-moon-shaped nail marks on his palm from his nails. Feeling guilty, I subtly touch his forearm and give it a light squeeze, leaning into him,

"Is now a bad time for me to mention the envelope of white powder I found when I came home on Friday?" I ask in a teasing tone, trying to lighten the mood. Of course, that fails because Damian’s head snaps towards me, nostrils flaring with rage churning in his gorgeous jade eyes. Jason and Dick’s faces grow darker as well, which does not bode well for me. Looking at my friends, I see the shock and hurt on their faces.

"I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to worry you… and this weekend was supposed to be all about you, and I didn’t want to take that away," I say to them quickly, trying to rationalize my actions. "It was baking soda!" I say excitingly, trying to smooth it over. Realizing my mistake too late, I flinch at Jason’s voice,

"You…opened it?" He says in a barely contained outrage. "What did you taste it as well?" he tacks on.

"That’s enough, Jason; (Y/N) has never faced these situations before, it’s not her fault for making a mistake; thankfully, it wasn’t anything too serious. That being said, do you still have this letter?" Bruce says maintaining his neutral, calm voice.

"No, I gave it to the GCPD after putting on gloves and before I went over to Alina’s house. They’re actually the ones who told me it was baking soda." I say, pointedly glaring at Jason, who at least has the decency to look slightly put out. Daring a glance at Damian, I unexpectantly find a glimmer of approval in his eyes.

"Good thinking; hopefully, they will be able to lift some prints from the envelope and identify the person who sent it," Bruce says. Where Damian’s hint of approval is in his eyes, Bruce’s is in his voice. Rubbing his chin with his hand, he says, "I anticipated some level of interest and potential backlash to the news breaking out about your soulmate bond, but I didn’t expect such strong reactions so quickly."

None of us said anything at that point; the silence stretching on for what seemed like forever. Right as it was getting unbearable, the private door opens, and the waiters return to place our delectable desert in front of us. Glad that the conversation is over for the moment, we all dive into our deserts, happy for the distraction.

I ordered the hazelnut sponge cake with cappuccino gelato and raspberry sauce. The textures of the sponge cake, mousse, and homemade vanilla bean whip cream together married beautifully and danced across my tastebuds. Practically in heaven, and if I weren’t in front of people I just met, I’m pretty sure I would have audibly moaned. Unlike the appetizers, our deserts are gone in record time, with no plate left untouched.

It was a perfect ending to a perfect meal and a nearly perfect day. Although there were some obvious inconveniences and hard conversations, I find myself feeling overall content, if not a bit anxious, about what tomorrow will bring. After a quick back and forth between Eduardo and Bruce about who was paying for dinner, Bruce picks up the check only after agreeing to Eduardo getting the next one.

Placing our napkins on the table, we all stand up, with Mr. Pennyworth going ahead to pull around the car. Even though it’s a school night, I am going to stay at the girl’s house tonight since they live nearby. Everyone clears the room, leaving Damian and me as the last ones.

It is now or never.

"Damian," I say quietly, waving him over to where I am still standing near my seat. Eyebrows furrowing and concern flashing in his eyes, he comes to stand in front of me quickly, tilting his head down and trying to read my facial expression.

"Is something the matter (Y/N)?" he asks softly.

"No, not really… I just have a bit of an odd request… and you can totally shoot this down if you don’t feel comfortable with it," I rush out quickly, earning an even deeper furrow of his brow, "I was just wondering if it would be ok with you to hold onto my passport and social security card?" I finally get out.

At that, his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he co*cks his head to the side. Before he can give me an answer I rush out, "I can’t really answer any questions as to why I’m asking you to do this…at least not right now – but I promise one day I’ll explain… just not right now. Ok?"

Something in his eyes darkens, making their usual vibrant jade green color deepen to a forest moss.

Both beautiful.

"Of course." He says in a strained voice. Clearing his throat, he adds, "I’ll make sure this goes in the family vault. It’ll be secure, I promise."

Feeling like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders, I unintentionally grab his hand to say thank you. The moment our skin touches, a jolt of electricity rips through my body, settling low in my stomach and making my heart race. Wide-eyed, I crane my neck to look up at Damian to see if he feels it too. He does. I can tell by his own wild eyes and the pink now creeping up his cheeks.

Despite the odd new sensation, neither of us let go.

"Thank you, I really appreciate it. I know it’s a weird request... I just need you to know that I’m grateful." I say breathlessly, still so aware of the way his warm, calloused hands feel in my own.

"Tt, it’s really no problem at all," he says stiffly. His face contorts, becoming grave as he remembers something and says, "The next time someone sends you a threatening message, mails you, or says anything in-person to you in that grain, I want you to tell me…or at least someone in my family. Understand?" Nodding my head, I look down at our joined hands. I did understand why he wanted me to, but I can’t have him solve all my problems for me. I’m a big girl, and I have been taking care of myself for a long time… that hasn’t changed. Of course, I’m not going to tell him that, so instead, I say, "Ok, I’ll do my best to mention it if something like that happens again."

Seemingly satisfied with that answer, he huffs his approval and gently pulls his hand away, letting it fall to his side. Again, like after we separated when we took the picture, I feel oddly cold, like he’s taken my heat with him when we let go. Rubbing my now-cold hand, I leave through the doorway first and quickly reach my friends at their car. Opening the door, I look over my shoulder to find Damian looking over his, watching me get into the car.

I duck down and slide into the back seat, a smile on my face and warmth encompassing my body, pacifying my racing heart. Breaking the nice moment I am having, Alina interrupts my thoughts and says,

"So, on a scale of 1-10, how hard do you think his personal fan club is going to maul you in school tomorrow?" Jokingly, eliciting a snicker from Izzy and Eduardo.

Face falling, I hadn’t even considered what it will be like to return to school to face them.

Chapter 6: Curiosity Killed the Cat and Satisfaction Did NOT Bring It Back

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV: Monday

After a silent ride back from the restaurant, the rest of our night is mild and comfortable. Somewhere between 11 and 12, we all crash on the giant U-shaped couch, watching Shawshank Redemption. The next morning, I wake up at 6:30 and deftly make my way through their house, gathering everything I need for my morning routine. Heading up the stairs, I go to Izzy’s bathroom and lean heavily on her vanity, staring at the bags under my eyes.

Damn, and they’re not even designer. These puppies were some raggedy-ass-looking bags.

Heaving a deep breath, I muster all the energy I have - which is not much - and force myself through my morning routine. I would firmly place myself in the ‘not a morning person’ category. I much prefer the night, especially late at night when the world falls silent and it’s just me and my limitless dreams. There are no expectations on me to do any work, speak with anyone, or do anything that I don’t want to. It’s just me and whatever I want to do - and be.

I’m also not a huge fan of the sun, which in Gotham rarely makes an appearance, thankfully. Thinking of the sun, I remind myself to put on my favorite Supergoop sunscreen with SPF 40 before heading out. Even though it isn’t frequently sunny, the UV rays still penetrate through the clouds, damaging our skin. I’m not really one to throw money down the toilet when it comes to clothes, makeup, or accessories, but I have no quarrels with spending it on high-quality skincare products. I’m not talking about Dior anti-aging serum or La Mer products; I’m talking about products with clean, basic ingredients that don’t have a laundry list of unnecessary additives. I love brands like Drunk Elephant, Bioscience, and Krave because of their transparency and philosophy of only adding the ingredients we need and nothing more.

That’s enough of my soapbox preaching.

Quickly doing my makeup, I go through the steps of putting on mascara and brow gel, mumbling to myself like I’m in one of the Vogue ‘get ready with me’ videos. Thankfully, getting dressed requires no rubbing of the brain cells bec-

Sniffing aggressively, my eyes widen at the sudden realization.

Bacon. I smell bacon.

Reinvigorated, I finish getting ready with a new spring in my step and make my way downstairs to the kitchen.

"Good morning, Mrs. De Luca. Is that bacon I smell?" I say, giving her my best Bambi eyes. Chuckling, she nods, returning my greeting, and fixes a plate of bacon, lightly scrambled eggs, and buttered toast. Mouth salivating, I hastily grab the Cholula hot sauce and start vigorously hitting the bottom of it over my eggs. I like a little spice, but I am by no means Sean Evans, from Hot One's, downing ghost pepper chicken wings like a champ.

Luckily, with nobody else around, I inhale my breakfast like a fiend, which earns me another chuckle from their mother as I put my plate in their dishwasher shortly after I’m done. I’ve known the De Lucas for years, and since day one, I’ve practically lived here. I spend time with their family so frequently that they’ve started calling me the 3rd De Luca daughter, which I notso secretly adore.

With less than 30 minutes to get to school before the bell rings, I give Mama Luca a quick goodbye kiss and start my trek to school. They also live in the Diamond District, but farther from school than I do, so it takes me approximately 20–25 minutes of walking to get there. Walking in Gotham isn’t usually the best idea, but with it being morning rush hour, there are always several people on the street walking with me, giving us power in numbers.

With my air pods in, the walk to school flies by, and before I know it, I pass through the gate of the prestigious Gotham Academy. Stopping right before the stairs, a knot forms and settles in my stomach - but I refuse to let anyone see the dread seeping through my pores. Squaring my shoulders, I put on what I hope is a convincing ‘impassive’ mask and enter the school.

Increasing the volume of my music, I move through the halls narrowly, avoiding students who aren’t watching where they’re going, and find my locker. While doing a quick survey, nausea rises in my stomach when I realize, how often everyone keeps stealing glances at me. Pausing my music but keeping it in my ears, I listen to the conversation of the girls nearest to me while gathering the necessary books for the rest of the day.

"…yeah, it happened on Friday in class. I heard from Stephanie that he practically slapped her hand away and was brooding the rest of the day, I mean more than usual anyway."

"They didn’t talk for the rest of the day, and I heard he actually went out of his way to avoid her. The poor thing stuck with the likes of her."

"How unfortunate, but I guess you really can’t have it all."

Having heard enough, I close my locker loud enough to make them jump, trying my best to hide the smirk on my face when one of them squeals. Passing by them, I don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing I overheard their little conversation and make my way to history class. The knot in my stomach coils tighter when I remember that we share nearly all our classes, guaranteeing the scrutinizing gaze of students throughout the day.

Not even 10 minutes after we had our Soulreach on Friday, an influx of messages from students and strangers alike began pouring in and clogging my notification wall. Despite seeing their reactions and reading their messages, I never really thought about how it would make me feel in person. In fact, I didn’t give any of this much consideration at all. Other than being connected to a highly publicized family, I didn’t consider what else would change, if anything.

It was a mistake, I realize, not mentally preparing myself for the shift in people’s attitudes towards me in and out of school. It was easy for me to brush off the messages online (even the bad ones) because there was a degree of separation between us. But now, being in the near vicinity and knowing there wasn’t a screen separating us, well, let’s just say I've become way more aware of my surroundings.

As discreetly as I can, I dart my eyes around the halls to find them mostly empty. With a sigh of relief, I walk into my history class, looking up just in time to see everyone shift in their seats, looking at me. Some guys in the back wolf-whistle, earning them a glare from the teacher and, surprisingly, a glare from Damian, who turns around and sneers.

"Ooooooooooh, touchy subject, is it, Wayne?" the idiot who initiated the whistle says. I think his name might be Joseph, but I can’t remember. Damian opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Mr. Reiner begins his lesson, leaving no room for arguments as he dives headfirst into the expectations for our upcoming essay. Mercifully, at the mention of it being 15% of our grade, everyone drags their attention back to the front of the room, giving me the perfect opportunity to take my seat undisturbed.

Sam, who witnessed the whole thing, shoots me a sympathetic look quickly followed by a ‘you better fill me in on everything’, look. Smiling, I nod my head lightly and look over to the back of Damian’s head. Something else I haven’t considered (like an idiot) is: what will happen with us? We are Soulmates, right…but what’s actually changed? I’ve seen him a million times, but now it feels like every time will be loaded with tension. We aren’t a couple… at least not yet, or maybe ever. I think what I find most concerning, is that since the lines have now been blurred, I don’t know how to act. Do we sit next to each other in class or at lunch? Do we wait for one another at the end of class and walk to the next one together? Do we go home at the same time, or do we go out of our way to not be seen together in an effort to minimize the gossip? What do I do? What do wedo?

As if feeling my eyes staring into the back of his head, he looks over his right shoulder with a furrowed brow. I notice with a start that he looks annoyed, maybe at me or maybe at this whole situation… I don’t know. Either way, I can’t keep the hurt from swelling into my chest and settling heavily there. Bringing my attention back to the lesson, I do my best to follow along, but I find that my mind keeps wandering back to the look on his face when he turned around.

The rest of the day carries on in its downward trend. Everyone, even those from grades below me, bombards me, asking if I’ve "smashed Damian yet." By the end of the day, I've mastered my glower and sharpened my tongue to deliver perfectly clipped ‘conversation ending’ responses to their invasive questions. It’s evident to Sam that with my darkening mood, more and more people seem to find the guts to bother me about it.

But by far the worst is during art class, when Jackson Anders, trying to pass it off as a casual question, asks me about what I saw during the Soulreach. My jaw practically hits the ground as I whip around to face him, only to find him smirking with a mischievous look in his eye.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I seethe out.

"Oh, c'mon, I can’t be the first person to have asked." His attention returns to his acrylic painting of the aurora borealis.

"As a matter of fact, you are." I try, but fail, to keep the mounting annoyance out of my voice, which only makes him grin more. Returning to my forgotten, poor excuse of a jasmine flower, I continue with my brush strokes and say,

"You know that’s none of your business, right?"

"Sure, it is," he says giving me a wink and a cheeky grin.

Jackson Anders, the son oftheLionel Anders, CEO of Ander’s hedge fund, which is a multibillion-dollar firm working only with Gotham's.001%. Lionel can often be found rubbing shoulders with and managing the money of Oswald Cobblepot, Carmine Falcone, and even Lex Luthor. Due to his profession, he’s naturally adopted the ‘whatever means necessary’ attitude in business and passed it down to his only child, Jackson. As a result, once Jackson has his sights on something, he’s not likely to let it go without a fight, and he’s more than willing to play dirty.

Jackson and I met at the beginning of my sophom*ore year, at the school’s homecoming game. Jackson, with his 6’0 bulky muscular build, made for an excellent quarterback, winning the game with an impressive 18-yard touchdown, and earning him bragging rights for the rest of the month. The student body went crazy, people were jumping and slapping their friends on the shoulder, screaming at the top of their lungs, making the bleachers groan in objection.

Afterward, we all went to Phoebe Dane’s after-party, which had me throwing up until the next morning with a pounding ache behind my eyes. It was the first party I had gone to with Sam, whom I proclaimed was my ‘new best friend’ after several drinks down the hatch on an empty stomach. I was already four shots and two beers deep when Jackson and his team walked in, making their rounds when I lost Sam. While looking for her, I bumped into another kid whose name I never got, and drunkenly asked for a sip of whatever he was having, to which he barely replied,

"whught’s minn’s is yuur’s" while proceeding to spill half of it down my shirt. I was already drunk enough to find the situation hilarious, but not drunk enough to let it stain my shirt. Practically floundering up the stairs, I went to the over-the-top Venetian-inspired powder room, whipped off my shirt, and started scrubbing out the dark liquid. Pumping the honeysuckle scented mouse hand soup onto my shirt, I began vigorously rubbing the shirt while under running water in nothing but my black lace bra. Halfway through the procedure, I looked up and found Jackson standing, no, dominating the doorway of the bathroom, with his dirty blonde floppy hair and his warm amber eyes.

"Now this is a pleasant surprise," he said, leaning on his right shoulder with his arms crossed, looking highly entertained. Alarmed, I moved to cover myself with a hand towel as if he hadn’t already seen my boobs jiggling in my bra as I rubbed alcohol out of my shirt like I was trying to cover up a murder. In hindsight, I feel comfortable placing the blame (for hitting on the star quarterback in just my bra) on ‘Mr. No Name, or as Sam likes to call him, ‘Sir spills a lot.’

The fact that I had a crush on him made making out with him on the vanity of the powder room that much more exciting for me. The fact that I was the new girl was irrelevant, as well as the fact that we ended up hooking up two more times that night in various bathrooms. At the moment, it wasn’t embarrassing, but in hindsight, I found myself wrinkling my nose at the thought. Nobody other than Sam has known, and to this day, that holds true.

We had secretly had a bit of a ‘situationship’ for about two months after homecoming, to which everyone chalked it up as ‘new girl interest’. However, that ended pretty abruptly one night at a house party when he got a little too drunk and attempted to get in my pants despite my objection. I had left the party immediately and woken up to dozens of texts and voicemails from him, apologizing for his behavior. I had already decided we needed to end whatever it was and decided that if he stayed in his lane, we could maintain our friendship.

I assumed that with the news of Damian being my soulmate, he’d put the brakes on his flirty behavior toward me, but he was tenacious despite the fact I’ve clearly set boundaries, firmly placing him in the friendzone. I never truly understood or tried to understand his tenacity towards me, considering it wasn’t like he didn’t have options. As the star football player, now with a full ride to his top school, he had a bevy of women to choose from. When we ended our ‘thing’, he moved on quickly and had since been with at least a dozen other women, but for some reason, he would always try to drunkenly rekindle what we had at any house party I made an appearance at. As a result, I stopped going to the parties, not only because of him but also because of the sharp rise in my workload.

As long as he kept his flirting to a minimum and his touch nonexistent, we wouldn’t have a problem.

Dipping my brush in the yellow, I mix it with my white in an effort to create a powder yellow for the tips of the petals.

"Don’t worry about it, Anders." I calmly combat his response, hoping to douse the teasing flame in his eyes. It must have worked, because for the rest of the class we remain silent, diligently focusing on our art. When I look at him again moments later, I can see a tick working in his jaw and his mouth set in a firm line. Not wanting to delve into what that could possibly mean for me, I return to my painting.

The rest of the day works in the same fashion: an inappropriate question gets shot down by me or Sam until they’re frustrated or embarrassed enough to stop.

By the time track practice is released, I’m exhausted, not only physically but also mentally. Sam promises to walk home with me since she lives just a couple of blocks away in an uber-modern condominium that boasts sharp lines, minimalism, and concrete. Her parents bought the penthouse off a blueprint and had lived in an apartment on the other side of town until recently. Much to our delight, we now have the same commute in the afternoon, making the prospect of walking home, a tad less terrifying.

Ready to go home and collapse, I grab my bag from my locker, avoiding the other girls, and make a beeline for the front doors. Of course, I’m so consumed with looking behind me to make sure no one is following me that I run into a solid wall of muscle. Bouncing right off, I feel myself beginning to fall back when strong hands grip my upper arms, steadying me.

"Oh gosh, sorry, I wasn’t look-"

"Are you alright?" Damian and I say at the same time.

"Oh, thank goodness it’s just you," I accidentally say out loud, wincing. Damian’s wide eyes take me in from head to toe, scanning for any sign of injuries, his hands still holding me securely. Reluctantly, I take a small step back, making him drop his hands, and I once again find myself immediately missing his warmth. I’ve never really paid attention to the calluses on his hand until just now, but for some reason, I find them incredibly sexy. Just as my face is warming up under his intense gaze, Sam turns the corner, almost running into us. But before another collision occurs, I feel a gentle tug on my wrist, pulling me into his chest just as he turns his body to shield me.

The both of us, realizing the compromising position we are in, let go of each other and take a large step back, doing our best to avoid making eye contact with each other.

"Oh (Y/N), I was just looking for you. Are you ready to go, or was I interrupting something?" Sam says with clear amusem*nt on her face.

"Nope, nada, nothing, not interrupting squat; let’s go." I fumble, making my face turn even redder than before.

"Alrighty then, let's head out." She says already passing us by, giving me a chance to look at him. His facial expression and posture are the perfect mask of indifference, but I can tell by his tense shoulders and that smoldering look in his eye that this encounter has affected him too. How? I wasn’t certain yet, but at least he was feeling something. With that last thought, the memory of his annoyance earlier today comes rushing back, making any sort of confidence I have waver, plummet, and burst fantastically. I turn, mumbling a quick ‘goodbye’, before he can analyze any changes in me with those all-knowing and all-consuming emerald eyes of his.

Leaving him there in the hallway, a small grain of guilt bubbles up… I shouldn’t have left so abruptly without thanking him for catching me. Before my brain catches up with my mouth, I find myself yelling,

"Thanks, by the way, for catching me just then," without even turning around to see if he was still there or if I was yelling to the wind.

Damian’s POV: Monday

Promptly, at 5 AM. Damian rises and prepares for training out in the gardens by donning his league of assassins' uniform and quickly sharpening his blades. Quickly and efficiently stretching, he makes his way out into the crisp, chilly, morning air and begins his training.

After a grueling yet satisfying workout, Damian showers, dresses in the mandatory school uniform, and enters the breakfast room to another full table.

"How’d our little prince charming sleep?" Todd asks all but gayly.

"Like the dead, something you’d know plenty about." He responds flatly.

Looking up from his eggs Florentine, Todd nods his head in approval, chuckling to himself. Taking his usual seat near his father, Alfred appears out of nowhere with his breakfast and settles it in front of him. Giving his thanks, he focuses all his attention on his plate, not wanting to make eye contact with any of the others, lest they find that an invitation to ask even more questions.

Mercifully, the others are so consumed with their own work that he is able to slip away unnoticed after finishing his breakfast. Once outside, he finds Alfred, with his school bag in one hand and the car handle in the other, who says questioningly,

"Strategies for battle are all drawn up, I assume, Master Damian."

Scowling, he says, "I haven’t the energy nor the desire to decode your cryptic message today, Pennyworth," while climbing into the back seat of his father’s Rolls Royce.

"Ah, so you haven’t given much thought to how to handle the student body population and their errant prattle regarding Ms. (L/N)?"

Damian actually thought about it and decided it would be best to resume as if nothing had changed, even though he knows it will bother him. What he really wants to do is sit next to her, walk her to her classes, and be near her for no reason at all. But he knows better than that. To do that would incite obscene stories to emerge, and idle gossip would flare into full-blown conspiracy theories. He could tell from yesterday that she was not only unused to the attention but also uncomfortable with it. Unfortunately, he himself couldn’t outrun his family name, but he can put distance between the two of them, giving her the space to breathe.

After yesterday, Damian knew she wasn’t a delicate flower needing to be encased in a glass exhibit. He had seen the scars on her beautiful skin when she took off her blazer. At first, all he could see was the Soulmark, the way it was so intricate, delicate, yet powerful. Near the edges of the mark, it looked like ink in water, and near the center, it was a solid yet delicate latticework of intricate swirls.

It was memorizing.

After staring at it for an inappropriate amount of time, Damian’s eyes wandered around her back, nearly missing the white scars littering her shoulders and lower back. He was certain there were more, but with her top on, they were hidden. Damian had experienced a few new emotions these past couple of days, but the one that surged after seeing those scars was an old friend. A stingingly cold rage swept through him, almost strong enough to knock him off his feet. He couldn’t believe how much seeing them bothered him, but he knew that no matter what, he'd find the person responsible and make them pay. Before he turned around to face the woman who was helping them, he schooled his features into neutrality, a skill he mastered by the age of three.

He had begun undressing to expose his own Soulmark, when he felt her eyes on him, searing him from the inside out. When his undershirt came off, he could have sworn he heard a small gasp escape from her, which ushered in an unholy amount of male satisfaction from him. She instinctually came right up to him, nearly a foot away, and touched his chest with her small, soft hand, only allowing her fingertips to trace the mark, forcing him to muffle his sharp intake of breath. He barely breathed as she explored the left side of his chest, wonder and astonishment swimming in her eyes. She had mumbled something about it being beautiful, but he could barely hear over the sound of his own pounding heart in his ears. He turned around to show her how it stretched to his back, meeting with his left shoulder blade, before stopping. Although the Soulmarks were different, they were identical in style. Once again, she put her precious hand on his back and examined it, standing close enough that he could feel her heat radiating onto his skin, which made him lightly shiver.

The entire experience was new to Damian, and he found himself wanting to do it again, but he knew that she was still wary, uncertain, and uncomfortable with the situation, so he vowed to let her make the first move. We were shortly ushered into another small, adjoining room with a photographer. We stood on the X centered on the floor and then stood next to each other awkwardly. After a couple of minutes, she put her small hand lightly on his back, right between the shoulder blades, and leaned her head on his chest. He knew she was short, but this close, even in heels, she barely hit his shoulder. He hadn’t wanted to miss another opportunity to touch her, so he wrapped his arm around her waist, under her blazer, and rested it on her hip. Before he could revel in the close contact, he noticed a heavyweight sitting against his hand, and when he asked her about it, she cheekily replied that it was a dagger. The unexpected answer had him snapping his head to look and see if she was serious or not, which of course she was.

When the polaroid developed, he saw himself smiling down at her as she, with her mischief-filled, sparkling eyes, rested her head on his shoulder. At that moment, it really dawned on Damian that they were Soulmates. She was it for him—his other half. Now came the challenge of balancing being Damian Wayne, Robin, and her Soulmate.

"I shall give her the exact amount of attention as I have given her before, to quell the potential of idle, albeit potentially damaging gossip." He says assuredly.

He catches the quick glance Alfred gives him through the rearview mirror.

"Very well, Master Damian," Alfred says, pulling up to the curb right in front of the school. Fortunately, there weren’t many photographers outside—only a handful. Stepping out of the car, he quickly makes his way through the school doors, barely noticing the flashes and clicks of the cameras going off. There are still 20 minutes before the start of our first class, but since he has nothing better to do, he decides to go early.

Entering the darkroom, the motion-censored lights turn on as he sits in his seat. Pulling out his phone, he busies himself with emails, messages, and reading articles as other students start slowly streaming in. Since it’s Monday, the collective energy of the students is at its lowest, but despite that, they still manage to excitably whisper about us to their friends at a volume they assume can’t be detected by his ears. However, they are wrong, and Damian picks up exactly what they’re saying,

"You so should have been there for it; it was like literal electricity was popping off between the two."

"Seriously, I heard that he couldn’t have been more disgusted if he tried."

"No way, it was like totally hot."

On and on they continue in ignorance as he expertly stills himself, listening. Pennyworth was right; the rumors are flying, but for him to react to them would only make it worse. Steeling himself, he pretends to aimlessly scroll through his phone when, in reality, he’s collecting as much information about what people are saying as possible.

Mr. Reiner walks in a few minutes later, putting his stack of books, papers, and folders down on his desk with a grunt and audible thud. The bell is about to ring, and he has yet to see her walk through the door, a fact that makes him tenser than he already is. Just when he thought his muscles could pass as solid concrete, she walks through the door, looking up to find everyone staring at her. Her eyes go wide as she looks around, and before she can start moving to her seat, a guy behind him gives her a wolf whistle.

Turning around in his seat, Damian expertly levels him with a look promising pain if he didn’t shut his mouth, to which the idiot who clearly doesn’t value his life replies,

"Ooooooh, touchy subject, is it, Wayne?" with a smug look on his face. Squinting his eyes, he growls low enough for only him to hear and sees fear finally flash in his eyes. Before he can retort something threatening, Mr. Reiner intervenes with information regarding our upcoming essay, effectively ending any more comments. Looking back at her, he sees her with her head once again ducked. Then she finds her seat near Sam.

Before long, he feels a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, alerting him to the fact that she is now looking at him. Still annoyed at Joseph’s behavior, he subtly sneaks a peek at her and collides with her wide (E/C) eyes. Flinching, she looks back down at the desk and back toward the front of the room.

She flinched.

He can’t wrap his head around why she would flinch. Perhaps it was because she knew that the others would notice the look between the two of them and report it to their friends and so forth. Or perhaps it was because she was caught staring at him. Regardless of the reason, he doesn’t like the way it makes him feel—like she is embarrassed, ashamed, or worse, afraid.

Tucking that useless emotion away, Damian sits through the rest of class without so much as a twitch. He finds himself repeating the same experience of eavesdropping on gossip and resisting the urge to look at her throughout the rest of the day. With the dismissal of the last bell, Damian makes his way toward the library alcove where he watched her run on Friday. At some point during the weekend, he subconsciously decided that he would stay at school until she was done with track practice to make sure she is okay.

Since everyone is glad to be done with school for the day, they rush to their cars and buses, barely paying him any attention as he goes against the flow of students to the back of the library, where cushioned benches and some wingback chairs occupy a cozy nook. Taking out his physics homework, he begins solving the first problem, waiting for her to make an appearance on the red clay track, when he notices a shadow around the corner emerge from the corner of his eye. Giving nothing away, he continues to act preoccupied when the soft voice of Jennifer Van Buren says,

"What are you doing hiding out back here?" Internally groaning, he looks up to see her expectant blue eyes waiting for him to offer her a seat near him. Gritting his teeth, he says,

"Just beginning our physics assignment." They too shared a few classes, however not as many as he does with her. She was a relatively smart girl and can objectively be considered attractive; however, Damian never viewed her through any romantic lenses, much to her disappointment. He had considered dating her in the past but rejected the idea when she began behaving possessively after they shared a brief kiss at the Junior Proms after party.

For some reason, she had always operated on the assumption that she had a right to touch him, talk to him, and generally occupy his time with nonsense. Despite it being an annoyance, he had never discouraged the behavior. She had the right pedigree, and on more than one occasion, both his father and brothers encouraged him to date her. It would be an appropriate match since they were both members of elite Gothamite families.

Physically, he’s attracted to her petite, slim figure and golden blonde hair. She has perfectly tanned skin, bright blue eyes surrounded by luscious lashes, and a perfectly lined pout tinted pink that is the center of every man’s fantasies. But despite all her redeeming physical qualities, he could never muster more than a small spark of interest when it came to her. Their conversations were always dull and surface-level. The only time they had any sort of chemistry occurred solely was when they were hooking up. They had never copulated but engaged in various other sexual acts.

Thinking about them, oddly, makes him feel guilty, despite the fact they occurred well before he discovered she was his soulmate.

"Oh, I hear this homework is brutal," she says, inviting herself to sit down much too close to him for his liking. Stiffening, Damian slightly angles himself toward the arm of the bench before responding,

"It’s quite simple, actually," devoid of any emotion. Pouting while looking at him with those big blue eyes of hers, she says,

"Well, if it’s so easy, I’m sure you’ll have no problem helping me with it," while rummaging in her designer Burberry bag for the assignment. Pulling it out, she grabs a pink pencil from her pink pencil case and begins tapping it against the bottom of her pink lip, looking at him from under her eyelashes.

She is going to be a problem, he realizes, one that he will have to handle delicately. She undoubtedly knows about him finding his Soulmate, which makes her flirting with him even more confusing.

"It’s quite straightforward; just use the same example from class but replace the numbers with the ones from the first question." He says cooly, refraining from looking at her.

Clearly, she’s unsatisfied with the answer because she puts her perfectly manicured hand on his forearm and leans her chin on his shoulder, sending a sense of ‘wrongness’ shooting through his entire body. Looking at her once again, this time with a coolness he normally reserves for criminals, he removes her hand from his arm and says,

"Keep your hands to yourself, Jennifer."

Looking downright indignant, she says,

"What has gotten into you? All I want is help with the homework." Now, with forced tears brimming her eyes, "You’ve never objected to me touching you before." She adds quietly.

"I have a Soulmate; a fact I am sure you are aware of. It is an inappropriate display of affection... affection that I do not return in kind." He spits a bit more briskly than necessary. He didn’t care if it hurt her feelings; he just needs her to understand that they could not continue their cat-and-mouse games.

Snapping her notebook shut, she packs her bag and stands up quickly, eyes hardening to icy resentment, and sharply turns on her heel, walking away. He watches her retreating form, her hair swishing, as she silently marches through the library doors, disappearing around the corner. Releasing a tense breath, he returns to his homework and spends the next hour breezing through all his classes. Done with his work, he packs up, slides the stiff straps onto his shoulders, and leaves to go find her.

Turning the corner, he sees the girl’s locker room and stalls; for once in his life, he feels uncertain. Should he really be waiting for her outside of the girl’s locker room? Before he can change his mind and go to the car, she comes barreling out, looking behind her, and crashes right into him. Talking over each other, she apologizes while he asks if she's alright. Recognition lights up her face as she visibly deflates in relief. His hands, still steadying her, drop to his side as he feels a blush creeping up his face.

Giving her a thorough once over to make sure she's okay, he almost doesn’t notice Sam coming out of the locker room at the same speed. Pulling her towards him by her wrist, he feels a rush of emotions when her body becomes flush with his. Twisting his body to shield her from the impact of Sam running into them, he dips his head to rest it on top of hers in a protective stance. Luckily, Sam skids to a halt before eyeing them suspiciously, which she follows up with a cheeky remark.

After an awkward exchange, she looks at him with a new sadness in her eyes that he hasn’t seen before today. Turning, she quickly catches up to Sam without saying another word, effectively dismissing him. Mood effectively stomped on, he makes his way to the side entrance where Alfred is waiting for him when he hears,

"Thanks, by the way, for catching me just then," she says without turning around. Despite such an insignificant remark, he feels his mood inexplicably lighten at the thought of her realizing she hadn’t thanked him for catching her. What astonishes him, though, is that at no point did he even expect a thank-you from her because he didn’t consider it anything special. He would have and always will catch her when she falls. The realization that she will never need to thank him for something he will always gladly do hits him like a ton of bricks, making his stomach flip.

He was in such deep sh*t.

Chapter 7: Heavy Is The Head That's Soul-mated To A Wayne

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

Jason was wrong. The paparazzi haven’t lost interest in me yet, and it’s been two weeks since we’ve Soulreached. Unfortunately, it took them no time at all to discover my home address, which they have been incessantly swarming ever since. As a result, I’ve been forced to get creative with my evasive maneuvers, which is why I am currently kneeling behind my neighbor’s dumpster. Personally, I’m not a fan of being harassed by grown-ass men with Nikons, so for the past two weeks, I’ve asked Sam to park in an alleyway between my row of townhouses and the next. Luckily, the paparazzi are either too dumb or too lazy to do anything other than stand directly outside the front of my house, making it easy for me to use the same escape route each time.

Now, all I have to do is wait for Thing 1 and Thing 2 to turn their backs on me so I can make a mad dash across the neighbor’s backyard and into the alley. With the hood of my raincoat pulled up over my head, I watch them aimlessly meander near my lawn - but never on it - shooting the breeze – as if they aren’t about to make me late for school. Finally, tweedle dee and tweedle dum turn around to engage in what I presume is a mind-numbing conversation - which gives me the perfect opportunity to dash across the backyard and quickly into Sam’s deliciously warm car.

Once in her car, I release a tense breath, sling my damp backpack onto the floor of her back seat, and pull the hood of my raincoat down. Buckling my seatbelt, I say,

"Floor it." Grinning, she obliges, practically smoking the tires as I’m thrown back against the heated passenger’s seat.

"I have to admit, I’m kind of loving this whole James Bond sneaking around thing." She says with a wicked glint in her eye.

"Yeah, well, you’re not the one squatting behind a dumpster in the pouring rain."

"That is true; yeah, I can’t say I’m envious of that part."

"I’m sure when it stops raining, it’ll be a lot harder for us. I’m just glad that most of them won’t come out when it rains, not wanting to risk their oh-so-precious cameras," I say while rolling my eyes and shivering. The chill from my damp raincoat seeps into my bones, making my teeth chatter. Sam blissfully blasts the heat and pushes the vents towards me.

"You know you can just put the heat on if you’re cold, right?" She asks, eying me gently.

"Yeah, I know; I just always feel weird fiddling with someone else’s car. It’s like just not something you do."

"I’m giving you permission to mess with my car whenever you want, just as long as you don’t park us in the middle of a highway." Snorting, I smile and return to looking out the window. The rain is coming down in cold, fat pellets that are creating an illusion of being blanketed by misty light. I used to find my mood to reflect the gloomy atmosphere, but ever since I realized the rain can cloak my identity, I find myself ecstatic for the ambiguity it provides me.

Watching the city blur as Sam’s car races down the streets of Gotham, I can’t help but think about the past two weeks. Just like the paparazzi, students are still abuzz with gossip, and rumors are swirling about the status of our relationship - but luckily, with our unspoken agreement to ignore one another in school, those rumors are just that… rumors.

However helpful it is for our public image to avoid each other, I’ve been finding it harder and harder to keep my distance. It’s like my subconscious keeps drawing me near him without my awareness or consent. The other day, I found myself walking the long way to one of my classes just to stay near him longer. Sometimes, at night, I’ll dream of touching him in a world where nobody saw or cared, only to wake up to a bruising ache in my chest and a damp pillow from unwanted tears.

It was getting out of hand.

The worst part is the fact that every time I looked at him… he seemed fine. As if nothing changed for him. Like his entire life hadn’t changed overnight…because it hadn’t – not really. In reality, I don’t think much has changed for him at all in the past two weeks. Every day he is dropped off in front of the gates, and picked up in front of the gates, not having to worry about the paparazzi. To my knowledge, he hasn’t received any vague or outright threatening messages from anyone, nor has he received any shady or aggressive looks from students wishing things were different. I can’t even confirm these suspicions because we haven’t spoken once since I ran into him outside of the girl’s locker room.

And whether I wanted to admit it or not, I subconsciously expected more to happen between us. I don’t mean that I expected him to change his demeanor towards me completely, but perhaps something like an occasional nod or a glance over the shoulder. Maybe even lingering after class so that we could subtly see each other as we walk to our next one. More than ever, I find my eyes sliding over to him, just silently watching him, hoping that our gazes will meet, but they never do.

More and more, I recognize a frustration growing – mostly with myself. Who is this girl I’ve become? I feel more disgusted with myself than with the situation at hand. Since when did I desperately crave the attention and approval of another – let alone a man?

What I need is to get a grip.

It’s only been two weeks, and I’ve already felt so many new emotions welling up inside me, begging to be released—to be acknowledged. Despite being disheartened by the distance we’ve put between us, I keep thinking that the only solution to my uncharacteristically clingy desires is to put even more between us.

I am so confused.

Additionally, over the past couple of weeks, a stinging sense of hurt and a coiling sense of embarrassment has developed. I feared not only for the safety of my friends and their privacy but also for the budding resentment toward Damian I was starting to feel. I can’t seem to stop these intrusive thoughts of knowing that he could be doing more to help me and that if he isn't, it’s because he doesn’t want to or that he doesn’t care.

He's ashamed of you girl – you’re an embarrassment. A burden. You will do nothing but be a drag on his life.

It’s these thoughts that have me over-scrutinizing every encounter and every reaction of his. I’ve secretly watched his reactions to people asking him about me, and without fail, he stiffens and gives a curt, non-committed response. I always thought I was mentally stronger than I clearly am. I shouldn’t be so bothered by his neutrality toward me.

His neutrality.

That, I believe, is the crux of my problem. It’s just so f*cking hard to see my Soulmate regard me with such a cavalier demeanor. It feels like a slap in the face. Thinking about it makes me reflexively try to swallow the emotional lump in my throat. Still gazing out the window, I look up – refusing to allow the tears forming in my eyes to fall.

I will not cry over this.

Taking slow, deep breaths, I calm myself down but recognize that the coiling dark pit of emotions stubbornly refuses to be pushed down. Fine, it looks like it’ll be another day of Oscar-worthy acting from me. I’m not even surprised to find myself looking forward to midterms because it means I’ll be too distracted to think about what’s happening between us—or better yet, what isn’t happening between us.

Finally, I see the fence of Gotham Academy creep into view, as the pristine hedges behind it add a pop of color to the dreary gray cityscape. Pulling up to the side gate, I spot some paparazzi roaming around near the edge of the campus. Thankfully, they aren’t allowed on school property, and with the tall hedges behind the gate, they can’t snap any pictures of us within the school walls.

Turning to face Sam, the back of my head faces the window, making it harder for the paparazzi to identify me. Without incident, we pass through the gates, and Sam finds her unofficial parking spot near the back of the student parking lot. Noticing the time, I realize I only have a few minutes left to get to my first-period class before the late bell rings.

Quickly grabbing our bags from the backseat, we hastily make our way to history with barely 30 seconds to spare before the late bell gives a shrill ring. Walking into the room, I notice everyone else is already in their seats, including Damian, who happens to literally be the only person not looking at us as we silently find our seats.

Fortunately, Mr. Reiner comes in right behind us, and before he even makes it to his desk to deposit his bag, he begins today’s lecture, catching everyone’s attention. Class flies by as we go over our last lesson before the midterm next week. Looking around, I notice how many of my peers keep glancing down at their phones and then back up at me. Some of their facial expressions convey pity, while others seem amused, but either way, it makes my skin prickle.

Leaning in toward Sam, I whisper, "What’s everyone looking at?"

Looking confused, she shrugs her shoulders and surveys the room. Quickly observing how everyone keeps casting their eyes down to their phones, she pulls out her own and looks up at me, alarmed. Lips tightening, she discreetly turns her phone to show me a photo. Since she’s holding her phone under her desk, I have to lean and rotate at an awkward angle to see it. At first, my mind fails to register what I am looking at, but after a few seconds, it sinks in.

There, on Sam’s little rectangular screen, is a photo of Damian and Jennifer Van Buren. Jennifer looks mighty cozy with her chin resting on his shoulder while her doe eyes look up at his. Her hand lightly resting on his forearm – the way that couples do in photos. A small smile rests on her lips, looking like she’s as comfortable as can be – like she’s done it a million times before. A normal person would feel jealous and angry, but all I can feel is the icy grip of betrayal as it squeezes my heart, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

I snap back into my chair and dip my head down to look like I’ve returned to taking notes. In reality, all I can manage are quick breaths in an effort to stop my face from crumpling. I painfully swallow down a sob that threatens to tear through me and close my eyes.

We aren’t dating… this can’t be considered cheating if we aren’t dating.

I repeat that in my head for another thirty seconds before returning to my notes. Refusing to look at Sam or anyone else, I notice that the side of my left hand is smudged with black ink, and I realize I must have been rubbing the paper while it was still wet.

f*ck. Now my notes are ruined too.

This stupid little fact is almost enough to push me over the edge. With a shuddered breath, I look at Sam from beneath my lashes and see a tight-lipped scowl on her face as she glares at the back of Damian’s head with a fierceness I’ve never seen before. Warmth blossoms in my chest as I find myself endeared to the fact that she’s upset on my behalf. There was no pity or amusem*nt behind her eyes, just righteous anger.

Class continues without Damian once turning around, despite the tension in the air being thick enough to cut through with a butter knife. What’s worse is that I knowhe can feel it too because the hairs on the nape of his neck are standing up and he’s become unnaturally still. It's almost like he thinks we’ll forget that he’s there if he’s still enough. He’s refusing to acknowledge it – like he already knows.

Maybe he feels guilty, or maybe he doesn’t. I can’t tell which one makes me more upset. His knowing that this is incriminating and not telling me about it beforehand, or his being completely ignorant to how damaging it truly is… to me and us.

Seeing him so clearly stiff and uncomfortable makes a small part of me want to go up to him and comfort him. The irrational side of me wants to come up behind him, bury my fingers in his hair, and give him a scalp and shoulder massage. The rational part of me (which is thankfully the winner) decides he can go shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.

What an immature and childish thought.

Wanting to slam my head into the desk, I internally groan as I realize that I’ve digressed into a whiny, possessive child. Why am I upset? For all I know, this photo could have been staged, edited, or even true – regardless, it shouldn’t make me feel this way. I am better than this. I will not allow him to see how much this is affecting me, and if he decides to confront me about it, I will handle it like a mature adult.

With my mind made up, I return my focus to the front of the room, only sparing him one glance for the rest of the period. Proud of myself, I furiously write down important information and note that students are still trying to subtly cast looks my way, to which I meet with a stony challenge. Luckily, each pair of eyes I meet quickly looks away, with a rush of blood staining their cheeks as a result. Content with their reactions, I steel my nerves and don my impassive mask for the rest of class.

By the second to last period, I feel more settled and relieved to have reignited an inner strength that has allowed me to brush off the stares and the tasteless rumors now spreading. I’ve successfully avoided Damian the entire day, purposefully either ducking out of class immediately after the bell rings or stalling long enough afterward to avoid him. I make sure to take the most direct and quickest routes to my classes without thinking or considering where he’d be. It feels good to disregard the cloying emotional anxiety of being hyperaware of his every move.

Since we shared the last class together, I make sure to dip out of class hastily when the bell rings and practically run to my next one. As a result, I’m now standing outside the art studio with a meandering queue of other students who are just as happy to ignore me as I am to ignore them. Sighing, I look down at my phone, pulling up the picture of Damian and Jennifer that has been anonymously sent to the entire school through a shady link.

I hadn’t noticed earlier, but looking at Damian I realize how rigid he looks, and upon further inspection, I can see that his brows are furrowed. He isn’t touching her either but is rather holding a notebook on his lap with both hands. There’s something about the photo that keeps bothering me, and the voice in my head keeps nagging me that it’s an important feature, but I can’t seem to figure it out. Combing over the photo for the millionth time, I’m startled when I hear,

"(Y/N)!" from across the hall before I’m pulled off my feet into a bear hug from 160 pounds of sheer quarterback. Yelping in surprise, I laugh and punch his arm repeatedly until he returns me to my feet. Looking up at him, I see an easy smile there with a hint of tension in his eyes, most likely stress for the upcoming midterms.

Moving over from the center of the hallway, I lean my shoulder against the cool plaster of the wall, crossing my arms when Jackson asks,

"Whatcha doing tonight, little red?" Using the nickname he coined for me the night we met. The alcohol-stained shirt I had been so desperately cleaning was red, - hence the ‘red’-, and the ‘little’ came from my height, doubtlessly. Standing closely, he too assumes a similar stance and rests his hand right above my head, leaning into me.

Bristling at his closeness, I feel his breath on my face as he leans his head down to look at me. His sheer size dwarfs me, and in an effort to thwart this intimate position, I turn my body sideways and look out toward the hallway, literally giving him my ‘cold shoulder’. His hand near my face sends me into a heart-pounding alertness that has my senses sharpening.

Trying to sound casual, I say, "Oh, you know, the usual," while unlocking my phone, hoping he’ll take the hint. I realize my mistake too late. Even with my privacy screen protector, he sees the picture of Damian and Jennifer on my phone. Heady embarrassment floods my body as I feel myself blushing furiously.

Hoping he missed it, I spare him a quick glance and find him severely glowering with his eyes glued to my phone. Huffing, he pushes off and runs the same hand that he was using to lean against the wall through his blond hair, tousling it.

"I don’t understand how you can stand it," he practically growls. He’s still close enough that even the student closest to us can’t hear. When I meet his eyes, I’m instantly met with a blistering hostility - taking my breath away. Icy dread soaks my bones as I realize that hostility isn’t for me, but for Damian. How long has he been harboring these feelings, and why does he care in the first place?

Voicing my last thought, I say defensively, "Why do you even care in the first place?"

His head snaps to me, nostrils flaring, and he grounds out, "Why? Because all he’s done is treat you like sh*t by ignoring you at every turn."

While exasperatingly gesturing to my phone, he continues, "And now this. Look at this; he’s lucky enough to have found a soulmate, and even luckier, it’s you, and he’s pulling this bullsh*t."

I’m genuinely frightened by the acrid venom in his voice as his eyes darken. Looking at his hands, I see him clenching and unclenching his fists, making his knuckles white. Taking a step back, I find myself flush against the wall as I eye him cautiously.

Oblivious to my wariness, he presses on: "What kind of ‘Soulmate’," he spits out the word as if it burns him to say it, "goes out of their way to avoid their other half? Hmmm?" He asks, practically vibrating with malice. Eyeing him, I’m paralyzed with fear as I stare at this new man in front of me. I’ve never seen him so out of control with his emotions.

Anger assaults me as I hit him with a scathing look and say, "I’d say no offense, but I do mean offense when I say that this is none of your f*cking business and to stay out of it. Whatever is going on between us is literally none of your concern, and you have no right to be upset for me or with me."

Furious at his audacity, I see him curl his lip and take a threatening step toward me when the teacher turns the corner, keys spinning around her finger while humming. At the sight of the teacher, Jackson retreats a few steps back and slaps back on his happy-go-lucky grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I continue to eye him suspiciously, taking extra care to always keep him in my line of sight as we enter the classroom. Since we have assigned seating, I’m forced to sit next to him. Looking at him, I can still see that the emotions are still simmering in his darkened eyes as he paints with a clenched jaw.

Occasionally I catch him swinging me a corrosive glance that has me physically recoiling. Numbly, I return to my own painting, unable to get into the groove and just wasting the time by repainting the background black.

"It’s just funny to me how you’re letting this sh*t slide," he splittingly whispers. Giving him a sideways glance, I notice his eyes haven’t moved from his easel, and yet his knuckles remain white from the tension he's holding in his hands. Gritting my teeth, I begin chewing my bottom lip as I feel my palms get sweaty. Breathing heavily through my nose, I say in what I hope is a calming voice,

"I’m not letting anything slide, Jackson; I just choose not to air out my dirty laundry in the hallways." Surprisingly, I manage to keep my voice even and withhold the irritation I feel from seeping through.

Not bothering to look at him anymore, I hear him open and close his mouth, before tightly saying,

"Of course, it’s my business; I’m your friend, and I care about how you’re being treated." In a gentler voice, he adds, "If I were your soulmate, I would treat you like a queen."

At that, my breath hitches as I snap around to look at him. Thinking he’s joking, I’m surprised to see the sincerity there in his now glassy eyes. Looking aghast, he’s actually surprised by my reaction, if the furrowed brow and downturned mouth are any indications.

"You must know that you deserve so much better than him, right (Y/N)" he says, now leaning into my station with newfound desperation in his eyes and much too rapid breaths. Too stunned to speak, he continues, "Clearly, he doesn’t care for you or about what a Soulmate bond means. If he’s going to disregard it, you should too."

Still trying to wrap my head around what he says, I begin shaking my head when I feel his hand grip my wrist, silently pleading with me. The look on his face is agonizing as his eyes rapidly search my own, making me nauseous.

How did I miss the signs?

More than alarmed, I feel my vision tunneling as a panic attack rises. Trying to even my breathing, I struggle to break free from his grip. Sensing that I’m trying to pull away, he tightens his hold, painfully digging his nails into the inside of my arm while dragging his stool closer to mine. Mouth still agape, I feel my blood pressure drop as dizziness rips through me, making it hard to concentrate on what he’s saying. I think I catch something along the lines of "give me a chance."

Feeling cold and lightheaded, I try to stand, just to be tugged back down by the same oppressive hand holding my wrist in a deadlock. Still disoriented, I can practically feel the heat of his breathing as his nostrils keep flaring and his jaw keeps grinding in barely contained exasperation.

"My dear, you look positively green," Mrs. O’Malley says, making her way to us. Jackson quickly releases my wrist, and straightens, returning his attention to his forgotten canvas. Coming to stand by me, she places her dainty, paint-splattered hand on my shoulder as I unconsciously rub my wrist.

"Why don’t you go to the nurse’s office? Perhaps you need to lay down. Have you eaten anything today?" She asks, taking notice of me rubbing my sore wrist. Suspicion lights up her eyes as she quickly looks between us. With a furrowed eyebrow, she positions herself in between us and begins rubbing my back as I catch my breath.

Panic rising, I realize if I don’t say something, she’ll assume the worst. Of course, she’d be right, but the last thing I need is for Jackson to get into trouble and then come after me. So, I look at her and feign my best innocent smile and say, "No, actually, I haven’t had a chance to eat lunch yet; I’m just so stressed about midterms that it must have slipped my mind."

Seeming to believe me, she looks relieved and pats my back while excusing me for the rest of the class. Walking towards the door, I spare Jackson a look just to find his jaw once again set tensely while his eyes say, ‘this isn’t over.’ Shivering, I leave as quickly as I can and start running down the hall to the girl’s bathroom.

With my bag in tow, I push open the door and am comforted to know that I’m alone. Stumbling to the far wall, I slide down to the floor and put my head between my legs, trying to even out my breathing. After a few minutes, the black dots that were dancing in my vision lessened. Enjoying the cold feel of the cool tile seeping through the thin material of the button-down shirt, I realize that I left my blazer on the back of my stool.

Groaning, I rest my head against the tile and stretch my legs in front of me. Focusing on nothing else but the therapeutic chill, I close my eyes. I don’t know how many minutes pass by, but when I feel the tingling sensation in my arms dissipate, I stand up and head to the sink.

Looking at my reflection, I’m not surprised to see my ashen complexation. Not only that, but my normally vibrant (E/C) eyes look dull and glassy. The bags under my eyes are more pronounced than even this morning, making me look tired and ill.

Sighing, I turn the faucet all the way to the right and occasionally run my fingers underneath the stream until it reaches the desired iciness. Cupping my hands, I pat the water into my face, lightly slapping my cheeks. Feeling calmer and slightly more refreshed, I pat down the excess water with a brittle brown paper towel that’s barely absorbent. Plucking my backpack off the floor that I had flung onto the floor upon entering, I leave the bathroom.

Thrilled, that I’m alone in the hallway, I pull out my phone, send a quick text message to my coach about missing practice due to illness, and make my way to the front doors. Stopping just before the doors, I realize that I’m certain to be spotted if I leave now.

f*ck.

Audibly groaning again, I lean against the wall and text Sam, who immediately responds, promising to drop me off before practice. Grateful for having such a good friend, I check the time to see that there are less than ten minutes left of class. Hearing a door creak open, I look to find Sam’s concerned face coming into view.

"Dude, you look like sh*t; what the hell happened?" she asks, squinting her eyes as she does a once over. Her eyes stop halfway down and flare before they snap back to mine. Too tired to move, I just stand here while she grabs my arm. Wincing, I pull my arm back and up to my chest to cradle it. Looking at it, I’m shocked to find a bruise suspiciously in the shape of a hand wrapped around my wrist.

"What the f*ck (Y/N), did Damian do this?" She seethes while looking around to make sure nobody else is around.

Startled by her questions, I quickly say, "What? No. No way would he ever hurt me." Feeling the honesty of the words come from my lips settles something inside me that I didn’t even know was a worry. Breaking me out of my thoughts, Sam says,

"Then who the f*ck grabbed you, and don’t you dare say you bumped into something, that is clearly a handprint." Looking just about ready to kill someone, I laugh at the absurdity of this entire situation. Sam and I are so similarly sized, that we often share clothes and exchange uniforms when needed. The thought of her squaring up against Jackson makes me both amused and worried at the same time.

"Fine, I’ll tell you, but you have to promise to keep this to yourself and not to do anything about it, ok?" I say seriously, pinning her with an intense look. Initially, it looks like she wants to argue, but after a few seconds, she reluctantly agrees.

So I tell her everything.

As I’m recounting the experience, I see the anger inside her mounting, and by the time I’m finished, she looks like she’s about to slit someone’s throat. Before she can say anything, she is cut off the bell, making us both jump out of our skin. It didn’t help that we’ve been standing right underneath it this entire time.

Silently, we both agree to finish this conversation more privately. We drive in silence as I continue to rub my sore wrist.

I can’t believe how quickly the bruise formed.

I’m going to have to hide this from both Damian and Bran. Just another obstacle to juggle. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the window. I can feel her eyes on me, and I know she has a lot more questions for me but doesn’t want to push me. I appreciate that she knows me well enough to know that I’m not ready to talk about it. I decided that as a way of thanking her for leaving class early to drive me home, I’ll answer some of them.

"What else do you want to know?" I ask quietly, unable to keep the exhaustion out of my voice. The adrenaline must have run its course because, all of a sudden, I feel shaky, weak, and tired. Drawing in a shuddering breath, I wait for her response.

After a few seconds, I look over to her and see her hands clenched so tightly around the wheel that I can practically hear the leather groan in objection. Her white knuckles give away how tense and angry she still is.

With a furrowed brow, she asks, "So how do you plan on telling Damian? I’m sure you know you have to tread delicately."

Releasing an exasperated breath, I honestly reply, "I don’t actually. I don’t see why I would."

Snapping her head toward me, she faces me while swinging her eyes between me and the road. "Why the hell not? He’s your Soulmate, how do you expect him not to find out? You have a giant bruise on your arm; do you seriously think he won’t notice?"

"Honestly, yeah…it’s not like we even interact anymore. All I have to do is avoid him in the hall for a week, and it’ll be gone." I say a little more bitterly than I like. Picking up on it, Sam’s eyes soften as she says, "(Y/N), whether you believe it or not, he’s still keeping tabs on you. Even though you don’t notice it, he’s completely aware of you."

Scuffing, I cross my arms over my chest and say, "Maybe, but I still don’t plan on telling him. It’s not his problem, and knowing him, he’ll react poorly." I cringe at the memory of him asking me to keep him in the loop if someone threatened me or said anything alarming. If he finds out, he’s going to be so pissed. "I really don’t want or need him to fight my battles for me. I’m a big girl and can handle Jackson on my own." I say trying to convince myself more than Sam.

I melt further into the leather of the car, taking a deep breath. The new car scent mixed with Sam’s floral perfume grounds me as the weight of my words sinks in.

I’m trying so hard to cling to my independence that I’m alienating those around me. I’m so used to being the only person willing to fight for me that it makes me uncomfortable when others do too. It feels too strange to have people genuinely want to help me that every time they do, I immediately mistrust them. To accept their help is to be indebted to them, and there is nothing I hate more than feeling like I owe someone.

Cutting off my thoughts, Sam gently says, "I know you can solve your own problems, and I know you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself… but just because you can doesn’t mean you should. You’re not alone (Y/N) and I know for a fact that if you allowed him, Damian would be beside you at all times. I don’t think you’ll want to hear this, but I believe the only reason he’s keeping his distance is that he feels like that’s what you want from him. I think he knows that this is a harder adjustment for you than it is for him, so he’s waiting for you to make the first move when you’re ready."

As her words crashed into me, I feel my bottom lip tremble. Letting go of the sob I so desperately tried to keep buried, I allow myself to feel the rush of emotions I’ve kept a tight leash on. Hopelessness, anger, disappointment, longing, and confusion come barreling out, making me cry harder. At this point, we’ve already reached the block Sam usually parks on, which is two blocks from my house. Sitting there, she let me cry, rubbing my back and whispering encouragements while I allow the messiness of my emotions to detangle.

After a few minutes, I wipe my eyes dry and turn to Sam, giving her a tight hug. Thanking her for everything, I promise to call her later to let her know how I’m doing. Hoping she still has enough time to make it to practice, I close the car door and numbly make my way toward the alleyway. After some maneuvering, I open the side entrance to my house and walk into the mudroom. Flinging my damp backpack onto the bench, I take off my dripping raincoat and hang it on a hook. Once my shoes are off and tucked into a cubby, I make my way toward the stairs.

This house is one of the few original brownstones remaining in Gotham. Built in the late 1800s, it boasts evident features of its time. With its high ceilings, ornate crown molding, and intricate wainscoting in nearly every room, the house has maintained its old-timey charm. Bran has efficiently renovated the home for modern luxuries, such as steam showers, wine fridges, and even a washer/dryer unit in the master suite. However, despite the upgrades, I’m happy that he maintained the house’s original charm.

Some features, such as the dark, wide oak floors, the wrought iron balusters, and the chandeliers, are all the same as when they were first installed. I especially love the way the floors creak when I step in certain spots, even though it makes it that much more difficult to sneak around.

I also love that the bathrooms are restored rather than renovated. The same porcelain clawfoot tubs are still the prime feature of every bathroom, in addition to the vintage sinks. The only parts that were exchanged were the pipes. A Britta can’t combat lead pipes, so Bran made sure to get rid of them immediately.

Personally, my favorite part of the house is the observatory, which doubles as a library. Taking up the entire third floor, rows, and rows of shelves that house books and antiques alike, line the mahogany-paneled walls. Above the shelves is a magnificent bulletproof glass roof that is supported by grid-like steel beams. I often fall asleep on the enormous, tufted leather couch in the middle of the room with a book in my hand and an unfinished cup of tea sitting on the coffee table.

Other than the library and my bedroom, I spend the most amount of time in the kitchen, discovering new recipes and perfecting old ones. Of course, I only dare to do so when Bran is out of town. When he’s home, I make sure to hole up in my room and remain as silent as possible.

On the balls of my feet, I lightly tiptoe up the long spiraling staircase, making sure to place my feet solely on the runner in an effort to muffle the sound of my steps. I know he’s home today, and I am desperately trying to avoid the onslaught of questions I know he’ll have. Once at the top, I silently creep down the hallway towards my room. As I admire the delicate floral wallpaper in the hallway right outside my bedroom, I hear,

"(Y/N), my office. Now." Stifling a groan, I notice the clipped way he called my name, meaning that I’ve more than likely upset him in some way. Dreading whatever he has planned for me, I reacquaint myself with my impassive mask and quietly obey him. Standing in the doorway, he looks every bit as horrific as I remember. If it weren’t for the permanent scowl on his face, he’d be considered handsome. The combination of his tanned skin, artic blue eyes, deep dimples, and thick pale blond hair has earned him the nickname of ‘silver fox’ amongst high society’s female population.

Bran Toremin, my legal guardian and least favorite person on this planet, sneers at me as I pass him and make my way to stand in front of his desk, as he prefers. With my hands loosely clasped in front of me, I ask,

"Is something the matter?" in the most polite and demure tone I can muster.

Moving behind me, his hand grazes the back of my neck as he goes around me to stand behind his desk. For as long as I can remember, I’ve played this charade of the quiet mouse who only speaks when spoken to and averts their gaze every time eye contact is made. The humility of the situation has always grated against every nerve, leaving me feeling emotionally raw and furious enough to cry. But I do it anyway. Always. Because the alternative is ten times worse than swallowing my pride.

Make no mistake, though; his penchant for cruelty is solely reserved for me. A fact I never quite understood, despite my many years of trying to figure it out. In any other instance, he is disarmingly charming and sociable, but behind closed doors – when we’re alone – the warmth he forces to the forefront slithers back into the depths of his cold, calloused heart.

Sitting down, he turns in his chair, grabs a heavy crystal liquor glass and a decanter filled with deep golden-brown whiskey, and places them on his desk. Silently, he pours himself a hefty drink, sending a waft of sweet caramel and a woody vanilla scent through the air. Closing his eyes, he brings the glass to his nose and takes a deep inhale. Releasing an audible moan that makes my skin crawl, he takes a small sip and holds it in his mouth before swallowing. Knowing I can do nothing, such as leave or speak, he enjoys himself for several more minutes with his eyes closed before he says,

"Girl, it has been two weeks since you’ve paired with the Wayne boy, why have you yet to set up an introduction between his father and me?" Now he's leaning his elbows on the desk, staring at me with those penetrating polar eyes.

The question takes me by surprise - enough so that I must have taken too long to answer for his liking. One minute he’s seated in his large wingback office chair, and the next he’s standing in front of me, glowering. I try to take a step back but find myself struggling for breath as his large hand wraps around my neck, holding me in place. Sneering, he says through gritted teeth,

"You answer me when I speak. You do not have the luxury of time in my presence. I am a busy man, and every minute you waste is a dollar I’ve lost." The menace rolls off him in waves as I find myself – for the second time – being held in place forcefully by a man who thinks he has the right to lay his hands on me.

I barely croak out, "My apologies for not making more of a concerted effort to introduce you two, but with your hectic travel schedule and his busy work schedule, I have not been able to speak with him on the matter."

Releasing his grip on my throat, he turns his back to me and finds his seat again.

"See, that wasn’t so hard. You know I hate having to get physical with you. Why must you elicit that reaction from me? You have nobody but yourself to blame for how your behavior must be punished." He says, with false remorse, I’ve seen him use it a million times. I know better than to call him out for it, so I just say,

"I understand. My apologies once again. I will strive to do better." While dipping my head in a sign of respect. An action that makes my blood curdle, but knowing how easy it’ll be for him to fly off the handle, I swallow my pride and do it anyway. Looking up, I silently watch as he continues to hungrily eye me for longer than I like before tskingand coming back around to stand in front of his desk.

Now leaning against it with his hands beside him, gripping the edge of the desk roughly- he stares at me from under his lashes. I can only imagine the scenarios running through his head of what he would like to do to me. Mentally, I begin bracing myself for the worst when I catch his eye flicking to the cane displayed on the wall behind me.

Ah. The cane.

It was his favorite method ofdiscipline.One he uses every time he finds himself disappointed with me. Unfortunately for me, he’s disappointed often. Sometimes, my posture is wrong, and other times I don’t smile enough during a charity event. Once, I dared to talk back, which earned me a caning so bad I passed out midway through and awoke face down on the Persian rug - alone.

It's Friday at least, I think, as I resign myself to having to put on medical salves and healing balms all weekend. Surprisingly, instead of instructing me to remove my top, he says,

"There’s a Wayne gala coming up in a few weeks; I expect our tickets to be secured as soon as possible. If not," he smiles fondly, "I assure you there will be dire consequences." The wicked glint takes up residency in his eyes once again. A look I am all too familiar with, but slightly comforted by the devil I know. I’d rather see that look in his eyes than a new one I don’t recognize.

How sick is that?

I nod my head in agreement, which satisfies him enough to dismiss me. Quickly, but not too quickly, I exit his office and hastily go to my room. Once inside the room, I lock the door behind me and slide to the floor. With my back against the door, I just sit there, looking at this bedroom that should be my salvation—my haven. But all I see is another prison. Another layer of protection that I can’t trust to remain.

After my parents died, I expected to be put into foster care. I was ready for the horrors of what being in the system would be like. But instead, I was adopted by Bran Toremin, my father’s friend. I was excited, hopeful, and grateful for him. And in the first year, he was good to me—kind even—but that didn’t last.

After the first anniversary of their deaths, his demeanor towards me shifted. There was a deep resentment toward me that I’d never seen before. The caning didn’t happen immediately, either. At first, it was the occasional backhanded slap; then it was the belt; and finally, he began using his grandfather’s ivory-tipped cane. I never thought anything could hurt more than the sting of a leather belt on bare skin, but I was wrong.

He enjoyed it, he got off on the pain it caused me. I quickly learned that the louder I screamed, the more his eyes sparkled in delight. So as a small act of rebellion, I stopped reacting. Sometimes I would count sheep; other times I would focus on a painting and lose myself in my imagination. That did nothing to dissuade him, though. If anything, it made him angrier and more eager to cause me pain.

That was when he started hitting me hard enough to break the skin. I’d feel the rivulets of blood streak down the sides of my back and onto his desk. He started making me count with him—or for him—for every lash he delivered. He would only aim for my back, though, never my arms or legs. It couldn’t be anywhere where someone might see it.

Every time he left me on the table, breathing hard and trying to remain conscious, I would just picture my parents' faces and imagine the conversations we would be having if they were still here.

Sometimes it doesn’t even feel real—almost like it’s not really happening to me but to someone else. When I think about it, it feels like I’m witnessing it from outside my body—like an out-of-body experience. I don’t even know how many years it’s been going on, but what I do know is that the easiest way to deal with it is to try to forget it.

Standing up, I double-check to make sure the door is locked, heaving a sigh of relief when I confirm it is. My room is spacious, with high ceilings and big windows on two adjacent walls. The pale blue floral wallpaper with butterflies and silver-leafed bumblebees that are scattered around, is my favorite feature. The navy blue velvet bedframe is my one pop of color, while the rest of the furniture is white-stained wood.

The room screams luxury, and the reason for that is because Architectural Digest featured this house in its August spread last year. Before that, this room was bare-bones, but Bran couldn’t have that photographed and printed. He had to appear as the doting adoptive father who showered me in gifts and riches in order to gain the public’s favor. I didn’t really care; as long as I had a shower with warm water and a semi-firm mattress, I was happy.

Heading to the bathroom, which is nestled behind a pocket door next to my closet, I strip off my uniform and examine my wrist. An ugly purple and blue bruise marred my otherwise unblemished skin. Looking up at myself in the mirror, I notice the beginning of another bruise forming on my neck.

I really can't catch a break today.

Luckily, this one is much fainter and will more than likely disappear by Monday, but for some reason seeing another bruise on my body makes my bottom lip quiver. Looking at myself, I feel so worn out and… used. I don’t have the words to explain how much shame I feel for allowing these men to touch me. Feeling helpless, I notice the tears welling up in my eyes as I tear my gaze away from the mirror.

Going to my shower, I put the water on and wait a moment as it gets hot. Once the water is hot enough to have tendrils of steam coming off it – I step under and shudder at the welcomed burning sensation. As the water washes away the grime and bad memories of the day, I sit on the shower floor and pull my knees up to my chin. Sitting there, I allow myself to release the tension I’ve felt these last two weeks, and I cry. With my hands pressed to my face and my knees drawn up to my chest, I cry and cry as the water slowly goes from hot to cold.

Chapter 8: The Consequences of His Actions

Chapter Text

Damian’s POV:

The vicious rumors are flying far faster than Damian can stop them. He knows she has seen it already, not because she's told him, but rather because, for the first time since the bond, she's avoided him like the plague. Usually, he can always see her from the corner of his eye, but today she's nowhere to be seen. A fact that has his heart racing and his hands balling into fists.

This picture of Jennifer leaning on him was taken last week while he was waiting for her in the library alcove. The most infuriating part is that he hadn’t realized anyone else was there, probably because he was too focused on glowering at the girl hanging off him. But, of course, the photo didn’t capture his irritation, meaning the photographer had to have timed it perfectly.

The implication is that he has been set up. This was no mere accident, nor had anyone simply stumbled upon them; no, this was a calculated move. One intended to hurt his reputation and further estrange the two of us.

Scowling, he continues walking through the hallways toward his last class, glaring at anyone that makes eye contact with him. Whatever they see in his eyes is enough to have them shrinking back and casting their gazes to the floor.

Satisfied with their reaction, he realizes that he will have some major damage control to do when he confronts her about it. Internally grimacing, he, perhaps for the first time, finds himself anxious at the prospect of her reaction. A multitude of scenarios flicker through his mind as he sits through this agonizing class. Since the last two classes of the day are the only two we don’t share, he’ll have to wait until she's released from track practice to speak with her.

As he predicts the trajectory of the conversation, it dawns on him that each version of her has a varying reaction to the news, making his mouth go dry. The realization that he doesn’t know her well enough to calculate her response has him gnashing his teeth. A new, unfamiliar wave of anxiety settles heavily in his stomach as he repeatedly creates potential dialogues in his mind.

Get a grip.

Abandoning his failed analysis, his mind forcibly delves into thoughts of her. He finds himself, more than once, unable to do anything other than see her face in his mind. After feeling her in his arms, he cannot seem to think of much else.

Damian knows that keeping his distance is what is best for her and for their collective reputation, as evidenced by the fact that this week has gone by without any incidents or ‘breaking stories’. However, he's reluctantly coming to terms with the fact that his valiant effort to protect her by ignoring her seems to be all for naught. Not often has Damian been wrong, but it seems this may be one of those rare occasions.

Releasing a quiet and aggravated breath, he theorizes that the damning photo of him and Jennifer will more than likely grace the front page of tomorrow’s tabloids.

He needs to do some immediate damage control.

But first, it is imperative that he speak with her. We need to be a team and present ourselves as a unified pair, or else the media vultures will tear them to shreds. The thought of how they will treat her makes fury seep through his veins. Begrudgingly, he admits to himself that he may need the help of his father and brothers.

Fortunately, the bell rings with a high-pitched shrill, dismissing the class. It was a Friday, so despite the teacher’s best efforts to wrangle the class to finish her last points of the lesson, students hurriedly clog the doorway on their way out. Sighing, Damian makes casual yet long strides to the library, where he plans to impatiently wait for her.

To kill time, he busies himself with homework and rereading his notes for his upcoming midterms. He knows that the tension he’s carrying in his shoulders will result in him being sore tomorrow, but he can’t bring himself to care as he feels his alarm rising when he tries but fails to spot her in the group of runners.

It feels like a cold bucket of water is thrown over his head when he figures out she's not on the field with the rest of her team. Heart pounding, he stands there for another moment, hoping to see her head pop up front behind something or to see her walk out of the locker room. He curses under his breath—one that Alfred would chastise him if he heard—and packs up his bag with a speed and efficiency that can only be taught to leave for the girl's locker room.

For the next twenty minutes, he continuously paces back and forth in front of the door with his hands clasped behind his back. If he were on the carpet, he’s certain he’d have worn a path through it. At the first hint of the door’s groan, his head snaps up as her team members exit, all of whom cast him wary looks as they do.

As he finally spots her friend, Sam, he approaches her and says, "Samantha, is it?" Now standing in front of her, he can see the surprise in her eyes at his question.

Leveling him with a droll stare that he notices has a mild contempt in it, she replies, "Yep, can I help you?" while maneuvering past him.

This female holds reservations against him. Why?

Not having the time nor the care to dwell on it, Damian asks, "Have you seen (Y/N)? I noticed she wasn’t on the track, and there are urgent matters I need to discuss with her." In a curt tone.

Out of respect for her, he will remain civil and neutral toward her friend, despite the fact that he would much rather use his intimidation tactics to pry the answers from her. It would be both more effectual and timelier.

"I have, as a matter of fact," she says, actively deciding not to further clarify.

Gritting his teeth, he keeps pace with her as she makes her way toward the student parking lot. With more patience than he thought himself capable of, he says, "Please tell me where she is; I really need to speak with her immediately," practically choking on the ‘please’.

He could barely stand to degrade himself to a simpering fool, but if it meant finding her and not offending her friend in the process, he would do it.

Faster than he thought she was capable of, she turns to face him, her hair snapping as she hits him with a scathing glower filled with mistrust and feverish turmoil. Taken aback, Damian is genuinely surprised by the small woman’s potent animosity towards him.

"Oh, so now you need to speak with her. When it’s convenient for you, huh?" She says, taking a step closer to him, "I guess since you’re in trouble, you need to speak with her so you can dig yourself out of the proverbial grave. Well, guess what, asshole, you don’t get to pick and choose when to grace her with your existence. If she wants to talk to you, she’ll come to you."

Looking down at her fierce friend, it dawns on him that she’s trying to protect her, which effectively cools the fiery rage inside him. He cannot fault the woman for attempting to be a good friend, although her hostility is misplaced.

Lightly touching her elbow, he swallows his pride and says, "I understand that I am the target of your hostility due to my behavior towards (Y/N)," she scuffs, rolls her eyes while crossing her arms over her chest, and begins tapping her foot, "but I acted on the assumption that if I kept her at arm’s length, others would too. However, it has come to my attention that it has in fact done the exact opposite. I assumed that if I maintained my distance, I would be able to protect her from the scrutiny of students and the media, but I was severely wrong."

"You can say that again," she interjects, her foot still tapping incessantly.

"I now realize the depth of my mistake and would like to rectify it, but first I need to speak with her so that I can explain myself. I do not plan to make excuses; I just want to walk her through my thought process, hoping she will understand. I fully accept whatever decision she makes regarding our relationship." He finishes.

"What relationship?" She asks headlong. "You have no idea the kind of damage you’ve done, but I do." Immediately she holds up a hand and says, "And, no, before you ask, she has not spoken about it with me, but she doesn’t need to. I know her well enough to know that she’s the ‘suffer in silence’ type. It’s clear as day to me that whatever the hell is going on between you two, it’s not sustainable. She’s lost weight. Do you have any idea how bad it has to be for her to lose weight? She’s a foodie, she lives to eat, cook, and bake. Her entire love language is sharing, cooking, and eating food together," she says, now practically screaming at him, "Whatever the hell your genius plan is, it’s not working."

Feeling more ashamed, embarrassed, and inadequate than he’s ever felt before, he says, "I know that I’ve made mistakes –

"No sh*t,"

"But I am trying to fix this so that I can stop hurting her and so that we may be able to share food together, read together, and actually be together."

At his confession, Sam’s posture and eyes visibly lose their sharpness. Now looking at him with begrudging respect and with a healthy dose of suspicions, she says, "I appreciate your honesty, Damian, and I wish you’d have come to this conclusion sooner to spare (Y/N), but I guess this is better than nothing." Taking a deep breath, she scans the hall before continuing, "Listen, she went home early; the reason for that isn’t my story to tell, so you’ll have to ask her, but I will say that you should be aware that – " eyes going wide at something behind him, she cuts herself off. Mumbling low enough that only he can hear her, she says, "Never mind." Before resuming her closed-off stance.

Looking behind him discreetly, he sees a tall, dirty blonde student walk toward them. Immediately on alert from Sam’s reaction, he turns around and angles himself to partially stand in front of her in a defensive position. For some reason, whatever she wanted to tell him, she didn’t want him overhearing it.

Interesting.

Looking back down at her, he sees the crease in her brow as she fidgets with her nails.

This guy makes her uncomfortable. Why?

Looking back toward the intruder, he can see that he has light brown eyes—eyes that are heavily guarded. All the alarm bells in his mind are going off as he comes closer. When he reaches the two of them, his eyes swing to Damian as he gives him a dazzling smile while holding out his hand,

"Jackson Anders, I don’t believe we’ve formally been introduced." He says with what would be a charming smile if Damian didn’t already suspect there to be something off about him.

Clasping his hand more firmly than necessary, he gets a rush of pure male delight when he sees the newcomer’s eyes strain with tension.

"No, we haven’t," he says blandly. Not seeming to care about his non-committed response, he faces Sam and says, "Sam, good to see you again; I trust you’re well."

To which she replies with a tight-lipped ‘mmmhhhmm.’ Unable to tell whether or not their reactions bother him, Damian squints his eyes at him, trying to decipher his intentions. Before he comes to a conclusion, Jackson holds something up in his left hand that sparks recognition in his eyes as his eyes brush the tag with her name on it.

Her blazer. What the hell is he doing with it.

His suspicions spike tenfold as he tries to calm the raw wrath shooting through him. What’s more, a new sensation of violent possessiveness grips him, making it hard to focus on anything other than imagining himself repeatedly bludgeoning him where he stands. Taking a deep breath, he rips his eyes away from her blazer and meets Jackson’s smug eyes, which are paired with a sh*t-eating grin.

Before Damian can comment, he looks at Sam and says, "I was wondering if you could give this back to (Y/N) Sam? I don’t know if you’re seeing her this weekend, but I didn’t want her to get in trouble for violating the dress code because she forgot to grab it before she ran out of art class," with an overly forced concern in his voice. If it wasn’t for Damian’s training, he would have missed the tightness he heard underneath that make his muscles forcibly tense in anticipation.

There is something seriously off about this individual, but he can’t seem to place it, which alarms him more. Sam reluctantly takes the blazer from his outstretched hand, intentionally avoiding the possibility of touching his hand. With a whisper of a strained smile still on his face, he nods his goodbye to Sam and gives him a brief look before turning to leave.

But in that quick look, Damian sees a crack in his façade and the man underneath. A chill unconsciously rips through him as he sees the deep-seated resentment in those tumultuous eyes. Something is wrong with this guy, and knowing that he’s in close proximity to her several times a week has his blood boiling. He will get to the bottom of this, but before he can do that, he needs to make amends with you.

Turning back to Sam, he can see that she is desperately trying to hide the fact that he’s rattled her. Squinting his eyes and turning to face her so that he blocks her from view, he asks, "How does he factor into this? And do not try to convince me otherwise; I can clearly see there is a connection here."

Sighing, she looks up at him while replying, "They had a thing at the beginning of the sophom*ore year, but nothing’s come of it, and since then they’ve just been friends. I think he’s always wanted more, but I know (Y/N) didn’t, for some reason. What that reason is... I don’t know; she never really told me why she cut it off. If I’m being honest, I suspect he may have been too intense too soon." Seeing his eyes darken, she quickly adds, "But it can’t have been that bad if she stayed friends with him all these years." Trying to justify it more to herself than to him.

Unadulterated jealousy assails him at the thought of her in his arms and of his lips on her. Lips thinning, he just nods his head in response, not trusting himself to speak. Taking several deep breaths, he unclenches his fists and says, "I see. Thank you for the information, Sam. I appreciate your honesty," with a sincerity that surprises them both.

Eyes softening, she says, "Of course. I want what’s best for her too, you know. And I hate to see her in pain; she’s gone through enough in her life. The last thing she needs is her Soulmate causing her more." Eyes hardening once again, Damian internally groans, knowing what is coming as she continues, "Now I know this won’t happen, but if you hurt her again, I will cut off your balls with a f*cking butter knife and send them to you framed," with a protectiveness surging in her eyes.

Oddly, the threat makes his chest warm, and a small smile tugs on his lips as he responds, "Don’t worry, my brothers and father will more than likely beat you to it, but I’ll make sure to reserve some part of my body for you to mutilate if that occurs."

Amusem*nt lighting up her eyes, she gives a Cheshire grin as she replies, "Well, who would have thought that Damian Wayne actually had a sense of humor?"

Chucking, Damian looks at this small, fierce female and finds himself appreciating your taste in friends. So far, they’ve all seemed like genuinely good people. His father always says you can tell the character of a person by the people they surround themselves with.

"Let me walk you to your car, just in case Jackson is lurking nearby." He says, seeing shock flit across her face.

"Thank you; I didn’t even think about that." Biting her nail, she pauses and looks at him with a mischievous look before saying, "Who knew Damian Wayne could also be considerate?" Chuckling, they both walk the rest of the way to her car in comfortable silence as he consistently scans his surroundings, looking for any hint of a shadow or whiff of a unique scent.

Nothing.

Relaxing a bit, he says goodbye, but right before he turns around, he sees Sam jut out the hand holding her blazer and says, "You should give this to her," while biting her lip, "at least it’ll give her a definite reason to see you."

Gently, he takes it from her and gives her a small thank you as he watches her climb into her car and drives away. Walking back to the front doors, he notices the laden scent of citrus and honeysuckle. Inhaling deeply, he finds himself intoxicated by it, making him want to bury his face in it.

Meeting Alfred out front, the older gentleman co*cks his brow at the Blazer in his hand and holds the car door open for him to climb in. Saying nothing, he leans back into the warmth of his seat and savors her scent. Before long, an invigorating warmth floods his system, making him shift uncomfortably as he adjusts himself.

The desire to touch her and bury his face in her neck takes over him as he repeatedly inhales her scent. Breathing heavily, he tries to control his thoughts in an effort to mitigate the rising pain in his pants, but every time he does all that, the memories of her legs in that pants suit rush through his mind.

A slight groan escapes him as he slams his head into the headrest, earning him a knowing look from Alfred that has him gritting his teeth. His timing couldn’t be worse; he needs to be planning a course of action on how to repair the damage he has done to our relationship, but instead all he can do is think with the wronghead.

What is she doing to him?

____________________________________________________________________________

Aftercooling off,Damian, fully suited in his Robin uniform, sits in the Batchair in front of the state-of-the-art supercomputer, trying to locate the source of the picture’s link that was leaked in school. He’d wanted to wait for his brothers and father to get home from work before delving into it, but he decides against it when he realizes that time is of the essence.

Unfortunately for him, he hits a dead end when he sees that the domain name registered is connected to a shell company in Canada. Curling his lip, he leans back in the chair, clasping his hands under his chin when he hears,

"You look so much like your father when you sit like that." Alfred sets a silver tray with ivory handles down beside him on the desk. A cup of tea with a lemon rests beside what is no doubt a green protein shake. Damian doesn’t mind them as much as his brothers do; knowing that it’s good for him helps him overcome the putrid taste. It’s nothing against Alfred’s skill; rather, it's the cacophony of the ingredients together that is the real problem.

"Thank you, Pennyworth."

Silently leaving the tray, he retreats into the house as Damian stares at the screen. Switching tactics, he begins delving into the reporter who published the piece with the police report, despite it being sealed. He becomes so ingrained in his research that he almost misses the sound of his family coming into the Batcave.

Almost.

"Getting a head start, I see," Jason says casually, leaning against the rail.

"Where are we on the information behind the court forgoing their check-in with (Y/N) and her guardian?" He asks, turning in the seat, meeting each of their eyes.

Tim is the one to respond with, "So far, nothing. There aren’t any legal documents recounting the event, nor is there anything written down implying any sort of exchange occurred. Whatever happened to have made the court forget," he says, making air quotations, "must have happened in person."

Huffing a breath through his nose, he stands up and begins pacing with his hand clasped behind his back as usual.

"So, we’ve gotten nowhere with this problem and nowhere with the reporter who got his grimy hands on that police report?" He asks, allowing the frustration to be plainly heard in his voice. Bruce, sitting in the chair he was just in, turns to face the computer and begins typing furiously as Tim comes up beside him and says,

"Actually, I was able to find the author’s real name," while taking a sip of Damian’s tea and promptly crumbling his face in disgust, "Dude, how do you drink this stuff, it tastes like dirty water."

Crossing his arms, he hits him with a droll stare and says, "Well, if you didn’t guzzle six shots of espresso every morning, maybe you’d actually have some tastebuds left to appreciate the art of tea—but I digress, back to this reporter."

Putting the fine china down delicately, Tim runs a hand through his hair and says, "Right, so it turns out the article was published under a pseudo name, most likely because they had enough foresight to realize someone would come after him for it, but after some digging, I was able to find out that his real name is Carsten Boyle."

Holding his breath in anticipation, he sees the others watching Tim with the same intensity as him, making warmth blossom in his chest. Still, he finds himself taken aback by the blatant esteem they already hold for her. He has never seen any of them taken by someone so quickly.

Tim, sensing their anticipation, goes around to the hidden filing cabinet made to blend into the rocky wall and pulls out a manilla folder. Walking back over to them, he opens it up and says, "I’ve compiled a file on him, including his name, home address, phone numbers, social security number, passport number, places of employment, private medical records, private corporate documents, and printed emails that piqued my interest."

Glancing around at his brothers and father, he sees them grinning, with clear pride and excitement threading through their eyes. Turning back to his brother, he feels the thrum of excitement coursing through him as he says, "Let’s bury this guy."

For the next several hours, they each tear into this man’s past and cherry-pick pieces of information to use against him. Of course, they can’t go to his place of residence and harm him, but they can compile a convincing case against him by way of workplace misconduct from his last three jobs. They plan to anonymously send a file with all the relevant information to his boss, along with a note outlining all the illegal steps he’s taken to obtain the police report. There will be no way they can claim deniability once they see the incriminating pictures, emails, and documents. As a result, they will be forced to fire him, potentially barring him from publishing in the future. If not that, he will most certainly be blacklisted, a thought that brings a wicked smile to Damian’s face.

Sitting around a table in the Batcave, he, his brothers, and Bruce, wearing their uniforms, eat their dinner quickly before they’re dispatched on patrol. Remembering the photo with Jennifer, the food in his mouth turns to ash. Grimacing, he knows he has to say something, but before he can, Todd intervenes,

"Oooh, what’s got your panties in a twist, little bird."

Glowering at his brother, he sighs in resignation as he says, "We have another problem, which I completely accept all responsibility for," with his hands in the air. Stilling, they’re now all looking at him with a mixture of confusion and foreboding.

Eyes darkening, his father says in a low voice, "What happened." With his elbows on the table, he clasps his hands under his chin just as Damian had done. Oddly startled by the truth in Alfred’s words, he can see why he said it. It looks like he did pick up some mannerisms from him after all.

Clearing his throat, he feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment as he recounts the incident, including his failed attempt to discover who took and shared the photo. Listening actively, they squint their eyes as he discusses how he planned to avoid her in an effort to protect her.

Once he’s finished, they all stare at him a bit wide-eyed in disbelief.

"That might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard," Dick says incredulously, earning him a frown.

"I realize that now, and I plan to make amends immediately." He snaps defensively.

"Oh yeah, what’s your brilliant plan?" chimes, Jason.

"What do you mean?" Damian crosses his arms over his chest, "I’m just going to pull her aside and talk to her. What else is there to do?" He asks with a little less confidence than before.

Tim and Jason look at each other and then at the others before Jason points his thumb to him and says, "He’s kidding, right?" Now, looking back at him, "you seriously think she’ll be receptive to what you have to say after the sh*t you’ve pulled?" Leaning back in his chair, he stretches his arms over his head and rests them behind his head, quietly laughing.

"Dude, you’ve messed up big time, the last thing you need to do is force her to talk to you when she’s clearly upset." Tim supplements; sympathy is apparent on his face. Nodding his head in a clear sign of agreement, Bruce looks at his youngest son and says, "You need to give her some space. Wait for her to come to you, but make sure to let her know you’ll be there when she’s ready."

Perplexed by his father’s suggestion, he’s about to ask what he means by that when Tim unexpectantly answers, "Just give her little reassuring looks, or somehow let her know you’re thinking of her."

Closing his mouth, he sits there pondering their advice. Jaw-clenching, Damian says, "That’s all well and good, but that doesn’t solve the photo issue."

To which his father responds, "You said the link with the photo was sent this morning, correct?" while looking at Damian. Nodding his head, yes, his father continues, "Well, I doubt at this point we’ll be able to intercept it before it gets to the tabloids. The best we can do right now is brace for the storm that’s coming and try to figure out who’s responsible for the photo being taken and leaked—and that’s assuming they’re two different people working in concert with each other."

"What makes you think it’s two different people?" Asks Jason.

"You mentioned that this photo was taken last week, so if the person who took the photo wanted to release it, don’t you think they would have done so by now? And you said nothing between the two of you happened to motivate them to send it, so it must be someone else who somehow got their hands on it. To make matters worse, we may be dealing with someone who is either good with computers and coding or someone who knows someone."

His father is right, which makes a fresh swell of anger pump through him. Silently fuming, his father puts his hand on his shoulder and kindly says, "We’re going to get to the bottom of this, son. Just keep your head up and don’t dignify any of the insipid comments you may face in the coming days. I’ll try to have my PR team do some damage control beforehand and see what can be done about it." Now looking at Dick, he says, "See what you can find out through your precinct about it."

"I’ve already sent the link to my partner so they can start cross-referencing databases for whatever information they can uncover. I’ll let you know when I do." Dick replies immediately with a hardened glint in his eye.

With his hand still on Damian’s shoulder, he looks at the rest of his sons and says, "Time to clear your minds and patrol. It’s another Friday night in Gotham, so it’ll be a long night."

Everyone pushes their chairs back and goes to their respective vehicles. Looking back at Dick, Damian says, "Thank you for using your resources to aid me."

Giving him a toothy smile and a clap on the back, he brightly responds, "No problem, baby bird, that’s what family is for," which earns him an eye roll and a shadow of a smile that he’ll never let him see.

______________________________________________________________________________

Focusing his energy on crime-fighting isn’t difficult; in fact, it’s more muscle memory than anything else. He finds it therapeutic even—the sensation of his fist meeting flesh and the stretch of his muscles as he jumps across rooftops.

Tonight, Batman paired him with Nightwing, the first Robin, whom he used to resent. After years of having a tumultuous relationship, Grayson grew on him. Like a parasite, he might add, but one he now secretly enjoyed the company of. Of course, he’d never verbalize those thoughts, but Damian suspects that he already knows from the lack of hostility and bite in his insults.

It helps that they now work like a well-oiled machine; the flow between them rivals that of their flow with Batman. Privately, Damian allows himself to acknowledge that Dick is his favorite brother, a fact he also knows but safeguards.

His father was correct. A bevy of criminals came crawling out from under their rocks tonight to cause mayhem. Thankfully, they had plenty of stamina and energy to spare. Damian lost himself in the rhythmic sensation of fighting and reveled in the orchestra of shouts and grunts. But now, it is well beyond midnight, which means the others will slowly start making their way back to the cave for the night.

The two of them are now perched on their own respective gargoyles, looking down at the city over Gotham Proper (lower), where Batman assigned them for tonight. He suspects he did it on purpose, knowing that it was near the Diamond District, where she lives.

For the past two weeks, every night after patrol, he’s been secretly watching over her. Usually, she was asleep by the time he perched on the opposite roof, but occasionally she was awake. Those were usually his favorite times, but recently he’s noticed she has become increasingly stressed, resulting in more pacing, scalp scratching, and nail-biting.

The first time he saw her like that, the primal instinct to go down and soothe her stole his breath away. He knew he couldn’t expose himself as Robin for a multitude of reasons, but despite his logic, there was nothing he wanted more than to tell her the entire truth. But her safety is paramount, and there is nothing he will consciously do to jeopardize that.

Sighing, he allows the sting of the cool breeze to ground him at the moment. The coolness of the gritty concrete underneath him soaks through his uniform, lightly biting into his skin.

With his eyes robotically roaming this city beneath him, Dick says, "I want to say something, but I need you to promise you won't violently retaliate."

At that, he snaps his head to look at his oldest brother with a furrowed brow. Tensing, he says, "Fine, Grayson, I’ll bite."

Looking at him, he can see him contemplate his next words, which makes him more nervous than he’d like to admit. Sighing, he looks down, shakes his head, and says, "There’s really no good way for this to be said, but I think you’re giving her too much credit." Immediately he holds up his hands in surrender and continues, "Now I don’t mean she’s incapable of dealing with these circ*mstances, or that she isn’t a strong girl—I know she is; I saw the defiance in her eyes when we discussed the threatening messages. All I’m saying is that, despite her capability, I don’t think she knows where to begin with processing this whole thing. And since she presents herself as such a competent person, I think we’ve all dropped the ball when it comes to helping her transition."

Grunting in response, Damian thinks about it for a moment. Despite Dick’s affinity for saying the first thing that comes to his mind, he knows that he must have been thinking about this for a while.

Deciding to entertain this conversation sans fists flying, Damian simply responds, "Elaborate." A strong gust of wind has them both tensing and gripping their gargoyles, waiting for the whistling to dissipate before continuing.

Not caring about his windblown hair, Dick says, "What I mean is that I think you need to actively introduce her to this lifestyle by literally being there to hold her hand—at least in the beginning. Right now, it seems like she’s stubbornly drowning—at least from what you told us her friend said. What’s worse is that she’s clearly not going to admit this to you and may not even admit it to herself. So, you need to take initiative here. I know Bruce and Tim said to give her space and to wait for her to come to you, but I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to do." Shrugging, he continues, "I guess you need to know your audience, and it sounds like what she really needs, if nothing else, is a friend, at least for now."

Waiting for him to respond, Dick eyes him desperately, trying to convey his concern without coming off as overbearing. Feeling torn, he considers both pieces of advice before saying, "I think you might be right for once, Grayson," earning him a full-blown smile. "I will approach her on Monday to remedy my prior miscalculations and offer my aid, but only if she is receptive to the idea. I will not force my close proximity on her if she is not comfortable."

Nodding, they agree that this is the best course of action, and before long, his brother is gracefully bounding across rooftops towards the cave. Alone, he surveys the area below one last time, looking for any signs of trouble before he leaves to find her.

After a quick search on his phone, he makes his way to a home that is not her own. A small smile tugs on his lips when he realizes the luxurious and modern townhouse must belong to the friends he met the day they registered as Soulmates.

With a slight smile tugging on his lips, he settles on the rooftop across and starts searching for any sign of movement.

There.

Through the window in the bottom left corner, he spots her and what he believes to be Izzy frantically jumping. He’s too far away, but he would put money down on the fact that the two of them are screaming. Normally, the combination of jumping and screaming would have him concerned, but the pair of smiles he spots put him at ease.

Unable to pull his eyes away, he watches the two of them for a moment, and revels in this intimate moment she is sharing with Izzy. He sees her swat the flyaways from around her face as she breathes heavily. All the jumping has made her hair frizzy and wild, a look that he’s decided is one of his favorites. Squinting, he tries to see what she's holding, and upon further inspection, he spots something oblong.

A Wii remote.

Too stunned to stop himself, he laughs. The oddest sensation of warmth engulfs him as he slowly realizes how endearing it is to watch her get so heated over a game. Grinning like a fool, he maneuvers to see the TV, hoping to be clued in on what game the two of them are so passionately invested in.

A spark of recognition hits him when he sees a green turtle shell.

Super Mario Brothers.

The two are laughing and jumping over two tiny Italian plumbers on the screen. Shaking his head, he can’t help but find the foreign sensation of having a sore face from smiling enjoyable.

For the next hour, he watches until the two of them give up, and crash on the couch, falling asleep as their heads hit the pillows. Satisfied that she’ll sleep through the night, he departs for the warmth of the Batcave.

Thinking about the earth-shattering smile on her face while she played video games with her friend has him yearning to be the one to cause it next time.

Chapter 9: Pivotal

Chapter Text

Chapter 9:

Damian’s POV:

If it is the last thing he does, he is getting her damn phone number. It has been over two weeks since they bonded, and he has yet to get her number. He might be the only human on earth who didn’t have his Soulmates phone number yet, despite the fact that they had each other down as emergency contacts.

Now more than ever, Damian needs a way to contact her. It aggravated him this entire weekend that he couldn’t reach out to her, especially after the photo was released to the press as they predicted.

He’d thought the media had a field day when the news broke that she was his soulmate, but it was nothing compared to how they reacted when the photo was released of him and Jennifer Van Buren. His father had fairly warned them to brace for the storm that was certain to come, and he did, but nothing could have prepared them for the mayhem that it really was.

He had awoken early Saturday morning for his daily training session when he saw the tightly drawn look on Alfred’s face when he came into his bedroom. Immediately, he froze with a teacup to his lips as suspicion gripped him. He already knew what caused his pseudo-grandfather to look so irate and concerned, but he needed to hear it for himself.

"My apologies, Master Damian, but it would seem the press has gotten ahold of the dubious photo between you and Ms. Van Buren," Alfred said finally, confirming his suspicion.

"I figured as much, Pennyworth, but we’re prepared to handle this," he said naively.

Damian registered the tightening of his mouth and the subtle clearing of his throat just before he said, "I am certain if this were under normal circ*mstances you all would be prepared; however, I do believe the reactions of the press could be considered extraordinary." He had come to take the silver and ivory tray that was sitting on the weathered mahogany table.

When the teacup returned to its rightful place, Damian enjoyed the delicate ‘clinking’ sound it made when it contacted the saucer before he said, "And by extraordinary, what precisely do you mean?" Annoyance fully claimed the inflections of his voice.

"I believe it would be best if you joined the others in the parlor to see for yourself," Alfred said conclusively, leaving his room before he could respond.

Grounding his teeth, Damian shuffled around his room, quickly dressing in his uniform before going to his adjoining bathroom to brush his teeth. Damian had forgotten that he left his bathroom window open, which allowed the silver mist of the morning to cool the bathroom down considerably. With a slight shiver, he closed the window securely and completed his morning routine.

Dressed in his League of Assassins uniform, he went downstairs to find his family had indeed all convened in the parlor.

Slowly approaching the doorway, he noticed that none of them had turned around at the sound of his footsteps, which he had purposefully made noticeable, because they were all enthralled with what was on the television screen.

Eyes flicking up, he felt apprehension smother him, making it more difficult to breathe than if he were struggling underwater. The sight on the screen quite literally knocked the breath out of him. Before he was even aware that he had moved, he found himself leaning heavily on the back of the couch, both hands gripping so tightly that he could feel the leather giving way to his strength.

Releasing his grip, he noticed the way it was now molded to his hands, making guilt flicker for an instant before he was reminded of what made him angry enough to do it in the first place.

The others finally met his eyes, and he marveled at the rage quietly simmering in their own. Tightly, he simply asked, "How bad?" He was unable to string together a full question, not trusting his voice to work properly, but luckily, they knew exactly what he meant.

A moment of silence passed before Tim responded sullenly, "It looks like we were right, and also terribly wrong.".

"I have not the patience for your cryptic message, Drake," he seethed, now seeing red.

His father interjected quickly, "We underestimated the caliber of their reaction. Not only are they doubling their efforts for a statement and photo, but they are also fully camped outside their respective homes, practically barricading them in." After a thoughtful pause, he continues, "We are not faring much better, but thankfully the driveway is long, and they can’t get through the gates."

Deciding not to say anything more for fear of saying something further damaging to himself or his family, Damian began to pace along the rug behind them. With his head turned toward the screen, he stopped when the news shifted to that of a live feed from a news helicopter flying over her home, trying to increase their odds of getting a glimpse of her.

Damian had to admit that the savage protective instinct that shredded through him when he saw the wind from the blades blowing around the blades of her grass scared him a little. He had never experienced such an acute sensation in his life, and what frightened him the most was that there was nothing that he could do about it.

Trying to rein in his temper, he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths through his nose until he felt the cool tingling sensations running through his arms. Cracking his eyes open, he found five concerned faces staring at him. Nobody dared speak as he allowed himself to visibly relax in an effort to relax the others.

"They’re going after (Y/N) and Jennifer the hardest, knowing they’re the most vulnerable." Jason spits it out roughly, as if it physically hurt him to admit it. Groaning, he returns to his pacing as he reviews the media coverage on his phone.

He was simultaneously astonished and not when he realized that the public had not villainized him but rather Jennifer. Another double standard in their society. If the roles were reversed and it was hersharing an ‘intimate’ moment, the press would have a field day, and she would more than likely be branded an expletive hewould rather repeat. Of course, she did not come out of this unscathed either.

The claims of her reaction varied from hysterical rage to complacent resignation, which vexed him because he couldn’t even confirm since he stilldidn’t have her number. Guilt rears its ugly head as he realizes the combination of his neglect, inflexibility, and self-righteousness is what got them into this mess.

The only solace he found was in the fact that she wasn't home this weekend, making it easier for him to regain a grasp on his temper. She was safely tucked away with people who could offer her the support she’d need to overcome this additional hurdle. The damage he had done was nearly irreversible, and if it weren’t for the fact that they were soulmates, he would say they were doomed. But she was strong, smart, and resilient, so he had hope.

Jennifer on the other hand, did nothave a shot at a second chance. Although he could admit that she was not faring well in this debacle. Even though no helicopters were flying above her home, there were several news vans staked out outside, refusing to leave despite her father's threats to press charges.

As a judge, he was a highly revered, influential, and feared man in Gotham. But despite those pristine credentials, they were not spared an ounce. Slanderous, brackish stories came forward, making vulgar and profane claims about her character and ‘extra-curricular activities'. Bruce had spoken with him at some point over the weekend as he relayed the dismay she was feeling about the photo.

However, he could not bring himself to care, despite her repeated attempts to contact him. He was yet to be certain of whether or not she had anything to do with the photo being released to the public in the manner that it was, but he was certain she played a vital part in having it taken in the first place. However, no matter his personal feelings toward the girl, there was no justification for the harsh and unsavory treatment she received.

Surprisingly, the heat on him was not nearly as disparaging as it was for her and Jennifer, but he was not ignored either. Many articles claimed that an ‘inside source’, or a ‘close friend’, divulged that they had been secretly having an affair for years. Some mentioned him bringing her to the junior prom and that ‘they were unable to keep their hands to themselves the entire night’.

They were smart to mix their lies with the truth.

He was branded a cheater, adulterer, playboy, man whor*, and worse by the low-life gossip columns. Some of the ones that genuinely bothered him were the comparative articles that dredged up his father’s and brother’s past relationships and sexual exploits.

Many article titles were along the grain of Like Father, Like Son,TheApple Doesn’t Fall Far from the Tree,andHistory Repeats Itself: AnotherWayne Cursed for a Life of Debauchery. These were just some examples of how the press was having a heyday attheir expense.

Those headlines and people’s opinions didn’t bother him personally, but he was worried about what she would think. He didn’t assume that she’d be shallow enough to be swayed by these titles, but he was worried about how she would feel back at school. He had already noticed the looks other students—mostly girls—gave her when she wasn't looking and even when she was. He always felt a bit of pride when she met their judgmental stares with a devastating one of her own.

But this would incite next-level rumors, stares, and comments, ones he knew he was responsible for. The mid-morning sun began filtering into the room, creating ribbons of light that illuminated the floating dust particles in the room. The light also created a glare on the television, making it nearly impossible for them to see the current media coverage, but instead of shutting the blinds, Alfred shut it off.

Turning toward us, he said, "I do believe we’ve gotten the gist, and therefore watching any further is of no value to us," walking out silently as the soft carpet absorbed the sound of his steps.

They were all silent for a moment when his father declared that they should all cancel their plans for the day since he was making training mandatory for all of them. He has also specified that until the media calmed down, Damian would be barred from training outdoors in the event any of the paparazzi had a telephoto lens. Instead, they were to train together in the Batcave’s gym, which he didn’t really mind, but he much preferred working outside in natural conditions such as heat, snow, rain, humidity, etc. He liked to be as prepared for a real fight as possible, and the only way to do that is to train in the natural elements.

After they were thoroughly exhausted from their training, his father sprung another surprise on them—they would be going on solo patrols that night.

Secretly, he was grateful.

He needed that time to clear his head and further exhaust himself in order to think clearly about what his next steps should be. The time flew by as he zealously took on multiple thugs at once throughout the night. He would be covered in deep purple bruises in the next few days, but he didn’t care; in fact, he was partial to the dull ache of his muscles after an especially arduous workout. It meant that he was challenging himself thoroughly, which helped keep him sharp.

After an eventful evening of patrolling, he’d gone to her friend’s house, hoping to see her playing video games again, carefree and happy.

And he did see her, but not like the other night.

After his eyes perused around the house a few times, she finally came into view, in what he assumed was her friend’s bedroom—or maybe her sister's. Instead of jumping and screaming with a red face and a huge smile, she was nervously pacing in front of the bed that her friend sat on as she bit her nails while she spoke to her.

As he perched on the parallel rooftop, he took another survey of his surroundings. Thankfully, the paparazzi hadn’t discovered that she wasn't home, nor did they learn of her friend’s home address. The streets below were blissfully empty and quiet—so quiet, in fact, that all he could hear was the sound of his hood being whipped by the strong gale.

The streetlight’s warm yellow hue illuminated the sidewalks, hitting the shiny flecks in the pavement at just the right angle to make it look like it was shimmering. Inhaling deeply, he kept his eyes on her as he registered the fragrant scent of the halal guys' cart on the corner, making his stomach grumble audibly.

Choosing to ignore his own needs, he refocused himself on her.

He couldn’t hear what she was saying, nor could he see her face, but from the body language alone, he could assume it had something to do with the news articles. His gut had twisted at the thought of him being a contributor to her clear distress, and it made him feel inadequate—an emotion he was rapidly beginning to hate.

Still pacing, she was animatedly talking with her hands, nodding to herself as Izzy interjected periodically. He assumed they were reassuring comments because she ended up sitting on the edge of her bed after grabbing a large plush doll and pulling it into her lap.

With her legs crossed and her chin resting on the doll, the two of them continued to talk, facing each other, for the next several minutes. Damian would pay real, cold, hard cash to be a fly on that wall—no, to be there in the flesh so that he could comfort her. He knew it should have been him in there, listening to her vent while rubbing her back and putting her worries at ease.

But it wasn’t.

He was gritting his teeth in the shadows when her head snapped up to the window in alarm. Scurrying over to the window, he could finally see her face and disturbingly noticed red cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, indicating she must have been crying.

He didn’t think he could physically feel lower, but at that moment, when he saw her looking outside skittishly, he wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor and cease to exist.

Once he got past the watery eyes and knitted brow, he noticed that she was wearing an oversized t-shirt with a…. was that… a Superman symbol? Grunting in disapproval, his eyes continued perusing when he peaked at the Princess Leia buns sitting on her head.

A sharp spark of energy sprang to life in his body, resulting in a rapid rush of heat coursing through his veins. It would seem that the combination of both a dominating t-shirt that fell to your mid-thigh and the Princess Leia buns acted like an aphrodisiac. On anyone else, he would think it was childish, but on her, it stirred something deep within him.

What the hell was wrong with him.

Groaning, he shook his head and cursed himself. He needed to get a grip. He was the grandson of Ra’s Al Ghul and the son of Batman, but when it came to her, he was nothing more than a puddle at her feet. She simply made him melt like butter—him: a deadly assassin turned vigilante…butter. It blew his mind that, unbeknownst to her, she had him in the palm of her hand.

He started to feel the first drops of rain when she quickly snapped the curtains closed, respectfully cutting off access to his dream’s source material. With the curtains closed, his attention returned to his surroundings. He realized that just gazing upon her gave him enough warmth to fight off the chill from the icy prickles of rain. But now, with the curtains closed, the chill was seeping through his uniform and settling in his bones.

Rubbing his chest over his Soulmark, he savored the sensation that had his dick twitching in response to the jolt of electricity it shot through him. Soon enough, he spied the other curtains and blinds being closed throughout the rest of the house. Sighing, he realized that this was as good a sign as any other that it was time for him to head back.

Standing, he found himself grateful for the lack of white vans littering the street. However, that gratefulness did not last long before it was replaced with rising distress over the potential safety hazard the paparazzi were guaranteed to pose. His chest tightened as the speed at which his worry for her privacy shifted to her safety – gave him whiplash. There was now a real threat to her well-being, one that he had created.

f*ck.

f*ck.

For the rest of the weekend, Damian was barely able to contain his rage and nerves as they sifted through numerous plans to evade the press for the upcoming week. They all knew that they would need more creative solutions, but for the time being, they would have to settle for the old bait and switch act.

That was how they came to the conclusion that it would be best for Tim and Dick to lure the paparazzi away from the manor in the Rolls Royce that Damian was usually in. Once they were properly distracted, he and Alfred would slip past unnoticed and make their way to school.

That is why he is currently leaning his head back in the Mercedes Maybach, softly listening to Alfred’s favorite classical music. A small smile graces his face as he notices that their ruse is working so far. Not one van nor photographer on foot has been spotted for the last twenty minutes.

Not soon enough, they finally reach the gates where students are dropped off. As they approach, he sees the multitude of blinding flashes, making him grit his teeth and look away. To his relief, the tint on the windows is thick enough that, despite their best efforts, they are unable to see through.

Inconspicuously, they slip through and add themselves to the queue of cars dropping off students as the gates slowly close behind them, cutting off the paparazzi’s access to them. Releasing a tense breath, he feels his muscles relax, only to tense up again at the thought of the unpredictable reaction she’ll have to him.

Pushing those nerves aside, he centers himself before climbing out of the car. Dutifully and silently, Alfred hands him his bag and nods once before dismissing himself. Damian quickly makes his way to his first-period class as he oddly keeps catching the blistering judgmental glances from his peers.

A rising frustration tries to gnaw its way to the surface, but he won’t allow it. His father made it very clear not to engage with anyone whatsoever, which he already knew not to do. Instead of dignifying them with a comment, he simply responds to their glares with one of his own. A smug smile tugs on his lips when he notices their sudden shock turn into fear as they immediately look downward.

Casually strolling through the linoleum-checkered halls, he inhales a breath of stuffy mildew. Despite the state-of-the-art advancements paid for by his father, the school has never been able to rid itself of that scent. Reaching the classroom, he knows that he has to pull her aside to talk before class begins, even if it means they’ll miss part of or all of the lesson.

This is more important.

Feeling confident about his decision, Damian leans his sore shoulder into the dove gray plaster of the wall and crosses his arms as he waits for her to appear. Pulling out his phone, he once again pretends to scroll aimlessly, allowing others to think he’s too preoccupied to take notice of their conversations.

He isn’t.

As his fellow students let down their guard, he collects as much information as he can trying to assess if any of them will be a potential threat to her. After several moments pass, movement in his periphery has him snapping his head up, his eyes crashing into hers.

The depth of astonishment in her (E/C) eyes as he looks at her has guilt clawing at his stomach, sucking the confidence right out of him. He sees her bobbing and weaving through students as she makes her way to the class, occasionally losing sight of her behind a taller individual.

In a heartbeat, she’s right in front of him, nervously fiddling with the straps of her backpack as she gives him a suspicious and guarded look. Inhaling her citrus and honeysuckle aroma, he lightly touches her elbow and leans his head down as he says, "Can we go somewhere private to speak?"

He feels her stiffen under his touch as she cranes her head back to look up at him. Knotting her brow in question, she releases a tense breath and answers with a simple nod. Jaw tightening, he looks around and sees that most of the students have cleared the hallways, meaning there are fewer prying eyes on them as he gently leads her to an empty classroom.

The only sound that he can hear is that of her shoes clacking on the floor and the click of the motion-detecting lights turning on. The air between them is so thick with tension, Damian swears he can feel it abrasively settle on his skin.

She, still eyeing him warily, goes to lean against the front of a desk as she crosses her arms, waiting patiently. Since Damian hasn’t been near her in over a week, he takes this time to really look at her. With the front pieces of her hair twisted and bobby-pinned back, he gets a good look at her face. His eyes devour every detail—from her pink-tinted cheeks to the small freckle on her chin all the way up to her piercing (E/C) eyes that rock him to his core. Sucking in a deep breath, he can see her analyzing his every move, a fact that should make him uncomfortable but instead sets him on fire.

He’d gladly get used to her looking at him like this, even though he knows she’s wary of him right now. What he’d like to do to yo-

"Well?" She cuts off his thoughts, co*cking an eyebrow.

Clearing his throat, he stands up straighter and moves right in front of her, an action that makes her eyes flutter and her breath hitch.

"I have a lot to atone for when it comes to you, and I intend to start now." He says, with added timber.

He catches a small quirk tugging on her lips as she quickly looks down and back up at him through those curled lashes, "Is that right? Pray tell, what exactly must you atone for Damian?" She says with an undercurrent of teasing and…bite.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he masks his surprise with what he hopes is a charming grin before saying, "Well, first and foremost, I believe it is high time we exchanged phone numbers."

With her arms still crossed over her chest, she chuckles quietly and shakes her head at the absurdity of that fact. Unfolding them, she takes out her phone and quickly wipes her screen with her shirt, shyly saying, "Sorry, face oils and all that."

Giving her a reassuring grin, he takes the phone, intentionally brushing his fingers against hers. At the contact, her eyes snap up, and she inhales a sharp breath as a slight twinge of electricity sparks between them.

Damian can feel his male satisfaction grow and stretch in his chest at her reaction. Quickly typing in his contact information, he decides to add his brothers and father as well, before handing it back.

Looking down, he can see the questioning look in her eyes, so he explains, "I’ve added my family members as well, in case you’re ever in an emergency and you can’t reach me. Which I intend for you never to need since I will always answer."

Surprise flashes in her eyes at his comment, leaving her at a loss for words. Finally, after opening and closing her mouth several times, which Damian finds adorable, her features turn hard as she resumes her cross-armed position and says, "Alright, now that that’s out of the way, is there something else you need?" With squinted eyes, she somehow manages to look down upon him even though she's more than a head shorter than him.

Bristling at her posture, he quickly looks toward the splintering wood of the door to make sure there is no chance of anyone walking in on them. Satisfied by their certain isolation, he takes a small step back and levels her with an earnest look before saying, "I’m more than aware of the fact that I’ve already made mistakes. As well as knowing that those mistakes have hurt you… "And I’m here to atone for them, not to explain them away."

Before she can say anything, he continues, "First, I’d like to make you aware of the fact that I genuinely believed that if I kept my distance from you, then you’d be safer. My thought process ran along the lines of, "If I treat her like nothing has changed, then everyone else will treat her like nothing has changed.’ In hindsight, I am aware of how incorrect that was."

He watches as her head tilts sideways, as if trying to replicate the thought process, before understanding dawns on her face. Holding his breath, he realizes she's waiting for him to continue, so he does. "I would like you to be aware that I have found neither joy nor solace in neglecting you. Furthermore, the incident with Jennifer was not consensual."

At that point, her eyebrows shoot up as she unfolds her arms, balling her hands into fists. Her head snaps up to look at him directly as her eyes squint, an undulating rage battling in them, making them darken.

Quickly, he adds, "To clarify, I was waiting for you in the library alcove that overlooks the track when she invited herself to sit near me under the guise of needing help with homework. I intended to politely dissuade her from further interactions when she rested her chin on my shoulder. I was completely unaware that there was another nearby, which I know I should have been."

His nostrils flaring, he feels the slow rise of bitter frustration and regret settle on his tongue. Jaw ticking, he takes a second to breathe, intending to continue, when he looks downward and sees her mouth open a little as her shoulders noticeably slump. There’s a pregnant pause before she releases an anxious breath and says, "We all make mistakes, Damian; it’s not what you do but how you react to it that I judge."

Looking down at the floor, he grinds his teeth at the anticipation of seeing pity in her eyes when she takes a step closer to him. She's now less than a foot away—so close, in fact, that he can hear and feel her breath. She gently takes his hand in hers, sending a humming warmth up his arm. At the contact, he looks at her and sucks in a sharp breath at the forgiveness he sees radiating through her eyes.

He doesn’t deserve her.

For a moment, he searches her eyes for a hint of resentment, bitterness, or malice but finds none. Still holding her hand, he finally notices the supple skin of her palm and the softness of her fingers as she unconsciously rubs small circles on the tops of his hands.

Hoarsely, he says, "I don’t expect you to forgive my transgressions so easily, but I vow to you that I will never consciously do anything to make you feel alienated and isolated again." He’s just as surprised as she is at the emotion breaking through his voice, eliciting a wave of her own. Swallowing hard, she just nods, unable to speak.

With our hands intertwined and our eyes boring into one another, there is nothing left but our synchronized breathing and the warmth of her petite hand in his. Without warning, the motion-detecting lights turn off, making her squeal and jump a little, which makes him huff out a hearty laugh.

She takes a step back, releasing his hand, and swings her arms around with a serious look on her face. With a click and a flare of light, we look back at each other, both silently acknowledging that the moment has passed. She returns to leaning against the desk, but this time she places her hands beside her rather than crossing her arms over her chest.

He can tell that she's concentrating on what to say next by the stormy look in her eye and by the fact that she always bites her bottom lip a little every time she does. He gives her as much time as she needs to process everything he says, which doesn’t go unnoticed.

Finally, she says, looking at him sadly, "You know, I wasn’t going to say anything about the photo because I thought that I didn’t have a right to be upset since 1," she holds up a finger, "you were ignoring me for unknown reasons, and 2, we aren’t even dating. But despite my desperate attempt to reason with myself, I couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal."

Now looking down in embarrassment, she toes the floor before continuing, "And even before that, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking that you were ashamed of me." He can hear the honesty in her voice and how hard it is for her to say it aloud, making his stomach sink and knot as it settles like an iron weight.

"It was driving me crazy that I couldn’t seem to stop myself from feeling this way. I’ve never, and I meannever,given a sh*t what someone thought about me. But when it comes to you, I did… I mean, I do. And that alone pissed me off enough that I too avoided you." She is now looking at me as she breathes heavily through her nose.

"You’re not solely to blame for how things have been between us, Damian. I too have to atone for those actions… but, I will say the whole Jennifer thing…that’s 100% on you," she says with a wicked grin on her face and a mischievous look in her eye.

Proceeding, she says, "I’ll admit, this weekend has been more difficult than I would have liked. The whole media and paparazzi thing is harder to deal with than I thought, and it makes me feel so f*cking weak,"barely whispering the last part.

He sees her try to rein in her emotions as her nostrils rapidly flare and her jaw strains from biting down hard. Guilt washes over him, and a deep sense of protectiveness accompanies it. Stepping closer, he lightly takes her hands in his own - once again relishing at their supple texture – and leans his head down so that our foreheads are touching.

Returning the gesture, he methodically rubs small circles on the tops of her hands when she looks up at him, as a flurry of emotions swims through her eyes. Her bottom lip begins to quiver, and the rims of her lash line become red, but before she allows the tears to fall, she stubbornly blinks them away.

Closing them, he becomes aware for the first time of how beautiful and thick her curled lashes are as they sit against the tops of her cheeks. As she takes several deep breaths, he moves his left hand to the back of her neck, massaging it to help release some of the tension.

Surprised, her eyes snap open, and her mouth parts as a small, gratified sigh escapes.

Smiling a little, he silently continues as her face relaxes and the strained lines around her eyes dissipate. He decides, right at that moment, that whenever she asks him (and even when she doesn't), he’ll massage her neck for however long she wants.

Breaking the silence, he whispers, "You’re not weak. You’ve never been weak. Everything that you’re feeling right now is completely natural. I am in awe of you (Y/N). I'm in awe of the grace and maturity that you’ve displayed these past couple of weeks. And even though I’m grateful for being able to see, firsthand, your inner strength, I also regret that you needed to be in a position to use it."

She's looking at him, brow furrowed and lip quivering as the steel in her eyes solidifies itself. "I should have been there for you every step of the way. It should have been me that you went to when you felt overwhelmed or scared. It should have been me that you reached out to when you didn’t know what to do or where to go."

He can tell that she can hear the tension in his voice because she tilts her head against his, making our noses graze each other. Feeling the heat of her breath on his skin, he’s never wanted to be wrapped in anything so badly before. His hand still on the nape of her neck, he stretches his fingers and buries them into her hair, making her breath shudder.

Heat pools inside him as he feels his blood buzz in anticipation. His breathing becomes harder as he feels hotter and becomes increasingly desperate to touch more of her. He can tell that the need arises in her as her pupils dilate and she licks her lips.

"Promise me," she says breathlessly, "promise me that we face whatever challenges are ahead of us together." Already nodding his head against hers, she continues, "I want it to beus against the problem, not us against each other, ok?" Still nodding his head, he whispers his agreement as our grips on each other tighten and our breathing becomes more synchronously rapid.

In her eyes, he sees a need spike, making his own respond in kind. The lights click off again, and this time we don’t part.

We stay there.

Embracing.

As the world around us falls away, all that is left is our bodies, now flush against one another. A small tingling sensation dances across his skin where she touches him, making a small shiver run down his spine pleasantly.

At that moment, Damian makes a split-second decision and crashes his mouth down onto hers. There is nothing gentle nor sweet about this kiss, but rather ravaging as he claims her lips. Pulling back slightly to make certain she's okay, he gets his answer when she presses her soft body into his hard one.

As she sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, he takes this moment to deepen the kiss. Shocked, she softly moans, which elicits a savage response that runs through his body. A slight tremor ripples through her, enticing him to wrap his arm around her waist and haul her to his chest, lifting her to the tips of her toes.

With her pressed against his body, he can feel the heat of her skin burn through the thin material of his shirt, almost making him stagger. A tremor shoots down the length of his spine at the same moment she licks his bottom lip. She tastes of warm, sweet citrus. Her fingers dig into the flesh of his arms as they slowly make their way up to the back of his neck. Still intertwined, her hand fists the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him even closer to her. With one arm around her waist, he flattens the other against her cheek, lightly moving his thumb back and forth. He swears that he can feel her lips curving against his in a smile.

Our frenzied kiss dissipates into a gentle exploration. He moves his mouth slowly against hers, mapping out the curve of her mouth, memorizing every detail.

Her lips are softer than a flower’s petals.

He feels tiny shivers assault every part of her body, making his hand grip her waist tighter. She pulls away first, resulting in us both gasping, our chests rising and falling quickly in unison.

For a moment, they just stay there, in each other’s arms. Looking down at her, he sees a beautiful pink flush on her cheeks, and those plump, swollen lips curve into a delicious smirk.

"I’ve been dying to know what that felt like since the day we reached," she says through rapid breaths. Chuckling, he agrees, and they both become quiet again. Reluctantly, he loosens his grip on her waist, allowing her to stand flat on her feet again.

"No more running from each other. No more soloing it. Ok?" Nodding his head along, he adds, "Open and honest communication from this point forward," while looking into her beautifully heated eyes. With one finger, he draws the tips of his fingers down the side of her face and cups her cheek. Leaning into his hand, she closes her eyes for a moment, savoring his touch.

Opening her eyes again, she gingerly steps back, breaking his hold around her waist. Still holding his hand, she says, "There’s something else I need to tell you," warily. Ice pools in his veins, smothering the desire he felt a moment ago and clearing his mind. He feels his muscles tighten as his brows knot almost painfully.

"On Friday, Sam told me what happened," she says slowly, calculating her next words. "I know you asked me to be forthright about what happens to me that may be concerning, and I really want to start us off on the right foot…"So I need you to promise not to lose your cool over what I’m about to tell you." There is a look of reluctance and caution in her eyes now.

Not trusting his voice, he simply nods. "Ok, well, on Friday, there was a small altercation between Jackson and me," she says quietly. In a fraction of a second, fury burns through his blood, seizing control.

Head snapping toward the door, he takes a step, but before he can move further, she gently grabs his hands, eyes pleading when she says, "Hey…hey, look at me." This time more forcefully, "Look at me." Her hand comes up and gently grabs his chin to face her. "I’m not telling you this so you can storm into class or wherever and beat the sh*t out of some guy who doesn’t matter, nor do I want you to try and solve all my problems for me."

Seething, he asks through his gritted teeth, "Did he lay a hand on you?" The way she quickly looks down is confirmation enough for him. Turning to face her completely, he ducks his head and whispers tensely, "I apologize for my sudden reaction, but I implore you to show me where he touched you. I promise not to retaliate against him."

Looking back up at him, he sees panic rise to the surface, making her frown. Sighing, she lets go of his hand and hesitantly pulls up the sleeve of her shirt, exposing an ugly green and yellow bruise on her wrist.

In the shape of a f*cking hand.

For a moment, all Damian can see is red. With his spine stiffening, he feels a kernel of anger take root right beside the sickly feeling of disgust. How dare someone lay a finger on her? Taking a deep breath through his nose, he gently rests his hand on her face again. "Please (Y/N), I need to know what happened. What did he do to you?"

Swallowing, she looks at him, a sadness taking up residence in her eyes. "I…honestly, I don’t even know how we got to this point. At first, I thought he was angry on my behalf, but then it seemed his anger shifted toward me. And we were in art class, so I couldn’t move my seat since they were assigned at the beginning of the year. Next thing I know he got a hold of me and kept asking me to give him a chance," she says almost incoherently.

Eyes squinting, he doesn’t fully understand and asks, "Angry? Angry about what precisely?" His hand is now cupping the side of her neck, massaging it delicately. They’re still in the dark, but from the natural light of the sun streaming in through the window, he can see her searching his eyes before saying, "About you. He was angry about your behavior towards me."

More infuriated than before, it takes all of his willpower not to rip the door of their history class off its hinges and slit his f*cking throat with a dull number two pencil. But instead of giving in to his blind rage, he evens his breaths and looks at her, allowing her eyes to ground him.

"I appreciate your honesty (Y/N), but I want you to keep me apprised of any more issues regarding Jackson. Is that clear?" He asks firmly.

Looking up at him, she can see his fury plainly on his face, which he allows to show through in an effort to show her how serious he is.

"I promise," she whispers sincerely, "but Damian, I’m a big girl and am more than capable of taking care of myself. I can and willhandle Jackson."

Releasing a breath through his nose, he draws back. Now that he's no longer in contact with her, he feels like he’s been stripped bare, which reminds him of her blazer.

"One second," he says before he turns around and rummages in his backpack. He pulls out her blazer and turns around to see recognition flicker across her face before a smile breaks out.

"I totally forgot about that. Thank you," she says in a high-pitched tone. Coming over to Damian, she takes the blazer from him and puts it on before standing on the tips of her toes and planting a chaste kiss on his mouth. Sucking in a breath, he rocks back on his heels slightly before grinning wickedly at her and saying, "You know a guy could get used to that."

"Oh, I bet," she replies saucily, giving him a wink that gives him another hard-on. Groaning, he looks at the time and sees that they’ve practically missed the entirety of the first period. With her back to him, she bends over, grabbing her bag before she slings it over her shoulder.

"One more thing," he says, capturing her attention. She looks at him expectantly when he says, "I would like to pick you up and drop you off from school every day."

Stilling, her eyes darken before she replies, "Absolutely not. That’ll create a media sh*tstorm, which is the last thing either of us wants or needs right now," tersely. "Anyway, Sam is more than happy to drive me whenever I need since she lives right around the block from me," she justifies.

Knowing he will only achieve enraging her if he pushes, he decides to let the matter slide for the moment. Our relationship is still too fragile.

"Fine, but if you ever want it, the offer will always be open," he says.

Smiling, she says thank you as she puts her small hand into his. Looking up at him, she gives him a sheepish look – as if to ask him if it’s alright. Giving her a soft grin, he brings our joined hands up to his mouth and plants a tender kiss on the back of her hand while looking deeply into her eyes. Relief floods their crystalline quality as she breathes out a wispy sigh.

"Habibti, your touch will always be welcomed," he says huskily, watching as her eyes light up.

"I’ll make sure to keep that in mind," she replies sweetly, before placing another quick kiss on his lips. "But I think it’s best if we keep our PDA to a minimum in school."

Eyebrows raised, he ponders it for a moment and reluctantly agrees. "I concur, however, let us not regress into avoidance, no?"

Shaking her head firmly, she says, "Most definitely not."

"Then we are in agreement, miss (L/N)?" he says cheekily.

"We most certainly are," she whispers teasingly.

Opening the door, he gestures for her to go through first when she says, "Ah, quite the gentleman, huh?" while looking over her shoulder with a satisfied smirk and wink. The warmth that pools in his chest and runs through his limbs is euphoric, making him realize that he would gladly burn the world to the ground for her, without hesitation.

Remembering Jackson, he clenches his jaw at the foolish reminder that he promised not to retaliate against him. What the f*ck was he thinking.

But he never promised that anyone else wouldn’t retaliate.

With adark grin on his face, he walks closely behind her as students begin pouring into the hallways at the sound of the bell ringing.

Chapter 10: The Audacity of Men with Cargo Pants and Nikons

Chapter Text

Chapter 10:

(Y/N) POV: A week and a half later: Wednesday

For a chilly mid-October day, today is uncharacteristically bright and sunny, a fact that I not so secretly delight in. All bundled up in my Matrix length black wool trench coat, I slow my brisk pace to a leisurely stroll as I deeply inhale the crisp scent of fall, savoring this rare opportunity I have to walk outside freely.

After I woke up surprisingly well rested and to the sun streaming in through my chiffon drapes, I texted Sam and told her that I planned to walk to school today so I could make the most of the day. After a few messages back and forth of me trying to alleviate her concerns about my safety, I promised her that I would still sneak out of the house as if I were being picked up by her.

I already planned to do just that; there was no chance in hell that I was going to just step out the front door into a swarm of paparazzi. Since that photo leaked of Jennifer and Damian, the paparazzi have become a permanent fixture on my front lawn. Before the photo was released, there were maybe four or five of them, but now there are at least ten at any given moment.

With the stakes being raised and them being more desperate – I’ve gotten more creative with my escape routes. I no longer just sneak out the side door and duck between alleyways. I’ve started sneaking through my back door, going through the tunnels that connect the rows of townhouses on our block. The tunnels were built way back in the day—even before the houses were built—so that whenever maintenance needed to be done, the workers could come and go without being seen by residents and pedestrians alike.

This little hidden gem has gotten me in and out of my home undetected for over a week now. I've considered calling this my 'tried and true' method since it has yet to fail me. Using this route this morning went as smoothly as usual, making my decision to walk easier. The real challenge will be sneaking past the paparazzi on the way intothe school.

Halfway to school, I find myself stuck behind a particularly slow walker who is taking up nearly the entire sidewalk while talking on their phone loudly. Another commuter and I quickly share a mildly annoyed yet entertained look before we quickly and simultaneously pass the inconsiderate individual. Chuckling at the oddly serendipitous moment we just shared, I go back to listening to my music and reflecting on this past week and how it’s felt like a fever dream. One that I’m terrified to wake up from just to find myself back to square one with Damian.

It feels almost too good to be true—almost, but not quite.

Despite the big step we took toward establishing a healthier relationship, we’ve barely been able to speak to one another. Between the grueling schedule of midterms and our agreement to refrain from public displays of affection, we haven’t had a moment to ourselves, let alone time with one another.

Damian has been true to his word – no longer ignoring me, he has been dead set on consciously walking me to my classes, sitting with me and Sam at lunch, stealing heated glances when nobody is looking, and sometimes – when the halls are clear – we lock pinky fingers discreetly.

As much as I hate to admit it, these small gestures have lifted a heavy weight off my shoulders. I haven’t had time to really think about much other than midterms lately, but I have noticed that my chest no longer feels as constricted.

Our changed demeanor towards one another hasn’t gone unnoticed, nor has the fact that we both missed first period last week. With the rumor mill flying off its hinges, I anticipated the heart-wrenching anxiety to be unbearable, but to my pleasant surprise, it wasn’t.

With Damian there by my side – simultaneously glaring – and being a pillar of support, I’m able to brush it off with ease. Subconsciously, I know that we will have to deal with this for the rest of the school year, but I keep hoping that one day something else will grab their attention and I’ll finally be able to breathe easy.

A cute little delusional dream.

While I’ve found it easier to deal with the students with Damian’s supportive presence, I am struggling more than ever with the media scrutiny – a fact that I’ve been keeping to myself. I know that we’ve promised to be more open with one another, but this isn’t a problem that he can fix, despite the fact that I know that he would try – probably making it worse.

I was just starting to adjust to the constant, annoying proximity of the photographers, but with the sharp increase in their ranks, I’ve become more of a shrinking violet than ever. I highly doubt that I will ever get to a point where I’ll be comfortable enough that I won’t even notice them. Not when there are so many of them, and not when they’re so aggressive.

At night, I can see and sometimes hear (when my window is open) the shuddered clicks of their cameras every time they see a shadow move behind a curtain or see any semblance of a person moving about the house. My only reprieves are the weekends when I go to Izzy’s and return to the life of not being anyone special. There are no words to describe how much I appreciate them not treating me any differently.

Mama Luca still makes us do the dishes and clean up after ourselves. She still tells us to quiet down when we’re being too loud at night and covers us in blankets when we fall asleep on the couch. At their house, it almost feels like I’m in a different world—one where I never discovered Damian as my Soulmate—and while that used to be comforting, it now makes me feel guilty.

I no longer want to be in a world where he isn’t a part of my life. Although this is all uncharted territory, I’m finding that I enjoy navigating it with him by my side. No longer do I feel like I’m drowning, nor do I feel hopeless about the future. Even though I know it’s going to continue being difficult – and will more than likely become more difficult – I feel confident that whatever comes our way, we’ll be able to handle it together.

After being lost in my head for a while, I finally spot the green hedges and black gates of Gotham Academy. Slowing my pace, I turn and make my way to the back, where the teachers and other staff members go through. I know that I will more than likely get into trouble for going this way, but I hope that with my explanation for wanting to avoid the paparazzi, they’ll understand.

Popping the collar of my trench coat, I covertly gaze over its edge as the wisps of the wool fabric tickle my nose. I can clearly see at least four nondescript white vans littering the streets behind the school where the ‘teacher's entrance’ is. There are at least two dozen photographers here, probably double that, a thought that makes a bead of sweat roll down my back.

A quick, sharp rise of dread rips through me as my breathing becomes rapid, and I begin questioning the audacity I have to even attempt this. There is no way this is going to work out well for me, but now it’s too late to turn back. I stop a couple of blocks away, duck into the mouth of an alley, and lean heavily against the rough brick wall.

I place my hands behind my head and breathe deeply, trying to get as much oxygen in my lungs as possible before my full-blown panic attack renders me useless. With the sound of my heart thrumming in my ears, I can feel my fingers becoming numb—a sign that I am quickly spiraling.

Get. It. The. f*ck. Together.

I pull out my phone with shaking fingers while I take loud, laborious breaths and text Damian, asking him to meet me by the back doors in ten minutes. Less than a minute later, he responds that he will be there waiting for me, which comforts me enough that I can start getting my erratic breathing under control.

A few minutes later, I’m standing up straight once more, and I start slowly walking to the rear gate, constantly scanning for any sign of movement. As I approach, I wipe my sweaty palms against my coat and start fidgeting with the straps of my backpack.

With my air pods still in, I turn off my music, listening for movement or the clicks of cameras as I numbly walk the rest of the way to the gates. Half a block away, I feel my skin prickle when a dreadful realization crashes down upon me.

It’s too silent and empty.

There is nobody here, and I meannobody. There is nota single pedestrian to be seen or heard, nor are there any teachers walking through the gates – which is odd since class starts in ten minutes. Slowing my pace, I see the reason for the eerily silent surroundings… the gates are closed.

Ice runs through my veins as I now stand there wide-eyed and dumbfounded. Doing a quick sweep, I begin lightly jogging to the side entrance, knowing that my luck is more than likely about to run out. There is no way that they’re not going to be stationed outside the student entrance - I just have to keep my head down and try to blend in with the other kids.

Texting Damian about my change of plans, he once again quickly agrees and tells me that he’s not yet been dropped off and that he’ll wait for me by the doors when he is. Nodding to myself, I square my shoulders and turn toward the corner, immediately spotting at least three vans parked on this block.

Ducking my head, I realize that my coat makes me stand out from the rest of the students, so I quickly move to the side and shrug off my backpack. Placing it on the ground momentarily, I take off my coat, fold it neatly, and place it over my arms after I put the bag back on. Looking around as discreetly as possible, I see one of our buses pull up to the curb, releasing a hoard of students.

As they come pouring out, I see the paparazzi jump out from the back of their vans and swarm them as the flash of their cameras starts going off. Soon, though, it stops as they realize that I’m not among them.

f*ck. Oh sh*t. Oh f*ck

Before I have a moment to reconsider, they turn around and spot me. For what feels like an eternity, all of us stare at each other in silence, flabbergasted. All too soon and all at once, they rush me. Like a scene in a movie, everything moves in slow motion as the ice in my veins freezes me to the spot while over a dozen grown men in cargo pants and Nikons run towards me.

Their shouts snap me out of my stupor as I take a step forward, trying to get around them when the bright flashes of their cameras blind me. My mouth goes dry as I realize I can no longer see beyond them to the gates of the school. In fact, I can’t see anything, but I know that if I just stand here, their harassment will get worse.

Last time this happened, I was surrounded by Damian’s family as they kept us moving toward the car. I have no idea how they did it; I can’t even see my destination anymore. Roughly swallowing, I duck my head and allow my hair to fall like a curtain over my face, shielding me from their view but also narrowing my own.

I know that I look afraid and demure like this, but it’s the only way that I can actually see where I’m going.

One step in front of the other. Keep moving.

As I repeatedly recite that in my mind, I gingerly make my way toward the gate as I spot more photographers running my way and surrounding me in my periphery. Grinding my teeth and quietly seethe as I break out in a cold sweat and feel goosebumps rise on my skin.

Fully surrounded, my senses are completely overwhelmed as they begin shouting questions and inciteful remarks not even ten feet away from me. More disoriented than ever, I begin heaving, trying to get air into my lungs. I no longer can tell if I am going in the right direction since it feels like I'm being herded away from the school.

I realize that looking up is a mistake the second they shove their cameras directly into my face with the flash on, making me violently recoil and take a step back.

"(Y/N) What’s the current status of your relationship with the Wayne heir?"

"Is it true he’s already cheated on you?"

"How you holding up against those allegations (Y/N)."

The barraging questions confound me further as I truly start to panic at the realization that there is no way for me to get through them to the protection of the academy’s walls. Whipping my head around, I try to make sense of where I am when one of the photographers asks me if I’ve lost my virginity to Damian yet. Reflexively, I scrunch my face at the question, which I can tell is exactly what they want from their boisterous reaction.

Feeling myself getting lightheaded, I just start walking forward, hoping that it’s in the right direction as I try to look beyond the hoard. Finally, I catch a glimpse of a green hedge in the corner of my eye.

Oh thank goodness…I’m going in the right direction.

Swinging my head to the right, I glue my eyes to the green color of the hedges behind the wall of cameras and sweaty men when I notice something odd. Slightly further to my right and a little behind me, two of the photographers are stationed…kneeling and angling their cameras upward.

What the f*ck?

Confused, I try to get a better look at them just as a huge gust of wind whips my hair around my face and catches the hem of my skirt, giving me an unwanted Marylin Monroe moment. Shrieking, I try to hold it down, but I’m too slow with my jacket in my hands. Mortification heats my face, turning me bright red as tears threaten to form when I realize that this is the moment they are waiting for. This is why they are kneeling.

I feel nauseous and…so out of control.

Swallowing the bile that’s risen, I turn back around just in time to see a hand jut out to grab my upper arm before I have a chance to deflect it. Inhaling sharply, I’m about to yell obscene profanities – not caring that it will definitely be on TMZ later – when a recognizable face comes into view.

My knees practically buckle in relief when I see Headmaster Hammer’s intense scowl. Firmly but gently, he guides me through the gates of the school while scolding the paparazzi for bombarding me unceremoniously outside of his school. I’m too stunned and relieved to hear or care about what he’s saying, as I’m safely escorted past the school’s gates.

Despite being shell-shocked, I can still see my peers gawking at me as the headmaster walks me toward his office. Unable to handle any more stress, I avert my gaze and focus on the harsh, flickering yellow light of the rectangular sconces that decorate the walls. I count them as we go.

Five, Six, Seven…

My counting is interrupted as a wide chest comes into view, effectively cutting off my thoughts. Startled, I falter for a moment with the headmaster’s hand still on my arm, making him tighten his grip painfully to stop me from falling flat on my face. Grimacing, I look up and see Damian’s eyes housing a dangerous calm.

"Mr. Wayne, please step back; I need to speak with Ms. (L/N) in private." Breaking eye contact with Damian, I look over at the headmaster and can see the tired lines around his mouth deepen.

With a gruff voice I’ve never heard before, Damian responds, "Let go of her arm," as he firmly plants himself in our way. Breaking his attention from me, he looks down at the headmaster (who is only a few inches taller than me) and continues, "She’s not going anywhere without me."

Sighing, the headmaster drops my arm and quickly glances around, which prompts me to do the same. Since the halls are so quiet, I forgot that there are still students milling about. Students who are now standing still by their lockers, staring at our exchange with a mixture of nervousness and excited anticipation.

Once again, I feel my cheeks heat up as I try to reconcile with the fact that this exchange alone will be the talk of the school for weeks. This, combined with what just happened outside…well… looks like my dreams of reprieve are dashed.

Internally groaning, I look back at Damian, just as the weariness creeps into my bones, making my legs shake in an effort to keep me up. As he notices, his eyes widen when he sees the adrenaline leave my body and registers my rapidly weakening state. Without the headmaster's hand wrapped around my arm to keep me up, I feel more vulnerable than ever.

"Let’s just go into the office and get out of everyone’s way," I say heavily, trying to break the tension between the two. Looking between them, I silently plead with them not to argue with me, which they blessedly pick up on as they both eye each other before giving a single nod. Exhaling a tense breath, I trail behind the headmaster on wobbly knees, which incites a frown from Damian.

Bothered that I can’t seem to control my own physical reactions, I rip my gaze away from his, fearing that I’ll find pity in them if I look back. Gnashing my teeth to the point it hurts my jaw, we steadily but slowly make our way toward the headmaster’s private office. I can feel myself waning quickly, making a panic rise in me as I pray that I don’t collapse in front of all these students who are still watching us intently and silently.

Mercifully, Damian rests his hand on the small of my back, soundlessly giving me the support I need to stay upright. Surprise streams through me as I turn my head slightly to look at him and find nothing but righteous anger darkening his eyes.

Thankfully, in a few more strides, we’re safely behind the closed doors of Headmaster Hammer’s office. Moving quickly, he goes around his desk and sits in his large tufted red wingback leather office chair while gesturing for us to do the same. Sparing Damian, I glance, and I see he’s already looking at me, waiting for me to make the first move.

Giving him what I hope is a small yet reassuring smile, I make my way to one of the two wide black chairs across from the headmaster. I not-so-gracefully plop into the chair, unable to control my descent, when I see Damian doing the same, albeit much more aesthetically.

All three of us just look at one another quietly before the headmaster rests his elbows on the deep brown lacquered desk in front of him and claps his hands together in front of him.

"Now, I’d like you to tell me everything that happened out there (Y/N). Please recall as much as you can." Although I have been expecting this question, it oddly catches me off guard, making my breath hitch in response. Damian, seeing my clear distress, answers for me.

"It’s quite clear that (Y/N) was just heinously barraged by paparazzi directly outside of your school. It is your job to ensure the safety and well-being of your students, a task at which you have failed spectacularly." Leaning forward, he grips the arms of the chair tightly as he passionately comes to my defense.

"I understand your frustration with the situation, Damian, but I must require you to refrain from interrupting further, or else I will have you removed from this office," he responds with a level and authoritative tone that clearly makes Damian bristle. In anticipation of Damian saying or doing something to get himself kicked out, I quickly retell the instance with as much clarity and detail as possible, only leaving out my suspicions that cannot be confirmed.

Throughout my retelling, the headmaster listens attentively, nodding his head every so often, while Damian’s emotions silently churn behind those now deep, evergreen eyes of his. His unnaturally still posture breeds a sense of foreboding in the atmosphere, which does not go unnoticed by the headmaster, who keeps glaring proverbial daggers at him.

Once I conclude, we sit there in silence as my heart rate continues its steady, rapid beating—loud enough that I’m convinced the others can hear it. The chill in the air finally catches up to me, making me shiver and pull the sleeves of my blazer down over my hands as I curl into myself a bit. Looking up, I see Damian’s eyes snap to me as he registers my little shiver and says curtly,

"Are we done here?"

Sighing a breath of resignation, the headmaster nods before adding, "I suggest you refrain from traveling on foot (Y/N)."

Eyebrows scrunching, I respond instinctively, "Are you trying to suggest that this is somehow my fault?" the chilly air now forgotten, I shoot him a wary and disbelieving look. I won’t bother looking to my right, knowing that Damian is most likely glowering at him as well.

"Not at all," he sputters immediately, breaking his perfectly cool and collected demeanor for the first time. "I am merely suggesting that in order to avoid further complications, it would be wise for you to abstain from arriving on foot. Since this…incident-"he says delicately, "occurred off of school property, there are no legal actions that I can take against them since they did not technically violate any policy or law."

As his words sink in, I huff out an incredulous chuckle and lean back into the chair, shaking my head. Peeking a glance at Damian, I can see the tic in his jaw working as he sits there, glowering at the headmaster so intensely that I inadvertently flinch.

"I’m sorry, but my hands are tied," he says, not sounding remotely apologetic.

Standing up abruptly, Damian walks toward me and holds out his hand, helping me up. With my hand still clasped in his, he states, "So be it, Headmaster Hammer. We will be on our way…and alert our teachers that we will not be attending their classes today."

Lightly tugging my hand, we begin moving toward the door, and I look over my shoulder to see a surprised headmaster stammering as we leave his office and enter the hallway.

Wait? Did he just say we’re taking the rest of the day off?

As that realization hits me, I firmly plant my feet and tug on his arm to stop him. Swinging around, he knits his brows and eyes me with concern.

"What’s the matter? Why have you stopped me?"

"Damian, you just told the headmaster that we’re essentially skipping school." Breaking contact, I cross my arms over my chest and begin tapping my left foot as a wait for his reply. He quickly surveys our surroundings before he takes a step closer to me and places his large, calloused hand on my elbow.

"(Y/N), what you have just experienced was intense and traumatic. Would you honestly prefer to go through the rest of the school day as rumors and gossip viciously circulate, or would you prefer to come home with me where nobody will bother you?" As he speaks, I can visibly see his eyes soften as his voice loses the edge it was holding. With a small quirk of his mouth, he adds, "I’m certain Titus would just adore you."

At that, I raise an eyebrow and ask, "Titus?" Tilting my head back, I can see the twinkle of promised mischief and something else before I theatrically sigh and say, "Gosh, another brother, I’m not sure I can keep up with all of these people." With a small smirk of my own, I bat my eyelashes playfully.

The corner of his mouth curves into a wicked smile that shows off a slight dimple I never knew he had. Tucking away that little tidbit, which is making me unnaturally giddy – I have to fight the urge to touch his face. "You’ll just have to wait and see, Habibti."

Sighing and rolling my eyes, I relent. Uncrossing my arms, I say, "Lead the way, oh mighty mysterious one," with a lopsided grin. The hand that was lightly touching my elbow, now slowly grazes down the rest of my arm before lightly clasping my hand. Still facing me, his eyes hold mine as he brings the back of my hand to his mouth and delicately kisses it. My breath hitches at the contact of his surprisingly soft lips, igniting a fire under my skin.

Slowly bringing our hands back down, I’m astounded to see the sharp, heated look he’s giving me. Releasing a quiet, shuddered breath, I look away, breaking our spell. Clearing his throat, he pulls out his phone and furiously sends a message, all without breaking our hands apart. Looking down at our feet, a small smile forces its way onto my face as I notice how small my feet look next to his.

Chuckling to myself, I look up again to see the questioning look on his face, but before I answer, he tells me, "I’ve just contacted Alfred, he’s still outside. After he saw the chaos, he decided to stay in the event he needed to ferry me away quickly. This is advantageous for us since the bell is about to ring in less than five minutes."

"Ah, I see Alfred is certainly a forward thinker... dare I even say – a life saver?" I ask teasingly, trying to maintain a light mood. Without turning around, I hear him chuckle as I once again begin trailing behind him.

Apprehension fills my body as we get closer to the doors leading to the student drop-off/pick-up section. As I slow down just slightly, Damian looks back over his shoulder and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Don’t worry, the gates out front are closed; nobody can see through them."

I totally forgot that they do that. Instantly, my body relaxes, and I lightly grab his forearm that is holding my other hand, which elicits another reassuring hand squeeze from him. Turning back around to face the door, I struggle to keep up with his long strides as we hurry down the rest of the hallway.

Bursting through the doors, I’m momentarily blinded, which makes me squeal and stop abruptly before I realize that I’m being blinded by the bright sunlight and not the flashes of a camera. Mouth still agape, I suck in a deep breath and try to calm my now once again racing heart. Damian, alarmed, looks at me with understanding as he stands right next to me patiently until I begin walking again. This time, he stays right by my side rather than in front of me and steers me toward a different car that I don’t recognize.

Looking up at him, I lift a questioning brow, to which he explains the plan that his family has concocted in an effort to minimize paparazzi exposure. Humming my approval, I nod my head as I appreciate the ingenuity of their plan. Within twenty feet of the car, Alfred appears out of nowhere with a feline grace that I envy. Opening the rear door for us, he sweeps his hand in a welcoming motion as we crawl into the back seat.

Quickly thanking him for opening the door, I buckle my seat belt and lean heavily into the deliciously warm leather.

"I’ve taken the liberty of turning on the rear seat warmers for the two of you, considering the circ*mstances," Alfred politely explains. Shocked and overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness, I try to express my gratitude, but all I can manage to get out is a pathetic sob.

The weight of the last hour or so comes crashing down, and I begin to unwillingly shake as tears stream down my face silently. My face heats and crumples as wave after wave of sobs wracks my body, making me audibly take sharp inhales of breath. Silently, Damian slides into the middle seat and wraps one arm around my shoulder, pulling me close to him, while his other hand rests gently on my face, coaxing me to rest my head on his shoulder.

And like that, for the rest of the ride, I cry as he dutifully rubs his thumb across my cheeks, brushing away my tears as they fall. I ball my fist into his shirt as I’m wracked with humiliation and cavernous frustration.

Eventually, when I get my breathing under control and my tears cease falling, I lift my head off his shoulder. As I look at him from under my wet eyelashes, his face becomes distorted due to the teardrops still lodged between them. Blinking them away, I lick my lips and stiffen at their saltiness.

"I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me just now." I apologize softly.

With his arm still around my shoulder, he takes his other hand and tilts my head back to look at him before saying, "There is nothing to apologize for," sternly.

Shaking my head, I just sit there for a moment as the city flies by behind me, trying to find the right words. "No." I barely whisper, unable to think or say anything further. His forehead furrows, and he looks like he’s about to say something but stops himself. Instead, he just silently holds me for a few minutes.

"You know, not many years ago, I would have felt the same way you are feeling now." He’s now looking forward, watching the road ahead of us. "But I know now that crying is not a sign of weakness." Turning his head to look down toward me, I’m taken aback by the depth, rawness, and vulnerability he’s showing. Sitting up a little straighter, I wait patiently for him to continue. "I would be more concerned if you did not cry but rather felt nothing at all. Crying means you’re processing your emotions in a healthy manner. I know that you may be unused to this or even told that it makes you weak – lesser than, but it does not. It never has and it never will."

Once more, he gently lifts my chin so that I am looking at him as my awareness of his skin on mine spikes. The tenderness of this moment makes the lump in my throat reform as I try to swallow it down. My voice is a croak, barely an utterance, as I say, "Thank you, Damian, truly."

With his thumb lightly brushing across my jaw, sending shivers down my spine, I stare into those burning, astute jade green orbs. Closing my eyes, I savor this moment, but all too soon I feel the car slow and turn, nabbing my attention to the road in front of us.

Slowly, and hesitantly, he lowers the hand that has been caressing my face and leans back, allowing me to shift toward the middle and see the long tree-lined driveway leading to his house…no estate.

My eyes go wide as I witness for the first time the grandeur of the Wayne family estate. My jaw must hit the floor because both Damian and Alfred slightly chuckle at my reaction. As we get closer, my eyes rove furiously around the house, trying to take it all in. Unsurprisingly, through the car’s windshield, I’m unable to see it in its entirety. Ducking and tilting my head, I try to get a better view when I subconsciously place my hand on Damian’s thigh for support - making him tense underneath me.

Immediately I notice two things. One: He’s been hiding considerable muscles under that school uniform of his. And two: My head was precariously close to… his…upper thigh…area. Shooting upright as quickly and casually as possible, I clear my throat and turn to look out the window to my left, expertly avoiding eye contact with the man I nearly just groped.

Internally groaning, I refuse to look at him as I intently scrutinize their stunning landscaping. Between their meticulously cut grass and their beautifully arranged flower beds, the landscape architect must have busted a nut creating this plan. Wait…are those hedges in the shape of animals?

Wow. Just wow.

Finally, after what is now another two minutes of driving down the driveway, we finally pull around to the front of the house. Once again, Alfred, nimble and freakishly fast like a cat, comes around and opens the door for us. Damian gets out first and holds his hand out for me to take, which I graciously accept.

Stepping out of the car with my hand in his - feels surreal. Unable to pull my gaze from the gorgeous, albeit ancient structure in front of me, I take a moment to just take it all in. Still quietly basking in its beauty, I miss the delicate smile on Damian’s face as he says, "Welcome home, Habibti."

Chapter 11: They say Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezey - I Say Difficult Difficult Lemon Difficult

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

Still resting my hand in Damian’s, I continue to hungrily survey my surroundings as wonder and excitement creep into my chest. I can hear his light chuckle as I swing my head around taking in the grandeur and ancient beauty of the estate. Letting go of his hand I take a step forward and quickly do a 360-degree turn in place as I feel an odd sense of comfort settle upon me.

Looking back at Damian, I smile wider as I register a small smile tugging on his lips and a wicked sparkle in those emerald depths. Huffing with a small grin I shake my head disbelievingly, “ I can’t believe you actually live here. The sheer history of each stone that built this place is unfathomable.”

Turning back to face the front door, I steal a glance back at Damian to see that he’s moved to stand just behind me. Raising an eyebrow at him, I say, “How’d you move so silent against these stones?”

Looking smug he tilts his head down closer to my ear and says in his husky voice, “Was it not you who called me the mighty mysterious one?” The combination of his breath at my ear and his nearness sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. Turning my head to peek at him from my periphery, I give him a smile before looking back at the entrance.

The daunting double doors stare back at me as I take the first step up the many wide short ones. Damian, sensing my silent trepidation, interlocks our fingers and moves beside me, giving me a reassuring squeeze when we reach the top.

Alfred, who must have snuck past us while I was having a seizure taking in the manor, opens the front door and ushers us in. “Welcome to the Wayne manor miss (L/N).” Stepping inside, I crane my neck upward as I take in the double-entry foyer and the half-a-ton chandelier hanging from an impossibly thin chain.

Silently, Damian stands beside me, now resting his hand on the small of my back, drinking in any and all of my reactions. My eyes once again rapidly peruse my surroundings as I take in the elegant woodwork and dark Venetian plaster walls. The dark, wide-paneled, herringbone floors are tastefully accented by luxuriously intricate Persian area rugs. Even through my shoes, I can feel how soft they are.

Being so distracted by the rugs, I am startled when Mr.Wayne calls out my name in a greeting, making me jump a little bit, which Damian finds immensely humorous.

“My apologies for startling you (Y/N), I am glad to have you in my home, although not under these circ*mstances,” he states the last part with a small frown tugging on his lips. Eyes widening, I look toward Damian questioningly, but before I can ask him, he explains, “I texted my father about the situation before we left school.” The soft look in his eyes and the gentle tone of his voice nixes whatever frustration and anger rise within me.

Looking back at his father, I give him a small smile before looking down as I remember the embarrassment and shame I felt earlier today. Still standing in front of me, Damian's father, steps aside and gestures up the stairs while saying, “Please join me in my office so we can discuss this further and find an agreeable solution.”

Confused, I glance toward Damian, who just nods silently and begins leading me up the grand staircase with his hand still on the small of my back - guiding me gently. Once at the top, we turn left down another long, exquisite hallway when I feel a sharp panic rise to my throat.

His office. We were going into his office.

Slowing just slightly, I try to subtly take deep breaths through my nose, to steady my pounding heart, but of course, nothing escapes Damian’s attention. Turning his body toward me, he leans his head down, furrowing his brow questioningly before looking back up to see his father’s retreating form. Quietly he asks, “Is something the matter?” while gently brushing a stray hair behind my ear.

Not wanting to alarm him, or explain my odd behavior, I just shake my head silently and give him a reassuring smile. Squinting, he looks at me for a few seconds longer, probably scrutinizing my response, before letting out a breath and resuming his guidance. As we continue walking down the hall, I can tell he didn’t believe my answer by the number of times he wordlessly cuts worried glances my way.

Before I can try to soothe him, we turn right through another double door and I find myself, for the millionth time, gaping at the sight before me.

His office is nothing like Bran's.

This office boasts bookshelves lining parallel walls, with colossal floor-to-ceiling gothic windows behind a beautifully carved wooden desk. In front of the desk are two long victorian leather couches facing each other, with an equally long coffee table to separate them.

Walking into the room, I can see small indents, chips, and coffee rings littering the table as a sign of its frequent use. Despite the clear luxury of this room, it is evident that every piece of furniture and book has been worn and used well. As opposed to Bran’s office, where it feels more like a museum or Great Gatsby’s library full of unopened and uncut books. The astounding difference brings an honest smile to my face as I continue to notice little imperfections throughout the room.

“What is it?” Damian asks, confused. I spy him looking at his father for some sort of explanation to which he gives his son a knowing look and mouths for him just to be patient. Meeting Damian’s inquisitive eyes, I say, “It’s nothing… I just find this room to be comforting and well lived in.”

My response elicits identical smiles from father and son, which rocks me back on my heels at the realization of how similar they are. Mr. Wayne releases a deep chuckle before urging us to sit on one of the couches to which we quickly oblige. Instead of moving to sit behind his desk, he sits on the couch parallel to ours and leans his elbows on his knees.

“You're not in trouble with anyone (Y/N), I need you to know that I asked to speak with you in my office not to berate you for any reason. None of this is your fault. I need you to understand that.” What surprises me more than Mr.Wayne’s statement, is the kindness in his eyes and the tender desperation in his voice.

He feels guilty

That understanding dawns on me so quickly that I cannot stop the burning sensation from behind my eyes from turning into full-blown tears. Silently, I sit there and allow myself to embrace this overwhelming sense of support as I nod vigorously and let out a wet chuckle as my emotions break my composure. Damian, who has been silent this entire time, whispers reassuring and calming words to me as he angles himself towards me and rubs small circles around my back.

Luckily, I’m still wearing my blazer so he can’t feel the protruding ridges of some of my worse scars. I know one day he will see and feel them, but I take small solace in the fact that it won’t be today. Sniffling, I look around the room for a tissue box at the same moment Alfred walks in with a cart of tea, pastries, and finger sandwiches.

“I thought perhaps some food and warm tea may help you relax after an exciting day,” Alfred says, pointedly extenuating the word ‘exciting’ sarcastically.

“Thank you, Alfred, as always you know exactly what is needed.” Mr.Wayne smiles kindly at him before turning back to me and handing me a tissue he plucked from the cart. Gratefully taking it, I quickly recompose myself as Alfred pours Damian and my tea first before moving on to his father.

“I know that these several weeks have been difficult for you, today being exceptionally so. The paparazzi are an unfortunate byproduct of my heritage and that of my family. Unfortunately, being my son’s soulmate means that you too will become a part of the intrigue - as you already very well know. I don’t want to unnecessarily rehash the uncomfortable experience, but I do believe it will be advantageous for me to know what has occurred today.” Mr.Wayne’s eyes plead with me as he continues, “I only ask this of you because there may be some detail that may help us handle this situation better. I’m sure you are aware that these photos will more than likely be published both online and in the paper. If there is any way for us to get ahead of it, we may be able to stop its publication or more realistically at least control its narrative. I have a PR team who is on standby ready to do whatever it takes to minimize the impact of whatever story they are planning - we just need to hear what happened from your perspective.”

Waiting patiently for me to respond, Mr.Wayne takes a sip from his tea as I begin retelling everything from the moment I left my house. As I recount in more detail than I had previously, Damian’s silent strength soothes my rampant emotions and allows me to think more clearly. Once I finish, I meet his father’s warm blue eyes to find a quiet sadness and mounting anger simmering behind them.

Damian’s eyes, however, convey a promise of retribution and barely contained rage. No longer is the soothing and calm man rubbing circles on my back. Now his spine is ramrod straight and his hands have become fists by his side. Wanting to do for him what he has done so well for me, I lift my hand and place it on the back of his neck, lightly playing with the hair at the nape. Almost instantly, a softness enters those hard eyes, and his mouth parts slightly as his face relaxes a little.

All the while I see his father on his phone typing away furiously as he emails his PR team the information I have just given. I look down at the cute finger sandwiches that one would see at a high tea and realize that I need to tell them about my suspicions. Building up the bravery to do so takes a second as I eat the cucumber and cream cheese one in front of me.

Taking a deep breath, I finally say, “So… there is something else.” At that, both men look up at me, furrow their brows expectedly, but remain silent. Sparing a quick glance at Damian, I see his mouth become a thin line as concern overtakes his features. Just as I am about to continue speaking, the office doors are thrown open, making me yelp in surprise.

Wide-eyed, I spot Damian’s older brother Jason walking through the doors and looking at each of us confused before inviting himself to sit down next to his father. Mr.Wayne sighs as Damian hits him with an annoyed look before they fill him in on what has happened. The farther into the story they get, the darker his eyes become and the more pronounced his jaw tick becomes. Every now and again he huffs out an exasperation and shoots me a look of sympathy. By the time they’re done talking, he just sits there clenching and unclenching his fists as he leans forward and cracks his knuckles in pensive silence.

We all stay like that for a moment, before Damian says, “You were about to tell us something else before someone -,” he pointedly glares at Jason, “ - interrupted you.” Turning to look back at me, he places his hand on top of my own and gives it a quick reassuring squeeze.

“Right, yeah… so there was this moment in the heat of all of it - and I’m not sure if what I saw was actually happening - but I have this creeping suspicion that when the wind kicked up my skirt, there was at least one photographer who kneeled to…maybe…get a picture… of you know.” I quickly say, wrinkling my nose to accentuate the point.

When I look at each of them, all I can see is an icy stoicism, not betraying anything. As the silence stretches out, unease continues to build in my chest creating a suffocating pressure in my throat. Slowly, I turn to look at Damian, dreading what I’ll find when I look into his eyes, but to my surprise, he isn’t looking at me. Following his line of sight, I see that he, his father, and his brother seem to be having a silent conversation amongst the three of them.

Closing my eyes, I bite my bottom lip hard to stop myself from crying again today and focus on breathing deeply.

Inhale - exhale - inha-

“Why didn’t you tell the headmaster when we were in his office?” My eyes snap open at Damian’s strained whisper of a question. When he finally looks at me, all I can see is torment and restrained fury. He is practically vibrating with anger, as he stares so deeply into my eyes.

He’s hurt.

The pain is clear as day in his features as he drags a hand down his face, settling over his mouth. He leans his elbows heavily on his knees as he stares unblinkingly in front of him. I try to find an answer that will comfort him, but nothing comes out and I’m left opening and closing my mouth instead. Deflating, I realize that he must assume that I don’t trust him enough to share this information with him even after we promised to share everything and not to ‘solo it'.

Closing my eyes again, the depth of how much I messed up settles heavily on my chest.

“Damian,” I say, gently resting my hand on his forearm. “I didn’t say anything not because I didn’t trust you or because I thought you’d be mad at me, but because I wasn’t even sure if what I saw was real. With the lights and the shouting and the pulling, I felt super discombobulated and it has taken me a second to realize that I think it did actually happen. I didn't want to make something out of nothing.”

“I’m not disgruntled nor disappointed with you (Y/N). I do, however, find it nearly incomprehensible that these mongrels would dare to take such an action against you.” Looking back to his father and brother he continues, “They must be aware that we would never let such materials be released to the public without dire consequences.”

Meeting his father's eyes, he slightly nods before adding, “Thank you for coming forth with that information - I know that must have been difficult. If what you say is true, and they photographed you in such a manner, then I would like your permission to press charges.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, my jaw drops at his request. “Press charges? Can you do that?” I trip over each question trying to wrap my head around that idea.

“Yes, since you are a minor, and the photographer is more than likely not a minor - the sale of these pictures would fall under child p*rnography. Any form of distribution will be considered a federal offense.” Mr.Wayne calmly and slowly explains to me.

I feel a surge of icy coldness stream through my veins as the weight of this revelation hits me. Putting my head in my hands I just sit there for a moment before I realize how horrendous the repercussions will be.

“No. No way can we do that.” I say trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice.

Damian’s hand stills on my back as he says, “Why do you say this?” in a deadly calm voice.

Looking up, I eye each of them warily before stating, “Do you have any idea the kind of blowback that you’ll receive if you were to press charges?” Facing Mr.Wayne I continue, “The kind of backlash you’ll receive - aren’t you the one who says it’s best to do nothing because whatever we say will just add fuel to the fire?”

The room is silent for a moment and as I breathe deeply I savor the scent of woody, dusty books mixed with the waxy scent of fine leather. As I survey the room, I appreciate how the light streaming in through the window varies in color from the panes it shines through.

Mr.Wayne’s voice pulls me back into the moment when he says, “Normally, (Y/N), I would agree with you. However, in this situation, we cannot stay silent. If they are to publish a photo like that, it will be crossing a line that I cannot tolerate - and neither should you.” Looking at him, I can see that he has fully accepted this course of action if need be. “I’ve told my PR team already, they are going to do their best to uncover these photos and stop them from getting out. The worst-case scenario is if they are leaked. If that does come to pass, we will be here every step of the way to support you.”

Nodding my head, I thank him for his kindness and his patience, but can’t help the nagging feeling of being a burden. All I have done since becoming Damian’s soulmate is cause unnecessary problems for him and his family. The mood of the room remains heavy as Jason expresses his apologies and leaves. For the next hour, we talk about strategies and plans for handling a multitude of outcomes. All the while, Damian’s hand remains on my back, occasionally rubbing it unconsciously. I keep my hands on my lap as I fidget with my nails nervously, as we continue talking, eating, and drinking tea.

By lunchtime, we make our way to the dining room as per Alfred's suggestion and have a peaceful and lovely lunch. The entire time, Damian stays near me, remaining uncharacteristically quiet, yet steadily supportive.

After lunch, Damian takes me on a tour of the manor and I fall more in love with it after each room we visit. When I see the obscenely stunning library, I half believe that I’ve died and gone to heaven. The look on Damian's face as I nearly cry tears of joy almost makes me forget why I came here in the first place. The sheer size of each bookshelf and the ornate carvings in each one trigger an ungodly amount of girlish delight as I run my fingers delicately across the spines of books. The earthy scent of the library and the soft glow of sunlight streaming in creates a perfect recipe for serenity and curiosity.

Damian had to practically drag me out of the library to continue the tour, and by the time we made it back to the foyer another hour had passed. He didn’t show me any of the bedrooms and I wonder if that was by accident or not, but either way, I am far too intrigued by the first two floors to care.

For the rest of the day, we do our homework in the library as Alfred brings us more tea and snacks. We sit in a comfortable silence as we complete assignment after assignment and before long I can see the sun setting, as vivid trickles of sunlight hit certain spots of the room. The beam of light fascinates me as it catches all the dust particles in the air. Reaching out, I slowly bathe my hand in its warmth, reminding me of what I would assume dipping one’s hand in warm honey would feel like.

The sound of the door opening has me snatching my hand back and Damian’s head rising to see the intruder. Following his gaze, my eyes collide with the sullen ones of Jason. Dread pools in my stomach as he quickly takes a seat on the chair adjacent to me. Silently, he hands me the phone that has been in his hand since arriving. Looking down at the small screen, I find myself looking directly at a close shot of my underwear from behind with a vulgar caption to accompany it.

I gasp, covering my mouth with my hand as I read what the article is saying about me. Before I can finish, the phone is snatched out of my hand from above. Before I can protest, I see the hard line of Damian’s jaw as he slowly closes his eyes, knitting his brow. We all stay deadly silent, in fear of pushing him over the edge. I watch as his nostrils flare periodically and as he squeezes his eyes shut harder.

The sound of crunching and delicate glass shattering cuts through the silence. Before I can identify the source of that sound Jason makes a sound of aggravation.

“Hey, What the f*ck Damian?” Now standing, Jason gets in Damian’s personal space and says, “You owe me a new f*cking phone you little sh*t,” angrily. The best Damian can muster as a response is to tightly nod his head in agreement and reluctantly return the newly destroyed cell phone to Jason.

Standing deadly still, Damian closes his eyes again as I watch his chest rise and fall rapidly. Jason, having had enough, starts leaving, muttering under his breath about him being a snot-nosed little sh*t or something. Now that it is just the two of us again, I get up and slowly come to stand in front of him. The sun momentarily blinds me as the rays hit me on the side of my face, warming my already toasty cheeks.

Carefully, but confidently, I raise my hand to caress his cheek lightly with my hand as I take my thumb and delicately stroke the tension out of his eyebrow. Eyes still closed, he leans into my hand a bit giving me the confidence to bring my other one up to do the same thing on the other side.

After a few minutes, he huffs out a breath through his nose and slowly blinks open his eyes. The tender look in them rocks me back on my heels as I also see their anguish. I bask at this moment as the sunlight illuminates his face, making every detail of every dip, crevice, and scar crisp and clear. His luscious lashes flutter making their shadows on his cheeks dance. But it’s the way his deep green eyes radiate from within that makes my breath catch. Not a byproduct of the streaming light, but rather the determination from within that is the source of light. I marvel at his beauty and watch his eyes study me just as intensely as I study him.

“My sincerest apologies habibti, I should be comforting you during this time of uncertainty - not the other way around.” Before I can tell him he has nothing to be sorry for his lips descend onto mine eliciting a soft gasp from me.

This kiss is nothing like our first one.

It is delicate, soft, and painfully slow. Pulling back, I can feel the warmth of his breath on my lips as he closes the distance, stopping just shy before saying in a rough yet soft voice, “ I pray that you can forgive me, darling.”

Unable to take it anymore, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down to me as our lips crash against one another. The second my fingers interlace into his soft hair, he pulls me tightly against his body so that there is no more space between us. Tilting his head he deepens the kiss, which sends a warm pulse straight through my body.

I kiss him back just as enthusiastically trying to convey that there is nothing to apologize for. There was nothing slow and sweet about this kiss - it was like being devoured, a sensation I never knew I wanted…no - needed to feel. The touch of his tongue sends shivers down my spine as his hands headily move around my body, sending small electrical pulses through my veins.

His kiss has a drugging effect on me and by the time we pull away my skin is humming with pleasure and my eyelids feel heavy. Both of us, still interlocked, stay there, breathlessly for a moment as he slowly lowers me back down to my feet. As I glide down against his body, I freeze at the sensation of something warm and hard against my stomach. Swallowing hard, my mouth goes dry as I look into his heavily lidded, darkened eyes. As my eyes widen I see a corner of his mouth curve up, giving me a full-blown lopsided grin.

Stepping back a bit, I clear my throat and try to even out my breathing as Damian’s hand remains on my waist - unwilling to accept distance yet. Breaking the silence I say, “There is nothing for me to forgive Dami. You aren’t responsible for their actions, so please don’t carry the weight of them.”

Giving me a small nod and a sad smile he reluctantly agrees with me as we stay in this position for several more minutes. Reluctantly, I pull away from him, immediately missing the comfort of his contact. Looking out the window I notice the sun has almost nearly set, meaning it’s nearly time for me to go home.

The sound of light panting and the slight clicking against the wood floors snatches my attention. Swiveling my head toward the direction of the suspicious sound, I immediately inhale a sharp breath when an elegant, large black Great Dane cautiously approached me with its head lowered.

Noticing my attention is no longer on him, Damian looks over as well. As I flick my eyes between the two, I slowly put my palm out and remain still as the dog warily approaches me. As his cold nose begins to sniff my hand rapidly, I can’t help the smile that splits my face. Giggling at the tickling sensation, I try my best not to startle the gorgeous beast.

Before long, the dog’s tail starts swishing back and forth wildly as he openly pants and presses his head into my hand. No longer able to stop myself, I kneel down in front of the happy puppy and begin scratching him behind his ear with one hand while the other strokes the fur along his back.

"Well, aren’t you just the cutest pupperoni I have ever met?" I say in my obligatory puppy voice. Sparing Damian a quick glance, I catch his arched brow and amused expression before I return my full attention to the now happily whining dog.

"It looks like I’m going to have to compete for your attention."

"Oh, there’s no competition," I say in jest. Looking up, I see the lips I just kissed turn down slightly at the corners before he runs his hand down his face. "Perhaps introducing you to Titus was a mistake."

A spark of recognition shoots through me. Now scratching his chin, Titus’s eyes close as he awards me satisfied grunts, which cause childish laughter to bubble up from somewhere deep inside me.

I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this.

Unable to tear myself away from the very good boy, I continue to dote on him as Damian releases an overdramatized sigh and kneels to join me. Between the two of us scratching and rubbing, Titus is clearly content to stay right where he is.

The only sounds that remain are those of his dog’s pleased panting as the minutes tick by. I only become aware of the fact that I am still smiling when my cheeks become sore and my forearms start to burn.

"Somebody really loves the ear scratchies, huh?" My only response is Titus tilting his head deeper into my hand as he huffs appreciatively.

"I must be honest; I have never seen Titus so taken with someone so quickly," Damian says astonishingly. The beams of sunlight filtering into the room have moved to bathe us in their warmth. Surprised by his words, I ask, "What do you mean? This big ole’ baby is just the most gentle pupper ever," I say, before planting a kiss on his forehead.

The sound of Damia’s rich, deep laughter washes over me calming current as I find myself hypnotized. Shaking his head, he stands to his full height again, reaching out a hand for me to take. Obliging reluctantly, I stand too, which makes my knees pop.

"Titus is our guard dog, and he is excellent at what he does. That means he is rightfully wary around people and other dogs."

"Well, obviously he can sense that I’m not a threat," I say half-teasingly. At my response, his face softens.

"No, you most certainly are not. Unless, of course, that threat would be you stealing him away from us, then I would concur that you most certainly are. I would be astonished if he did not try to follow you home." His light-hearted response kindles a tender sensation that makes my heart flutter. I can feel the rush of heat peppering my cheeks as he so earnestly watches me.

"Well, I can’t say I’d feel too guilty if that were the case." Titus’s large body is now leaning against my thigh as I automatically start scratching the top of his head. Looking out the window again, sadness descends upon me as I realize I really do need to get home. Releasing a frustrated breath, I walk over to where I left my backpack resting against the couch on the floor.

As I start packing up, Damian alerts Alfred to pull the car around to take me home. He offers to come with me, but I politely decline and reassure him that I will be ok. After promising to text him when I get inside safely, he walks me to the front door - my hand clasped in his. Once outside, I feel an indescribable sense of loss, an emotion which must be clear as day on my face since Damian says, “Don’t worry darling, you are welcome any time - night or day. You’ll be back here in no time habibti”

Smiling at his kind response, I go on my tiptoes and plant a fat kiss on his lips to let him know just how much I appreciate it. I feel satisfaction curl in my lower abdomen when I see his cheeks flush and hear him clear his throat. Not wanting to cause any more discomfort, I make my way down the front stairs to where Alfred is patiently waiting for me as he opens the rear car door. I slide into the back seat and quickly buckle myself in as he climbs into the front and begins driving me home.

Looking back out the rearview I watch as Damian stays put until I can no longer see him. The car ride is silent except for the sound of city life and air flowing through the cracked window. Closing my eyes I lean my head back and just enjoy the peaceful, smooth drive. After instructing Alfred where to drop me off, I hop out of the car and sneak back into my home undetected.

Leaning my head against the side door, I start lightly tiptoeing upstairs, hoping to avoid Bran. Halfway to my room, I hear the boom of a door handle meeting a solid wall making me freeze mid-step. Gulping, I do my best to refrain from visibly flinching when I hear Bran’s furious voice say, “ In. My. Office. Now.”

Chapter 12: The Untraversed Depths of a Soulmate Bond

Chapter Text

Damian’s POV: 5 p.m. onward

As Damian watches the plume of dust being kicked up from the tires of the car she is in, he can’t help but feel useless in this situation. With his hands in his pockets, he continues to watch until the unremitting rays of the sun swallow the car into their blinding golden hues. For several minutes longer, he just stands there, watching the sun encroach on the horizon as the evening air begins to get crisp and cooler.

Taking his phone out of his pocket, he checks the time, predicting an incoming text from her within 20 minutes. When he offered to come with her in the car, he was being genuine but was secretly delighted when she politely declined. As much as he wants to spend more time with her, he needs to speak to his father privately about this situation.

At that reminder, Damian turns back inside and ascends the stairs two at a time in search of him. As he reaches the landing, he can’t help but smile at the memory of how in awe she was of his home. He had never truly given the historical reverence of this manor much thought since he had always been surrounded by resplendent luxury. But seeing his home through her eyes instilled a new appreciation for the old manor—one he doubts anyone else could grant him.

Stopping just shy of the office doors, he decides to politely knock before opening them and stepping through. This time, his father is seated behind his desk as he swiftly moves his hands across the computer keyboard. Sparing him a quick look, he says, "Come in, son; I assume there is more you wish to discuss."

Closing the door behind him, Damian wordlessly seats himself on the couch they had previously shared, feeling an odd ping of longing as he glances at the spot she had just so recently occupied.

Clearing his thoughts, he looks at his father, who has returned his focus to his computer.

"I'm sure you’re aware that the photo has already leaked online." Hands intertwined in his lap, he waits for his father’s response as he feels mounting anger and frustration reacquaint themselves in his chest. The tightening sensation has his nostrils flaring and his lip curling at the memory of her reaction to the article Jason showed her.

He should have never shown that lurid article to her.

When he saw the photo himself, he barely managed to keep his rage in check. What he really wanted to do was throw the phone out the window, but he knew that would frighten her. He hadn’t realized that he had crushed the mobile device until Todd made an unnecessary fuss about it. Remembering the obscene language he used in front of her that made her shift away from them and physically recoil makes Damian’s blood boil.

Inhaling deeply through his nose, he brings himself back to the present just as his father replies softly, "I have, unfortunately." Looking at him, he can see the truth in his words as he catalogs the tightness around his mouth and the slight tension-filled crease in his forehead. "I have contacted the PR team, and they are doing their best to confine it to only this one publication, but the likelihood of them being successful is quite low. Our best bet is to try to stop this from going to print. Which reminds me... " As he trails off, he picks up the landline and quickly dials a number.

Rather than interrupt his father, Damian sits there listening to the dial tone and looks around the room at the specific places where he noticed her (E/C) eyes brighten the most. Unsurprisingly, the bookcases were the first thing she honed in on, followed by the window, and lastly, which he found fascinating, was the way her face scrunched in curiosity when she noticed the coffee table.

She is an enigma.

No matter how many times he thinks he can predict her reactions, she always surprises him in the best ways. His mouth twitches at the realization that she will be keeping him on his toes for a while to come.

"Hello, Clark, how are you?"

Damian’s attention snaps back to his father as he strains to hear his response on the other end. Unfortunately, all he can pick up is a jovial, muffled voice. Unwilling to miss out on the fruits of this conversation, he stands up and makes his way around his father's desk. Once close enough to hear both sides of the exchange, he leans back against it and crosses his arms in silence.

"Regrettably, this isn’t just a social call. Remember the young lady that Damian discovered as his soulmate?"

"Oh yes, the one whose parent’s police report was leaked in the paper shortly after. Did something else happen?" Despite the static accompanying his voice, Damian can clearly hear the twinge of concern in his voice.

"Unfortunately, Clark there has been another incident. Earlier today she was assailed by at least a dozen paparazzi right outside the academy’s gates and one of them captured a photo up her skirt when there was a gust of wind."

"Isn’t she a minor?" The dip in Clarke’s voice betrays his anger, which surges Damian’s respect for the Kryptonian.

"Yes. To make matters worse, these salacious photos have been published online."

"You have got to be kidding me." The sound of intense clacking and voices fills the background.

"I wish I were," his father deadpans.

"Let me see what I can find out about this publication. I have some connections to photographers from the Daily Planet that I can use to track down the exact paparazzi who took the photo." After a quick pause and some muffled voices bantering on the other end, he continues, "I hope you plan to press charges, Bruce; this is completely illegal."

Huffing out a grunt, his father agrees and reassures him that he will, then quickly ends the call. Now standing near the window, Damian clasps his hand behind his back as he looks out onto the pristine and expansive front lawn. He never noticed how reflective the landscaping was of his father’s personality. Not a single leaf out of place—all monochromatic green shrubbery hedged to precise perfection. Neat. Clean. Organized.

Turning around to face his father, he sees him dialing another number, but before he has the chance to inquire as to whom he may be reaching out to, he hears a chirpy, "Hey Bruce, what's going on?"

Grayson.

"I need you to run a few questions by your DA for me; can you do that?"

Damian notices the change in his brother’s voice immediately and asks, "What’s happened?" He asks gravely, all the mirth seeping out.

"It’s pertaining to (Y/N)," his father quickly reports the events of the last 12 hours as Grayson intently listens, not interrupting once.

A minor miracle.

"Got it. Ok. I’ll contact you as soon as I know what legal proceedings we’ll need to take and which ones will not hold up in court, if there are any. Man, this is so messed up." He mumbles the last part mostly to himself.

Hanging up, his father turns to look at him again before saying, "Once we discover the identity—and we will discover it—I need you to promise me you will not retaliate against them in any manner," he says sternly.

Squinting his eyes, Damian releases his hands and balls his fists at his side before replying, "How can you ask that of me, Father? You cannot expect nor ask me to sit by idly." Fury is now eddying in his chest.

"There are a multitude of reasons why Damian.Think for a moment. This needs to be seen through in court."

"In court? How can you, of all people, trust the court system, especially in Gotham?" His anger rises more sharply as he sees his father’s easily maintained composure.

How dare he be so calm.

"You know that I do not. But this isn’t something we can be seen tampering with. The Wayne’s reputation cannot be sullied by a public offense. We will handle this matter privately. Is that understood?"

Damian refrains from taking a step back as his father stands to his full height while asking that last question. As the two stare down at one another, he can see a hint of Batman’s unwavering authority peaking through his now stormy blue eyes. Silently nodding his agreement, Damian feels his teeth grind as he abstains from saying or doing something foolish.

Just then, the office doors crack open, breaking the tension between him and his father. Moving slightly, he sees his older brothers, Jason and Tim, walk in and sit down casually, both either ignoring or not noticing the strain in both their shoulders.

Once sitting, Jason immediately leans back while spreading his arms out to rest on the back of the couch, while Tim sits neatly straight, not having looked up from his phone once. Eyeing his father bitterly once more for good measure, Damian moves to stand behind the couch, parallel to his brothers, and crosses his arms in clear anticipation.

With his nose still buried in his phone, Tim says, "So the article has blown up. The photo is everywhere, and multiple publications have picked it up and are running their own spin on the story. There is no way to contain this any longer. However, I have managed to locate the original article, and I am currently running a diagnostic on the IP address." Now looking up at them, he elaborates further, "Hopefully, we’ll have some real results in a few hours that we can trace."

His father silently moves next to him and puts what he assumes is meant to be a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but at the mention of the word ‘hopefully’, he tenses once more.

Squinting his eyes at his shortest brother, he grits out between clenched teeth, "What exactly do you mean by hopefully Drake?" He spits out his last name venomously.

Unfazed by his tone, he simply answers, "Well, if it’s similar to the link that housed the photo of you and Jennifer—nice going, by the way—then it’ll be untraceable. I mean I’ll be able to trace it, but if it’s another shell company in Canada, it’ll be useless." Shrugging his shoulders, he returns to typing away on his smartphone.

Practically growling, Damian notices a small frown tugging at Todd’s lips at the mention of this potential dead end.

"What are you even doing here, Todd? Isn’t there any low-level thug for you to kill gruesomely?" His father’s hand that is still on his shoulder tightens in disapproval at his sneering tone.

"What the hell are you mad at me for?" He asks in mock exasperation, "If anything, I’m the one who should be mad; you broke my f*cking phone, you freak."

This gets Drake’s attention, as his eyes flick between them like he’s watching a tennis match. Before his father can intervene like he knows he will, Damian cuts him off as he says, "Why the hell would you show her that photo? She was clearly devastated, and it’s your f*cking fault." Moving out of his father’s grip, he rounds the couch and comes to stand in front of Todd, who immediately stands up to mimic his stance.

Now both standing close enough to touch, Todd seethes out, "Would you have preferred her to find out from a sleazy classmate? Huh? Would that make you feel better if she had to see it for the first time in school tomorrow or randomly on her laptop while she’s home alone? How about one of her friends forwarding a link to her late at night in her bed? What the f*ck do you think would happen if she had to see that with nobody there to comfort her? Are you so f*cking dense and self-absorbed that you can’t see I was doing her a favor? She saw that article in a judgment-free area surrounded by people who care about her. "That is literally the best case scenario to break sh*tty news to someone, you f*cking idiot."

At that last statement, he takes a threatening step toward Damian, who tenses in anticipation when his entire body jerks as a fiery pain explodes through his back, stealing his breath away. Stumbling, Damian sucks in a deep breath only to stop short as another burst of pain assaults him, making his knees buckle, but before they hit the floor, Todd’s quick reflexes kick in as his arm wraps around his waist and catches him.

Light flashes behind his eyes as another one strikes, making him arch his back unwillingly. Now, both his father and brother have an arm around him as they practically drag his dead weight to the couch. In too much pain to protest or pay attention, he can swear he hears his father tell Drake to get Alfred as Todd continues mumbling curses under his breath.

Once on the couch, they lay him down gently and prop a pillow under his head and knees for maximum support. Taking rapid, sharp breaths, he continues to feel the intermittent bites of pain rippling across his back for the next several minutes. Alfred comes rushing in, and the others begin talking on top of one another, trying to explain what happened and theorizing the root of the cause.

Still out of it, Damian keeps his eyes on the coffered ceiling as he forcibly regains a stable and deep breathing pattern the way the league taught him. After another several seconds of this technique, the ringing in his ears dissipates, and he can clearly hear Alfred asking him rapid-fire questions. Feeling confident the worst is over, he begins sitting up, only to be gently coaxed back down by wrinkled and weathered hands.

"Not just yet, master Damian. We do not know the cause of this incident, so for now, I must insist you lie still while I do my examination." Alfred’s voice is light and calm, but Damian can hear the undertone of distress running through it.

"That won’t be necessary, Pennyworth; I feel completely fine now. Whatever it was, it has passed, and I am certain whatever ailed me was a one-time experience." As Damian tries to sit up again, another set of hands pushes him down once more and holds him there.

Infuriated from the forced contact, he looks up only to find Todd’s overly concerned, pinched face. Meeting his eyes, he can see them snapping across his body, trying to assess him. Before he can protest and maneuver out of his grip, Todd says, "Please... You didn’t see yourself there, Dames; I thought you were dying from a heart attack or something; your eyes went so wide it was mostly the whites." His voice shaking with emotion.

He freezes at the sound of his brother’s voice and quickly looks around at his father and Drake, both of whom sport matching looks of disbelief and unease.

Both are paler than usual.

Quietly rattled by their reactions, Damian schools his features into an impassive mask and says, "Alright, pennyworth, I’ll entertain your little examination. I doubt you’ll find anything, though," he says, trying to convince himself more than the others. Nodding, Alfred releases a tense breath and starts applying pressure to various spots of his body. The next few minutes consist of him moving various limbs and asking if anything hurts while he does so.

Thankfully, there is no more shooting pain, and nothing he does seems to trigger another episode. Finally, he says, "Master Damian, I will now be lifting your legs. Keep me apprised of any pain you may feel." Nodding his head, he remains lying down as Pennyworth goes around to stand behind the arm of the couch and begins lifting his left leg.

As he does, he feels a slight soreness in his back. "That hurt, didn’t it?" Todd supplements unhelpfully. Scowling, Damian grits out a "yes," and Pennyworth performs the same exercise on his right leg. The results are the same. After a few more minutes of stretching his legs, Alfred instructs him to sit up slowly, which he reluctantly obliges.

Now fully sitting up, he looks at the others, marks the more relaxed features of their faces, and breathes a small sigh of relief. "Well, doc, what’s the prognosis?" Todd’s flippant tone is discredited by his nervous lip-biting.

"Well, I am uncertain if this is truly the nature of the problem, but if I were to make an educated guess, I would say that Master Damian has pinched nerves in his back that can be aggravated in certain positions or from certain activities. I would suggest you refrain from patrolling tonight, sir, and engage in some stretching followed closely by a hot pack on the back for a minimum of 20 minutes." With Pennyworth’s conclusion, he turns on his heel and exits the room.

Gripping the couch on either side of him, he slowly stands up to his full height and tentatively stretches his back, only to find a mild soreness remaining. Looking at his father and brother’s silent wariness, he puts their worries to ease by saying, "I am in perfectly adequate shape for patrol tonight." He can see the three of them ready to argue with him, but before they do, he holds up both hands in surrender and supplements, "If at any moment I feel any sort of pain, I will excuse myself and turn in early. Is that sufficient?" He pointedly looks toward his father when asking this question.

After a few beats of silence, his father gives him a single stiff nod before adding, "Fine, but you will be taken off the Falcone case for now, Damian. I will assign you to downtown patrol with Tim and Jason until Alfred gives you the all-clear. And, when you get home, you WILL stretch and put hot packs on your back, no matter the hour. Is that understood?"

Not wanting to further enrage his father, he abstains from rolling his eyes and dutifully nods in agreement. However, his father, being as astute as he is, catches onto his near slip and reflexively hits him with the ‘Batman analytical squint,' a term Tim affectionately coined.

Moving to leave, his father is nearly out the door when he says, "Suite up, we have a long night ahead of us." After a quick glance at his brothers, they all jump up and head to their respective rooms to change.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Damian is starting to get annoyed with his brothers, and he can feel his fuse burning up quickly. Ever since the episode back in his father’s office, his brothers have been trying to subtly cast him wary glances. To make matters worse, they have been sticking by his side like glue and won’t let him out of their sight.

They are treating him like a child.

On more than one occasion, when he would catch their eyes dissecting him, he’d send them a confidently crippling glare, which neither of his brothers shrank away from - much to his disappointment. Luckily for him, though, there has been a lot of activity on the streets of Gotham tonight, giving them ample opportunity to tire themselves out in combat.

Grateful not only for the distraction but for the outlet, Damian allows himself to get lost in the moment as they work fluidly in unison, taking out thugs, cartel members, and a slew of other criminals calling Gotham’s sewers their home.

Between the two of them, Drake looks at him more suspiciously and curiously, while Todd looks more concerned and agitated. Although their helicopter parenting continues to be bothersome, it is not totally uncalled for. Throughout the night, pangs of breath-stealing pain shoots through his back and spreads like electricity through the muscles. So far, he has successfully been able to conceal his suffering, but he is becoming more certain by the hour that Drake is onto him.

The three of them are currently perching on the roof of Wayne Tower, scanning the streets below and silently listening to a police radio for any activity. Tonight’s weather is mild for fall in Gotham, not that Damian’s complaining. He doesn’t need nor want another layer of misery added to his evening. Looking down below, he watches as the weak, flickering street lights, barely illuminate the grimy sidewalks. This late at night, there are few pedestrians left, all who remain are either foolish newbies to this city or seasoned Gothamites who know their way around.

It looks like the night is slowing down as the city streets fall into a tense yet quiet peace. Never trusting silence, Damian remains vigilant as he scans the low levels of buildings, peering into broken windows and spaces in between boarded-up holes. Sensing nothing, he begins to switch spots with Drake as the silence weighs heavily on them from unspoken conflicts needing to be resolved.

As they pass one another, Damian catches another one of his glances and snaps, "What are you looking at, Drake?"

"Not much, honestly," he shoots back casually as he strolls past him.

Baring his teeth, he whips around to face him when Todd chimes in, "That’s enough, guys. Seriously." Grinning like an idiot, he adds, "Who would have thought little ole’ Jason would be playing mediator for you buffoons?" Growing serious, his brows sit heavily on his face as he states, "We really don’t have time for whatever bullsh*t is going on between the two of you, so just air out your dirty laundry and move along." He concludes with a dramatic sweep of his arms.

Grunting Damian glowers at Todd and exclaims, "Your unnecessary proximity and scrutiny throughout our patrol is belittling and abhorrent. I neither require nor desire either of you to monitor me."

Eyebrows raising, Drake and Todd share a quick look before the former states, "Damian, you literally had the breath knocked out of you like 4 hours ago, how exactly do you expect us to react when there was no reasonable explanation for your collapse?"

Scuffing Damian quickly defends with, "Collapse? Please, I was momentarily disoriented."

Shrugging, Drake combats with, "sure whatever you say, Dame, I’m just making sure you don’t seize in the middle of grappling and fall to your death." Casually, he turns back around and makes his way to where Damian was previously scouting.

Looking at Todd, he notices his features pinched in a contemplative manner.

"Oh, don’t start having real thoughts now Todd, we might have to put you down."

Chuckling, he retorts, "Don’t worry, too many concussions to string together anything too intelligible," earning him a lopsided grin from Damian and silent laughter from Drake as he shakes his head.

Turning serious again, his eyes become humorless when he says, "Tim’s right though. There isn’t any explanation for what happened to you, and I’m not buying Alfred’s pinched nerve theory. I have never once been rendered as useless as you were in that moment." Holding his hands up in defense, he wipes the smirk off his face just as quickly as it came when he continues, "But what I want to know is, is there a chance this pain you were feeling wasn’t your own?"

The second he asks that question, both he and Drake whip around and freeze wide-eyed. As that possibility settles in his mind, his body stiffens as bone-chilling fear lashes through his veins, paralyzing him in his spot.

Tim’s throaty whisper rips his chest open: "It’s possible. I’ve read that Soulmates with particularly strong bonds, or at least the promise of a strong bond, can feel one another’s pain occasionally."

Shaking his head, his mind races a mile a minute as grotesque and maddening visions of her being harmed barrage him. Nausea rises to the back of his throat, burning his esophagus as it tries to pour out of him. He nearly fails to swallow it back down, but Jason’s voice breaks through his stupor when he says, "Damian, what is her current location?"

Snapping back, the icy terror that seized his muscles a minute ago turns into fiery determination as he feels adrenaline pump through him. Clearing his mind, he whips out his phone and begins briskly typing away.

His heart sinks once again when he realizes she has yet to text him about getting home safely. He knows she was safe when she got out of the car, and Alfred confirmed seeing her go inside her townhouse, but between then and now, a lot could have happened. Immediately after he texts her,

Hey, where are you? You haven’t texted me that you got home safely. I just need to know everything is okay.

Pressing send, he hopes it’s not too aggressive and that she’ll text him back quickly. However, he isn’t going to wait for her response. Utilizing his tracking app, he expects the location to register her at home, but it doesn’t. Panic rising sharply within him, he fights back the urge to lash out randomly and types the coordinates into the Batcomputer’s database.

Both Drake and Todd are looking over his shoulders as the address pops onto his screen after a couple of seconds. Confused, he looks at his brothers, hoping to see recognition spark in their eyes, but he doesn’t. They look just as baffled as he does, making his palms sweat.

f*ck, where the hell is she?

After a couple more minutes of searching, it becomes clear that she's at Ingrid Silvania’s home—a fellow student.

What the hell is she doing there?

More confused than ever, he’s about to ask either of them if they know her well when Todd snatches his phone out of his hands. Too focused and stressed to care, he stays silent as his older brother clicks through various apps. After what feels like forever but is probably less than two minutes, Damian is about to burst when Todd quickly flips the phone and holds it before him.

A party? Ingrid is throwing a party, and she's there?

Disbelief crashes through him as he feels his face crumpling with confusion. "What the hell is (Y/N) doing at a house party?" Not a second after Damian voices his question, his eyes go wide with the realization that she may have been drugged or worse at this party. At the same time the possibilities dawn on Damian, they dawn on his brothers as well. Each of them looks at one another wide-eyed for just a moment before they all jump into motion, making their way back to the cave.

Thankfully, Drake has the foresight to relay our worries through the coms to Batman and Nightwing, who are both still out. Their response is nonexistent, which is unsurprising as they are probably maintaining radio silence.

Within record-breaking time, they make it back to the Batcave, each one breathing heavily as Todd yells out orders to change into civilian clothes before meeting in the garage. Obeying wordlessly, Damian and Tim sprint to their rooms, ripping off their uniforms before throwing on the first articles of clothing they see.

Less than five minutes later, they are all in the basem*nt garage, trying to hide their labored breathing as the bright fluorescent lights assault their vision. Drake insists on driving and pulls the Escalade around, barely stopping long enough for Damian and Todd to climb in. Thankful for Todd not calling dibs, Damian buckles in as Drake floors it.

Taking deep breaths to calm his careening heart, he closes his eyes as he prepares himself for the worst. "I need you both to promise me something." The sound of his own voice surprises him as it cuts through the uneasy silence. Opening his eyes, he stares at both of them for a moment before clarifying, "If something has happened to (Y/N), I need you to make sure that you restrain me in whatever manner necessary. I cannot jeopardize our still fragile relationship by going to jail for murder, which I can guarantee will happen if something has happened to her."

As the city lights flying by them create a strobing sensation within the car, each of his brothers nods their heads stiffly as their mouths form thin lines and their jaws tick incessantly. Despite their bickering and occasional outward hostility toward one another, he knows that he can rely on them both to do whatever is necessary to ensure her safety, including rendering him unconscious if he loses control.

Good.

Checking his phone for the millionth time since sending that text to her, he almost crushes it when no notifications pop up on his lock screen. Gnashing his teeth in frustration, he inhales sharply again in an attempt to reduce his anxiety, which fails once again. He won’t be able to relax until he knows she's safe and secure, and anyone or anything in his way will be cut down swiftly and brutally.

That is a promise.

Chapter 13: The Worst Hump Day Ever.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: 5 PM onward

(Y/N) POV:

At the sound of his enraged voice, my heart sinks deep into my stomach as my muscles reflexively tense. Wordlessly, I turn around slowly, keeping my eyes lowered as I walk toward his office, dread accumulating with every step I take. When I reach him, I dare to glance up and find myself looking into the bottomless, glittering glacial pits of deadly calm.

I really did it now.

Scurrying past him, he deeply inhales before baring his teeth in a sneer as his scathing gaze follows me while I move to stand in front of his desk. A heavy silence fills the room, only broken by the sound of the heavy, old door groaning shut. My hands begin trembling at the sound of a light click, indicating the door has been locked.

With slow, deliberately controlled steps, he comes to stand in front of me with his head held low, shaking slightly as he leans against the front of his desk. Speechlessly, he crosses his arms over his chest and continues to have a silent conversation with himself, one entertaining enough to make him deeply chuckle.

We stay like this for a few minutes. With every second that goes by, the sound of my heart pounding in my ears becomes more and more deafening, until all I can hear is high-pitched ringing. Sucking his teeth, he shakes his head again, smiling, before abruptly pushing off his desk - making me recoil involuntarily.

Laughing at my reaction, he goes around behind his desk and pulls out a familiar crystal tumbler and decanter, setting them heavily on his leather-topped desk. His hands shake as he pulls out the stopper and pours himself a hefty drink. I am all too familiar with the cloying scent of the heady amber liquid, so I begin mentally preparing myself for the worst.

Not bothering to put any ice in his drink, he flutters his eyes closed as he tilts his head back and downs it in three swallows. His eyes snap open as he hisses a breath through his teeth at the lukewarm whiskey burning down his esophagus. Inhaling deeply, I feel my gag reflex kick in as the cacophony of scents assails my nose, forcing me to breathe through my mouth.

Despite the offensive odors, his office is pristine—not a speck of dusk in the air or a single piece of paper out of place. The black lacquered desk boasts no scuffs nor fingerprints, just like his couches remain lint- and dust-free. Everything in this room was so perfectly curated to be tidy and sharp, giving a false sense of satisfying organization. But I know what it really means.

Control.

Everything and everyone is within Bran’s control, including… no - especially me.

"Do you enjoy humiliating me?" Bran finally asks facetiously, extending the pronunciation of ‘enjoy’.

"No sir," I whisper back, not trusting my voice to remain steady at regular volume.

He comes around to lean against the desk in front of me again before tilting his head to study me. Meeting his eyes, I suck in a breath as the depth of his anger fully sinks into me, making my palms sweat. Discreetly, I try to wipe them on the sides of my skirt, but his eyes flick to the slight motion before flashing wickedly.

He lives for my discomfort.

"Have I not provided for you? Have I not given you a roof over your head, food on your table, and clothes on your back?" He asks me softly.

"You have." I clench my hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

He huffs in response and stays quiet for a moment. "Then why is it that you deliberately go out of your way to tarnish my good name in the tabloids? Hmmm?"

"I…I don’t know what you’re talking about. " I say, forcing myself to sound demure.

Bran goes utterly still, scaring the absolute hell out of me. Usually, by now he would be flying off the handle, but this quiet and contained rage is more terrifying than anything I have ever seen. The only evidence of his displeasure is the simmering frenzy of battling emotions clouding his once arctic eyes into silvery gray depths of despair.

I clench my jaw tight to fight off the quiver of my lip when he sharply thrusts himself off the desk and towers over me, mere inches from my face. He bends his head down, his eyes searing a hole through me as he pants heavily enough that I can feel his stifling, hot breath on my forehead. Not daring to move a muscle or cast my gaze up to him, I stand there numbly, motionless, looking straight ahead.

Taking a step back, he turns around and shakes his head disbelievingly.

"You…you LITTLE f*ckING LIAR." He bellows as he swipes his left arm across his desk, throwing its components to the floor. Flinching, I take a step back as he swings around, breathing heavily enough that his entire chest heaves with the motion. A strand of his once immaculate hair falls into his eyes, which he immediately brushes away gruffly with a shaking hand.

He breathes through his teeth as rage contorts his once handsome face into one of darkness—one that has haunted my nightmares for years. I throw on my mask of neutrality as I say, "I’m sorry, but I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re referring to."

Hissing breaths between his teeth, he violently shoves his hand in his pocket to fish out his phone. A few seconds later, he shoves the screen into my face, nearly hitting me in the process. I grimace as I recognize the article from earlier today, when Jason silently showed it to me. I feel my blood run cold, making my heart twitch and seize in my chest, as I ultimately realize that there is absolutely nothing that I can say or do to make him see reason.

But like a fool, I still try. "That..." I inhale a sharp breath, "That photo was taken on my way to school this morning, and there was this gust of wind, and then I guess one of the photographers kneeled to get this shot. I’m sorry, " I rush out my explanation.

He darkly chuckles as he begins to pace in front of me with his hands behind his back.

"No. You know what I think?" He watches me expectantly for a moment before I slowly shake my head. "I think," he comes to stand close, whispering in my face as his left-hand grabs my chin violently, "I think you knew exactly what you were doing. I think you did this because you wanted to hurt me." Squeezing my jaw painfully, he loosens the pressure and slowly drags his hand from my chin to my throat before squeezing again. Tilting his head again, he feigns a pout, saying, "Now why would you want to do such a thing when I have been so good to you?"

Trying to suck air in through my nose, I gurgle a response, eliciting a snarl from him before he releases my neck. Swallowing deeply, I heave air into my lungs until the black dots floating in my vision dissipate. Knowing better than to speak, I stand there, squaring my shoulders in defiance. I already know what's coming, there is no avoiding it.

I will not cower. I will not bend. I will not break.

Vibrating with malice, he suddenly goes predatorily still, his face falling when he sees the opposition take residence in my eyes. Rather than losing his temper, an adder’s smile curls his lips as he levels me with a stony promise of retribution.

Inhaling deeply through his nose, he languidly strolls past me to stand directly behind me—close enough that my shoulder blades brush against his abdomen. It’s easy to forget how much larger he is than me, but in moments like these, he likes for that to be at the forefront of my mind.

From my peripheral vision, I see him raise his right hand, making me grimace in response.

Why does my stupid body have to betray me?

He ever so gently brushed a piece of hair away from my face, making my jaw clench painfully. At the brush of his fingers against the back of my neck, I feel an unyielding rage boil up so quickly that it makes me suck in a ragged breath. Digging my nails so deeply into my palms that I can feel the thin skin give way as small beads of blood cluster at the surface.

I can feel his grin behind me as he steps away. A few seconds later, I hear the sound of wood scraping against metal, and I instinctively know he’s removing his grandfather’s cane from the wall mount. Curling my lip, I bite back the retort on my tongue as he steps around for me to see him bouncing it off his other palm.

Smiling sweetly, he drawls, "Take off your shirt." For a moment, I just stand there, looking ahead numbly. But as his face sours, I tug my shirt out of my skirt and unbutton it before shrugging it off and tossing it on the floor beside me. Giving me a raised eyebrow and a flourish of his hand, he beckons me to continue. With my right hand, I deftly unclasp my bra and allow the flexible material to fall to my feet.

With my breasts and navel exposed to the stuffy air, I quickly fold my arms to cover myself. Clicking his tongue, he roughly grabs my right arm and half drags me behind his desk. Once my hips meet the edge of the desk, he briskly flattens his palm on my back and pushes down until my cheek hits the surface.

Behind me, he slowly leans over me as my eyes begin to water in anticipation for the next few moments. Waves of nausea toss in my stomach like a ship in a storm while he languorously trails his fingers down the length of my Soulmark.

Tsking, he vehemently whispers, "Look how he’s tarnished your beautiful skin." As his words brush against my bare skin, I feel my rising frustration chafe against my skin as I continue to helplessly lay against the cool leather.

From the corner of my eye, I see him slowly rise to his full height, making sure to keep his hand firmly splayed against my back as he soundlessly and openly stares unblinkingly at the intricate latticework.

Never before had I felt so violated and disturbed by his canings. Nobody. And I mean,nobodyhas ever left me feeling so stripped, like layers of my skin are being shaved off just to leave my raw nerves exposed and throbbing. Swallowing down the battery acid of bile that threatens to spill out of me, I just lay here, still as a statue, as he maintains his penetrative gaze.

His face contorts into undiluted disgust before his true serpentine smile returns. "I will so thoroughly rebrand you as my own that by the time I’m finished, you won’t even be able to recognize his stain imprinted on you." His cold, oily voice sends a million invisible insects skittering under my skin at his declaration.

Trepidation, like nothing I have ever felt before, grips my organs and twists as the air is sucked out of my lungs. I can’t help myself as a shiver of disgust assails me, promoting him to press down harder, digging my ribs into the desk further.

I struggle against the pressure of his hand uselessly, as he just applies more, making it harder to breathe. Once I cease, he steps back and says, "You will count for me (Y/N). Brace yourself."

I close my eyes for a moment as the room's silence becomes piercing. I allow the inky numbness to penetrate my chest as the dainty whistling of the cane cutting through the air disrupts the silence mere seconds before it strikes my back. Stifling a pained groan, I remain silent as the shock of the first lash makes my vision blurry.

"What number was that (Y/N)?" His barely-contained excitement peaks through his raspy voice. Refusing to concede to his demands, I keep my mouth shut and turn my head to meet his gaze.

"COUNT." He roars, practically frothing at the mouth as his face goes white with fury. As Bran walks around to the other side of the desk, savoring each step he takes, I register the viscous delight flashing in his steel eyes.

As he sucks in a deep breath, I brace myself as the crack of the cane comes down on my shoulder blades. Spasming, I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down on the inside of my cheek to stop the scream that wants to rip from my throat.

But I know this pain. I know how to pace myself, how to take it, how to overcome it.

A guttural heave comes from him as he winds back for another strike. I absorb its shock, grunt through the warmth of radiating pain, and maintain remorseless eye contact.

"COUNT GODDAMMIT, f*ckING COUNT."His booming voice echoes off the walls. I silently disobey, keeping my palms flat as my hips knock into the desk with the force of the next one. Darkness creeps into my periphery as I feel myself beginning to slip into unconsciousness, praying it’ll take me soon.

Cheek still firmly planted on the desk, I see his eye twitch as he seethes through clenched teeth, and before I can stop myself, I smile into the leather top. The last thing I see before I pass out is his arm winding back right before a burning sensation explodes through my body from the impact of the cane.

______________________________________________________________________________

Groggily, I peel my eyes open to find myself face down on a plush rug. After a few seconds, the memories come rushing back as the alarm reclaims its grip on my heart. I swallow hard as the saliva scrapes down my sandpaper throat, making me wince. Slowly, ever so slowly, I push myself into a sitting position—not liking the way my arms tremble from the effort. I hiss from the breathtaking pain as my back cramps in objection to movement.

Taking slow, deep breaths, I look around just to realize that I’m alone. Sagging with relief, I also notice that it is completely dark in the room, save for the small lamp bathing the room in a soft yellow hue.

The pain in my back is still so raw that all I can manage are sharp, shallow breaths. I have no idea how much time has already passed, but I sit on the floor for several long moments before I dare to stand. Scanning the room, I spot my bra and button neatly folded on the edge of his desk, making bile surge up into the back of my throat. Roughly swallowing down the acid, I push down the memories as I slowly stand on quivering legs. As I come to stand to my full height, I nearly collapse again as the pulsating pain steals my breath away.

Taking baby steps, I reach the desk and lean heavily against its edge as I sluggishly redress, gritting my teeth as the materials touch the raw, swollen skin. I can tell that my skin didn't break from the fact that the air doesn't sting as harshly. As quickly as my body will allow it, I go to my room, immediately locking the door behind me. A cold sheen of sweat breaks out just from the effort of moving to this room.

Even though I don't want to do it, I go to the bathroom and completely undress with my back to the mirror. As I look over my shoulder to examine the damage, I flinch at the sight.

f*ck. He really did a number on me.

It’s bad. But it has been worse.

I keep repeating that in my head as I turn on my shower. This is going to hurt like a bitch, but I need to have a clean back if I want the numbing salve to work. Once the water is lukewarm, I take a shuttering breath and step under the rain head. I cry out in pain as the water runs down the welts, creating a sharp, pin-pricking pain that makes me dizzy enough to grab the shower walls for support.

After a few moments, I kill the stream and stand there, dripping wet, as the weight of today comes crashing down on me. Not wanting to lose all my strength in the shower, I quickly towel dry before grabbing the balm roller and applying a generous amount to the applicator. Using my right hand, I lift it over my head, groaning at the soreness as I roll it up and down my back religiously.

Less than 2 minutes later, the numbness of the salve begins to weave its magic as I feel my muscles going lax and the cool gel tingling delightfully. Breathing a sigh of relief, my eyes flutter closed as I feel my face go slack. Naked, I double-check that the door is locked and promptly face-plant onto my bed above the covers.

Before I realize it, I’m jerking awake in a pool of my own drool. Looking around, I remember that I’m in my own bedroom and instantly relax. After moving, I’m pleased to feel that my back is now only mildly sore. I’ll have to reapply the salve at some point tomorrow morning, but for the moment, I’m just glad to be able to breathe easily.

Looking around, I realize I left my phone in my backpack, which was still in the mudroom downstairs. Cursing my lack of foresight, I quickly throw on light cotton pajamas, as I crack the door to my room and peek out into the hallway. Relieved to see it empty, I tiptoe down the stairs, running my hand over the smooth banister for balance, listening for any hints of movement. Taking a momentary pause at the bottom of the stairs, I listen to make sure no doors are opening before quickly snatching my bag off the floor and running back to my room as best as I can.

Breathing heavily, I lock the door again and delicately plop myself and my bag onto my bed once again. Rifling through it, I finally find my phone and unlock it. I’m immediately astounded by the sheer quantity of messages I have. Laying down on my back gently, I make a sound of disgust as I scroll down past the numerous texts until I find Sam’s name—only to discover she too has sent me the article.

Rolling my eyes, I see several messages exclaiming how dehumanizing, heinous, and a violation of privacy they are, but the last one makes me laugh.

Hey, if nothing else, at least your ass looks great and your undies are hella cute. Good to know that not only are you smart, athletic, and gorgeous, but you aren’t even cursed with a saggy ass. Life is so unfair :(

Chuckling at her response, I text her a bunch of hearts as a response. Checking my other messages, it’s mostly the same sh*t, minus the attempts to make me feel better. Despite how much I don’t want to care about what anybody has to say, some of the more derogatory comments make my bottom lip quiver, as a couple of tears slip down my face and settle on my neck. Sniffling, I check my school emails and reply to a few teachers before checking the time.

It’s already 9 p.m., damn.

I must have passed out for at least a few hours—a thought that brings back phantom pains in my back. Before I can think about it for too long, my screen lights up in the darkened room, reminding me to turn my bedside lamp on. Now sitting up, I check my phone to see if there is a message from Sam, which elicits a smile from me. Grinning, we banter back and forth about my ass before she sends me a surprising message.

So I know it’s a Wednesday night, but Ingrid’s throwing a ‘midterms are over’ party, and tbh, I’ve been feeling downright sh*tty lately. Wanna go? Cause I’m only gonna go if you go.

Blinking a few times, I rub my eyes to make sure that I’m not actually hallucinating.

Since when the f*ck did Sam wanna go to a house party? Damn... the world must really be ending.

Laughing to myself, I’m about to decline when I pause. Today really has been a sh*tshow of a day.

But I’ll have a major hangover at school tomorrow. But then again, the midterms are over. But I don’t want to feel physically sh*ttier than I already do. But…alcohol caaaan solve that problem for the time being.

After my silent little battle with myself [yikes, I do know how that sounds], I relent and text Sam that I’ll be ready in an hour, to which she immediately responds with a bevy of emojis that make no sense before confirming.

Sighing loudly, I can’t believe I just agreed to this.

f*ck, now I actually have to put on something cute and do my makeup.

Damn, I didn’t really think about all the steps I have to take before I actually get to get drunk. Too late now. Snapping up, I wince as the momentarily forgotten pain in my back makes itself known again. It’s a good thing I told her to come by in an hour. I’ll be needing every moment since I’m going to be slower than usual.

Slower this time, I move to my closet and skim through my wardrobe, snatching a few options that I think will be cute but warm enough for this fall night. After a few moments, I decide on a black long-sleeve body suit that completely covers my back but has enough of a daring v-neck to give my ladies some action. I pair the bodysuit with a mini burgundy wrap skirt that ties on the side and is thick yet still flowy. Finishing off the look, I put on my heeled black leather riding boots that come up just below my knee and sport cute chrome buckles on the back.

Looking in the mirror, I’m satisfied with my outfit, and I move to the bathroom vanity to start my makeup. Sitting on my little white fuzzy chair that was tucked in a corner between the vanity and the shower. I examine myself. Luckily, there is no bruise on my neck from when he grabbed me, but my pale complexion and heavy bags under my eyes need some attention.

Going through my full-face routine, I quickly apply my tinted BB cream and a bit of concealer. Since moving my arm a bunch irritates my back, I decide on just a nude eyeshadow with a slight shimmer and a very thin winged eyeliner. Painstakingly applying the liquid eyeliner takes longer than I like, but the end result is decent enough.

They’re sisters, not twins.

To accentuate my (E/C), I gently apply a dark blue pencil eyeliner to my waterline, which instantly brightens them. Checking the time, I realize I only have 20 minutes left before I have to leave, so I quickly dab on some cream blush and rub it into my skin before applying powder highlight to the highest part of my cheekbones and under the outer edges of my eyebrow.

Looking back down at my makeup drawer, I run my hands over my lipsticks and glosses but ultimately decide on a sheer burgundy lip stain. Once that dries down, I carefully apply some clear gloss and smack my lips together for no particular reason.

I tilt my head as I critically examine my face and conclude that it is sufficient. I quickly spritz on some setting spray before hopping up to grab my phone, wallet, and keys. Thankfully, Bran had to catch a flight to some European country again, so I won't have to see him until next week, making it easier for me to sneak out of the house.

Not wanting to disturb any remaining staff—if there are any—I keep the lights off as I tiptoe back down the stairs and wait in the mudroom silently for Sam’s text. Idly standing in the dark feels eerie and weird, but luckily, Sam doesn't make me wait long. Parked in her usual spot a couple of blocks down the road, I maneuver past the photographers STILL waiting outside my house and go through the tunnel. At the mouth of the tunnel, I feel a blast of cold air on my cheeks, making me regret not bringing a coat with me.

But who brings a coat to a house party anyway?

Looking in both directions, I text Sam that I have to wait a few minutes until the sleazeballs turn around before I can make a dash for her car. As I wait, I look up into the night sky and appreciate the cloudless sky and the crisp night air. Since it’s a little past 10 p.m., the streets are empty, and the city has fallen silent.

I crinkle my nose when I realize that since it’s so late, there will be no noise to cancel out the sound of my heeled boots on the pavement when I run. I’ll have to be nimble as I tiptoe to her car and stick to the shadows as I do. I have always appreciated how well-lit my street has been, but at this current moment, I curse the lightly blinking yellow light as it forces the shadows deep into alleyways.

Having an idea, I text Sam to turn off her headlights and park in an alleyway a block closer. The sound of a sitting car won’t raise any red flags since their vans are perpetually on. A few minutes later, she texts me that she is ready for me, and at the perfect time too, because, at that exact moment, the meandering mouthbreathers turn their backs to me as they strike up yet another conversation with one another.

This is my shot.

I make a quiet, awkward dash as I try to run on my tiptoes in heels. I finally find Sam’s car and slide into the passenger seat almost soundlessly. Closing the door gently, I turn to her and give her a beaming smile.

We f*cking did it.

As I lean back in the seat, I can’t help but wince at the pain, which unfortunately doesn’t go unnoticed by Sam.

"What the hell was that?" She asks immediately, concerned.

"I pulled a muscle in my back somehow," I lie effortlessly as guilt strikes me.

I’ve had to lie a lot.

Still eyeing me warily, she just nods her head and starts driving to the party.

Wait, if she’s driving… how are we getting home?

Forcing the pain to subside, I look at her and ask her, to which she casually mentions that she plans to Uber us home. Chuckling, I nod in agreement, as I feel foolish for not having thought of that originally.

Cranking up the music, we belt along to a song, albeit very poorly, and roll the windows down to let the cool night air pinch our cheeks—a welcome sensation. Since I decided to keep my hair down, the wind whips it around my face, probably making it look like a tangled mess. However, at this moment, I couldn’t care less; all I want right now is freedom and numbness, and I’m well on my way to achieving both those things tonight.

Sam must have been reading my thoughts, because she spares me a glance before returning it to the road and loudly says, over the sounds of the whipping wind music, "Let’s just have this one night to completely let loose. No worrying about school tomorrow, hangovers, or even how we’re getting home. All I want to do is get drunk, dance with my best friend, and then order taco bell before we crash." Laughing at the last part, I nod my head in agreement before we return to singing at the top of our lungs.

My voice is definitely going to be hoarse tomorrow.

For some reason, that thought brings a huge smile to my face as I continue watching the blurring lights of the city fly past us, letting myself bask in the thrill of excitement coursing through my veins

Chapter 14: A Little Party Never Killed Nobody

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

I don’t know what I was expecting when I decided to come to a house party after Soulreaching with Damian Wayne, but I certainly didn’t expect every head to swivel in my direction when I walk through the front door with Sam. I also didn’t anticipate the open mouths and disbelieving murmurs swirling around the room as Sam grabs my hand and begins needling us through the throngs of sweaty students.

As we walk past our peers, I send a silent thanks to whoever made the music so loud that I can’t hear whatever hushed comments and potential rumors they are spreading like wildfire. With our hands intertwined, we quickly make our way toward the kitchen, refusing to speak to anyone despite their multiple attempts to strike up a conversation.

Mama needs her buzz first.

Sam, still leading the way, steps aside as we enter the gargantuan, renovated chef’s kitchen. Eyebrows raising, I look around the spacious all-white kitchen and admire the beautifully veined waterfall countertops on the 10-foot island. I can feel a smile creeping on my face as I look at all of the top-of-the-line appliances and appreciate the over-the-top refrigerator, the width of a car, made to blend in with the other floor-to-ceiling cabinets.

I’d kill to cook in this kitchen.

Before I can daydream about which recipes I’d like to practice, I surprisingly hear a high-pitched squeal from somewhere to my left. Sam and I cast a glance in that general direction when I recognize Ingrid's petite, inebriated form stumbling toward us before we’re simultaneously embraced in a rough hug. We stumble back a few steps from the force of the dead weight practically hanging off us, leaning heavily on us. With her dark red hair pinned up in a braided crown, her big brown eyes tastefully accentuated by eyeliner, and her white cashmere sweater dress, she looks like a modern Greek goddess.

"Ohhh my Gawd, I am soooo happy to see you guys," Ingrid says, slurring her words almost incomprehensibly. Smiling at the sweet drunk girl, we exchange a few pleasantries before she makes her way to the bar cart in the corner, where she says, "Pick yeeer poison, ladies. What’s mine is su casa."

It’s easy to conceal my chuckle under the booming music and boisterous conversations as we wordlessly take in all our options. Sam opts for a canned mojito as I reach for the canned spicy margarita.

If it has jalapenos, I’m in.

Cracking the cold beverage, Sam and I look at each other as she mischievously says, "Bottoms up, bitch," just before we clink out cans together. Taking a long, hard swig, I savor the cold and fizzling burn of the tequila and lime medley slipping down my throat.

"Ohh myyy Gawwdd, did I tell you guys yet how happy I am yeerr both hereeee? " Ingrid’s face suddenly grows serious as she beckons us to lean in with a floppy flick of her wrist. Whispering too loudly to actually warrant us leaning in, she says, "Have you seen those articles about yer cute asssss? It’s disgusting but, liiiiike also soooo flattering, ya know?" Faltering a little over the pronunciation of 'disgusting', she continues to lament about how sh*tty it is as I tune out and let the wave of cold numbness relax my features into impassiveness.

Sam, occasionally supplementing with intended conversation changes, darts increasingly nervous glances my way as we keep discussing the photo. Inhaling deeply through my nose, I stare at the wall behind Ingrid's head and throw my drink back, finishing it in 3 burning gulps.

Coughing up some of the liquid as the carbonation becomes too much for me to handle, I thank my past self for choosing to wear a black shirt, as it conceals all evidence of the drink I just spat up. Squealing, Ingrid cuts herself off mid-sentence and bounds away to get me some paper towels.

Looking impressed, Sam crosses her arms over her chest before finishing her drink as well—albeit slower to avoid the same mishap. "Huhhh," Sam states after draining her drink while nodding her head, "that was both effective and an efficient way to kill the conversation. I’ll employ that tactic next time for sure." Looking down at her gray tube top, she frowns a little. "Ok, so maybe not next time, but definitely when I’m wearing a dark color."

Snickering, I bite my lip as I see Ingrid skipping back with more coordination than I thought someone as drunk as she could have, as she waves many more sheets of paper towels than necessary to dab the remaining liquid sitting between my boobs and on my shirt. Ingrid comes to stand right in front of me, breathing heavily through her mouth as she just begins vigorously rubbing the front of my shirt and boobs without a word. With my hands to the side and slightly raised, I meet Sam’s eyes to find a baffling amusem*nt swimming in their blue depths as she barely tries to hold in her laugh.

Looking back at Ingrid, who’s even shorter than I am, I begin to protest but find myself immediately meeting very hard, earnest, and determined eyes as she resumes her thorough cleaning of my cleavage and shirt. Despite her biting down on her entire bottom lip, I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of this situation, which unfortunately garners the attention of those nearby. Their confusion and discomfort are clear on their faces as I turn back to Sam, who’s shaking her head, still amused.

"You know what," I say, looking past Ingrid to Sam, "can you crack me another canned co*cktail?" Within seconds, another cold and cracked can enters my hand, which I immediately start pounding while Ingrid still goes to town.

"Now I must say, this is giving me some wild deja vu," a deep and husky voice that I know all too well says from somewhere to my right. With the can still on my lips, I snap my head around to the source of the voice as my eyes collide with Jackson’s dark amber ones. Quickly flicking my gaze back to Sam, I see that her once relaxed stance and glittering eyes have turned into rigidity and an icy glare.

"Ummmm, I think I got it all out," Ingrid informs me, oblivious to Jackson’s presence and the now rising tension. Stepping back, she claps her hands loudly, squeals in delight, and flutters away, leaving Sam, Jackson, and me in an awkward triangle. Clearing his throat, he not so subtly keeps peeking at my chest with a Cheshire grin.

Damn, I really regret wearing a low V-neck without a bra now.

"Soooo, what brings you to this part of town?" He inquires, now actually maintaining eye contact. I squint my eyes and cross my arms over my chest as I ignore his question and finish off yet another drink.

I am way too sober to be dealing with this.

Sam, not missing a beat, grabs my free hand and pulls me toward the bar cart once again, before looking back over her shoulder and shooting him a snarky reply. Throwing his head back laughing, he tries to follow us but is thankfully interceded by members of the football team. When his name is called over the loud music, a round of applause erupts, and he is immediately swallowed up by the swarm of students eager to speak with him.

Never thought Jackson’s popularity would be advantageous, but damn, am I grateful right now.

"We need stronger sh*t ASAP," Sam states - popping the P dramatically. Nodding in agreement, we quickly find what we’re looking for, and before long, we’re throwing back double shots of tequila and grabbing some more co*cktails before making our way through the backdoors that lead to the patio.

Immediately, I shiver as the cold air settles on my skin, but I find a slight reprieve from the heat lamps near the edge. After the shock of the cold air passes, I notice two things: 1 - my boots meet resistance as I try to walk across the sticky wood porch, and 2: There is a rowdy game of beer pong being played on the elongated outdoor dining table. Giving a subtle sniff, I register the scent of cheap beer—most likely the culprit of this sticky floor—and a thick musky cologne from the group of boys currently transfixed by a small, weightless white ball.

Huffing out a breath, I give Sam my best"next"look before walking back into the soft warmth of the house. I find my mood instantly reflecting the party’s fun and lively atmosphere as Sam and I once again needle through the masses, stopping to talk to some classmates as we make our way slowly back to the kitchen.

By my fourth canned co*cktail, thoughts and concerns about Jackson disappear as my limbs begin to feel lighter and my head fuzzier in a warm, tingly way. Giggling, I lean into Sam as we down our cans before we start gathering a crowd to do shots with us. Within the next 30 minutes, we’re all talking loudly over one another as we rehash some of the most iconic memories from prior parties. The air is muggy and laced with beer and liquor scents at this point, and the countertops are littered with cans, Solo cups, and various sticky stains.

I allow the liquor to freely flow through my veins, heightening the sense of comradery and jovial conversations amongst peers I would have never talked to for any length of time sober. Cackling at something a girl from my history class said, we all stand around closely as she retells a story I can barely hear.

The stickiness in the air and the hot beer breath of everyone around me make the hair on the nape of my neck frizz and my face warm. Deciding I need some cool air, I shimmy away from the hot bodies all pressed into one another and catch Sam’s gaze before mouthing "outside" while pointing to the rear of the house. She simply nods before returning her attention to the cute boy who unabashedly struck up a flirty conversation with her nearly 10 minutes ago.

At first, I was concerned, but after a few ‘girl code eye signals’, it became clear that the attention and conversation were welcomed. Their cordial conversation progressed quickly to flirtatious touching of the waist and the disappearance of inches of space between them. Left to my own devices, I sneak away from the conversations and deafening music and step outside for the blissful bite of cold air on my face. Inhaling deeply, the thin, crisp night air reminds me of the holidays as the undertones of pine needles and wood smoke swirl around my nostrils.

Turning around, I rest my elbows on the railing as I look around the abandoned back patio and smile to myself as I see the litter of cups all around me. Taking several more deep breaths of the rejuvenating and sobering night air, I savor the coolness on my skin but decide to head back inside, where all the action is.

Once again inside, I quickly hone in on Sam, now talking in a circle with some girls I recognize from math class, before loudly shouting, "WHO’S READY FOR MORE SHOTS?", while gesturing wildly with my hands, as I’m met with a polyphony of cheers, yeses, and ‘f*ck yeahs’ from the drunker individuals.

Smiling to myself, I rummage around the cabinets and gather all the shot glasses available before hearing the satisfying sound of many small glasses clinking against the stone surface. Whirling through the kitchen, I pour everyone's choice of liquor into their assigned glass before pouring myself a sexy double shot of tequila.

With a celebratory cry, we all chant, "Arriba, Abajo, al Centro, al Dentro," while making the accompanying hand gestures—up, down, and middle—before throwing them back. The chorus of gagging, hissing, and whooping shortly follows as I laugh nonsensically at their reactions.

Oh yeah, now we’re talking.

As the last shots burn through my body, warming me to an uncomfortable temperature, I look around the room full of red-cheeked faces and find myself leaning heavily on the island as the blaring music disorients me.

Has the floor always been shaking?

Taking long, deep breaths, I numbly move through the crowd to grab a plastic cup before filling it up with water from the fridge filter. Knowing I need to slow down, I finish two full cups before Jackson leans his left shoulder and head onto the freezer side.

"So are you gonna tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?" A forced, shy grin graces his face. Looking at him from above the edge of the cup, I quickly press buttons on the water dispenser and fill my cup with ice before hastily tilting the cup to catch some in my mouth.

Chewing loudly on the ice that is now numbing my mouth, I say, "Sawry, chewring isssss," dismissively, before turning around to lose him in the masses. From behind me, I hear Jackson yell, "Hey, you can't avoid me all night." Not daring to look back, I put my cup down when I feel a wave of dizziness come over me.

With my face fully warmed and my hair sticking to the back of my neck, I stumble away from the others as I slowly climb up the stairs, one hand grabbing the banister and the other skimming the wall to maintain my balance. After making a few wrong turns and bumping face-first into a wall, I find a cute powder room. Once inside the pristine blue and white wallpapered bathroom, I shut the door with more force than necessary and fumble to lock it before planting my hands on the cool countertop of the sink.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I flinch at my reflection.

Damn, why didn’t anybody tell me how bad my hair looks?

Between my glassy eyes, beet red face and neck, and frizzy, untamed hair, I look worse for wear. I turn on the cold water and rinse my hands before slapping my cheeks and combing my hair with damp hands. Once I’m satisfied with the state of my hair, I take the small washcloth neatly folded on the counter and run the corner under the freezing water before ringing out the excess. Lifting my hair with one hand, I press the small, cold towel to the back of my neck with the other and relish in the soothing coolness.

Releasing an audible moan, I close my eyes and appreciate the decreased volume of the muffled music as the ringing in my ears slowly lessens. Feeling better and refreshed, I put everything back in its previous location and begrudgingly ‘break the seal’.

I’ll be peeing nonstop for the rest of the night, but what’s a girl to do?

Casting one last glance at the mirror, I’m glad to see that my eyes look less red-rimmed and glassy, my hair is somewhat tame, and the redness has receded to only adorn my cheeks now. Unlocking the door, I walk down a couple of long hallways bedecked with crystal sconces and thick-framed oil paintings. As I walk, I become aware of how heavy my limbs feel and how soft the carpet runner beneath my boots is.

I fixate on the carpet as I begin descending the stairs, only to be startled at the sound of the front door slamming shut. Snapping my head up, I stop dead in my tracks as I see three pairs of wide eyes staring back at me unblinkingly.

"Damian?" I ask incredulously, looking at his other brothers, "Jason, Tim?"

The shock of seeing him here, at Ingrid’s house party, on a Wednesday night, renders me speechless... speechless and motionless as I take in the three brothers. The alcohol must be making me brave because when I see what they’re wearing, I begin laughing hysterically-so hysterically that my knees give out and I plop on the stairs, doubled over and unable to stop.

Between raggedy breaths, I manage to ask, "What... what?" laughing harder, I continue, "What are you guys wearing?" Wheezing, I stay seated on the steps as they look at one another, mildly offended.

Returning his emerald gaze to me, I see a slight scowl on his face as he climbs the stairs, stopping just a few before me. Silently, he offers me his hand, which I take as he effortlessly pulls me up. Woozy from being drunk, I wobble a bit, but before I can go tumbling, he places his large, warm hand on my waist, steadying me. A heat that has nothing to do with the sweaty atmosphere of the party rushes through me and settles deliciously in my stomach. My heart flutters as I look him in the eye before resting my own hand above his.

Damn, the liquor is making me brave.

Wait. We’re at eye level.

Looking down, I am stunned once again by his height. The fact that he’s a few steps lower than me and still not taller blows my mind.

Man, his eyes really are prett-

"How drunk are you?" asks the owner of said pretty eyes.

"Hmm?"

"Jeez (Y/N)," He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You’re too intoxicated to be descending stairs unaccompanied."

For some reason, the tone of his voice angers me, so, like an indignant child, I pout at him before roughly removing his hand from my waist. Crossing my arms, I glare at him as I go down the rest of the steps without holding onto the railing to prove to him that I am completely functio-

Oh sh*t.

I trip, arms flailing, but quickly catch myself as I reach the bottom, just before I see Jason instinctively reaching out to steady me. I frown further, swatting his hand away as he comes to stand near me, which earns me a raised eyebrow from him and a head tilt from Tim.

"I’m good," I repeat a few times, mostly to convince myself as Damian comes down a lot more gracefully than me. Stepping next to me, he glowers in my direction for a moment before Jason laughs at me and pulls Damian's attention away.

"You’re absolutely blasted, aren’t you?" Jason asks with humor dancing behind his crystalline eyes. Giggling at his accusation, I just nod my head enthusiastically as I look at him and his brothers while the deep bass of the music reverberates through my entire body, lulling me. I have never seen Damian or Tim at a party in the past, but I know for a fact that Jason was a party legend when he attended Gotham Academy.

Dressed in all black, Jason’s casual jeans and t-shirt blend right into the atmosphere of an underage rager. However, when I swivel my head to look at Damian and then back to look at Tim, I find myself unable to stop the grimace on my face.

"What?" Tim asks, looking down at himself and then back up, "Do I have something on my face?" The genuinely concerned and befuddled look on his face has me attempting to smile apologetically, but ultimately failing as I burst into another wave of giggles.

Once calm again, I try my best to explain, "It’s just that..." Inhaling deeply again, I look at Tim’s tightly tucked, perfectly starched white button, thin black tie, and black slacks paired with freshly buffed dress shoes before continuing. "It’s just that you look like a Jehovah's witness, and you…," Looking at Damian, I see a soft-looking long-sleeved black turtleneck tucked into black slacks with similar dress shoes to Tim's: "You look like you’re fresh out of a bible study with the Christian youth group."

At my comment, the corner of his mouth turns down slightly as his brow furrows in contemplation. Looking at Tim, I’m struck by how exasperated he looks with his wide eyes, slightly agape mouth, and brows raised to his hairline. Sputtering, he looks down at himself and then back to me a couple of times before his mouth sets into a firm line.

Clucking my tongue, I tilt my head and squint my eyes as I try to figure out how to help his outfit. Once an idea pops into my muddled thoughts, I audibly gasp in excitement as I come right up to him.

Standing less than a foot away from him, I can see his muscles tense as he freezes before me, becoming so still that he could be mistaken for a statue. As I reach for his tie, I see his eyebrows knot, and a distrustful light enters his beautiful blue eyes.

Do they all have such beautiful eyes?

I pause, and say, "I’m just gonna help with this whole situation here," while motioning to his outfit with my hands. Still wary of what I’m going to do, he simply nods, and I take that as my cue to begin the transformation.

Pulling his tie down to loosen it, I then untie it completely and fling it behind me in hopes that either Damian or Jason will catch it. Then, without warning, I grab a fistful of his pristine and unruffled shirt and yank it up and out of his pants, which earns me an astonished grunt from Tim. Not wanting to make him more uncomfortable than he clearly already is, I instruct him to loosen the top buttons of his shirt before I raise my hand to ruffle his stiff, dark hair to make it appear more shaggy and effortless.

"Hey," he protests, while grabbing my wrist lightly, "I liked how my hair looked today," with a soft pout.

Before I have time to apologize, I hear a snarl from behind me, making me swing around just to see Damian stalk over while saying, "Release her this instant," to which Tim immediately lets go and takes a step back. Now standing slightly in front with an arm protectively shielding me, Tim raises his hands in the universal ‘don’t shoot’ style before trying to calm his brother down.

"I wasn’t hurting her, Damian. You know, I’d never do that," he reasons coolly. I draw his attention by touching his back ever so slightly. Sighing, he turns around to face me, and I notice the tension in his jaw lessen when he looks me up and down.

I tilt my head back and smile weakly at him as I gently place my hand in his. I can see his shoulders relaxing and his stiff posture loosening a little as we make contact. "I’m OK, I promise," I whisper gently. He scrutinizes me for a moment longer before nodding his head and releasing a tense breath.

The four of us are still awkwardly standing in the dimly lit foyer, and just before I get the chance to suggest that we should all go to the kitchen, Jason exclaims, " I don’t know about you guys, but I’m about to get sh*tfaced," with a teasing smile thrown over his shoulder as he walks farther into the house. Shaking his head, Tim sighs and reluctantly follows his older brother, leaving just me, Damian, and this sh*tty pop song.

"You know, I never really pegged you as the party type," I note with an undertone of suspicion. Damian purses his lips before he delicately brushes a strand away from my face, letting his hand hover by the side of my face.

"You are correct in that assumption, but I am not unwilling to experience new things." His eyebrows knot pensively as he watches me closely, his hand now lightly cupping the side of my neck as his thumb massages it tenderly. Leaning into his touch, I feel my eyes flutter closed as I relish in the comfort of his proximity.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I peel my eyes open and meet his eyes as they soften, and a small smile lifts the corner of his mouth. For some reason, I find his small smiles incredibly endearing, and before I know it, I’m smiling too.

Seemingly spawning from thin air, Jason claps both of his hands down on Damian’s shoulder and shakes him slightly, making his soft and kind eyes transform into glinting, hard jewels of aggravation.

"Alright, little bird, it’s time for big brother Jason to show you how it's done," he interjects, practically vibrating with excitement as he digs his fingers into Damian’s shoulders. Stepping back, I just shake my head, finding this particular situation more amusing than I probably should.

Forcefully steering Damian away from me, I cross my arms over my chest as I watch him shoot me nervous looks over his shoulder, making me chuckle at the absurdity of this whole night.

I feel a spasm course through my back as they exit into the main living area, alerting me to the fact that the numbing balm is starting to wear off. I grit my teeth and dig my nails into my now sweaty palms, waiting for it to pass. Once the pain subsides, I eagerly make my way to the kitchen to hunt for more tequila.

Who needs numbing balm when there's liquor?

Chapter 15: A Little Party Almost Killed Somebody

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Damian’s POV

His heart is pounding so rapidly that Damian can feel the thrum of it through his veins as his eyes continuously scan the streets for any signs of danger. When they pull into the host’s neighborhood, his brothers become deadly silent as they find a parking spot nearby. Breathing through his nose, Damian’s jaw begins to ache from the force of his bite, which has Drake shooting wary glances his way.

"We’re going to find her and bring her to safety if that is what is necessary," Drake says assuredly while parking the car. "Neither Jason nor I will allow any further harm to come to her." Glancing at his brothers, he can see the resolute steel in their eyes, which anchors his resolve as he slips further into his killing calm.

With one last deep breath, they all exit the vehicle and briskly make their way toward Ingrid’s old Tudor-style mansion. Even if they didn’t have the house number, there would be no problem discerning which one it was due to the beat of deep, rhythmic bass and the multicolored lights pulsating from behind the windows.

Damian, taking the lead, finds himself silently grateful for his brother’s presence as they climb up the front stairs. On the way here, they discussed the most efficient manner of finding her and decided upon splitting the house into three sections. Since Drake was driving, he instructed Todd on how to pull up the blueprint of the house. Once acquired, they were pleased to find it was three stories, divvying up their sections for them. He was to take the first floor, Drake the second, and Todd the third.

Running their plan through his mind over and over again, he pushes open the heavy, arched wooden door and enters a dimly lit foyer. As he quickly sweeps the interior with his eyes, he’s rendered motionless as he sees her sluggishly descend the grand staircase with knitted brows as she studiously stares at the carpeted steps. She only looks up when the awful sound of the front door heavily closing scares her, making her stop in midstep with the most adorable look of confusion that quickly transforms into disbelief.

The surprise of seeing her here and noticeably unharmed crashes through his body like a bucket of cold water, almost making him choke on a relieved sob. He can tell his brothers are also astonished by this revelation from the absence of their comments, probably just as jarred by this realization as he is.

Perhaps Pennyworth was correct, and it is simply pinched nerves.

Blinking a few times to make certain what he is seeing is true, he notices her snap out of her stupor and begin laughing... laughing at them. Her unencumbered laugh breaks the spell as he looks at his brother’s faces, which reflect a combination of incredulity and relief. Drake’s mouth is hanging open at her drunken statement, while Jason snaps out of it and scrunches his face in mild offense.

Huffing out a breath, Damian climbs the stairs two at a time and stops just a few steps beneath her. Staring blankly at him, he inquires about her level of intoxication, to which she simply tilts her head in confusion. He can feel the rising frustration, making it hard to keep the bite out of his retort. Clearly, his feeble attempt to mask his annoyance fails if her stubborn reaction is any indication.

Within the next several moments, she manages to trip and almost goes flying down the stairs, slaps Todd’s hand away when he attempts to steady her (secretly bringing a smile to his face), insults Drake’s attire, and restyles his attire, much to Drake’s obvious dismay.

By now it is evident that whatever theory Todd had about the back pain coming from her through our soulmate bond is inaccurate, which he oddly finds disappointing. Under no circ*mstances does he ever want her to be in any form of pain, but it is a rare aspect of soulmates that only occurs between the strongest of bonds. Privately, he hopes that our bond will be worthy of such a consequence, but right now he’s just happy to see that she's well.

Now, standing in front of her, he can see her glassy eyes looking into his own, waiting for him to speak. Smiling down at her, he feels the heat of her touch birth a deep-seated sense of desire, but before he can say anything, he feels the weight of brutish hands crashing down on his shoulders.

Tensing instantaneously, he’s about to whip around and deck the audacious individual when he hears Todd’s booming voice from behind him. The aggression seeps out of him unwillingly as he steers him deeper into the house filled with inebriated and raucous peers. Looking over his shoulder, he sees her shake in quiet laughter as she basks in his discomfort.

Little traitor.

Entering the kitchen, Damian meets the astonished eyes of several students, but at this late hour, most are too drunk to notice or care that he and his brothers are here. However, the ones who are sober enough to make the connection, murmur to one another before their eyes light up and their faces split into smiles at the sight of Todd behind him.

"Ayooo loook who it issssss," shouts some pseudo-athlete who stumbles toward them, sloshing the contents of his solo cup on the floor near them. "If it ain’t Jason f*cking Wayne." His father had enrolled all his sons in hyphenated names throughout the years, but most only ever paid attention to the ‘Wayne’ part.

No longer standing behind him, Todd comes around to rest his arm around his shoulder while leading him toward the bar cart and easily chatting with the guy who loudly announced their presence. "Awe man, Damian, good to see you, bro." The same guy goes to dap him up but thinks better of it when he notices the intentional scowl on his face before sauntering off to prattle with the other half-wits.

"Now that wasn’t very nice," Todd smirks as he raises his voice an octave in mock reprimand. Rolling his eyes, Damian crosses his arms and hits him with a droll stare in lieu of a verbal response.

Ignoring his blatant dislike for the situation, Todd’s smirk transforms into a wicked grin before he says, "I know just the thing we need," and turns around to face the gathered crowd. "LET'S GET SOME f*ckING SHOTS IN THIS BITCH!" he yells, prompting a chorus of cheers and enthusiastic shuffling as shot glasses line up on the island. Turning back, Todd grabs the front of his shirt and drags him to the island before handing him a brimming shot of cheap vodka.

Scowling hard enough to make his face sore, Damian seethes, "I’m not drinking this putrid garbage," low enough for his brother to hear.

"Sure you are," he replies deeply without looking at him, "because if you don't," he points his thumb at her coming from behind to stand next to him, "she most certainly will." Todd flashes her his million-dollar smile, which she returned, and hands her a shot before leaning past him and saying, apologetically, "Your little boyfriend here is being a little bitch and doesn't want to do shots with us, but I know you're cool and will throw his back too."

She laughs at his comment and nods her head enthusiastically, making Todd shoot him a victorious, mischievous wink.

I cannot believe this is happening right now.

To Todd's expectant amusem*nt, Damian forces a smile on his face and silently grips the shot glass. She's already too drunk. The last thing she needs is to take a double shot of lousy vodka, so for her, Damian will endure this garbage in an effort to minimize the damage.

Gleeful shouts erupt as at least 15 people chant some Spanish cheer before we all down our shots. Resisting the urge to gag or shiver, Damian calls forth his strength of willpower to refrain from showing any outward expression of disdain.

Daring a glance at her, he’s amused to see the humorous crumpling of her face as she visibly recoils from the shot. Coughing, she looks at him and asks, "How the hell did you manage to make that look so easy?" Redness is now staining her cheeks, and tears are bordering her waterline as she heaves several deep breaths. Not wanting her to suffer, Damian hastily gets her a cup of water, which she hungrily snatches from him as she mumbles her thanks.

She pounds that cup of water and swipes away a rogue dribble from the side of her mouth as she releases a loud sigh. "Let’s not do that again," she blurted out, with her hands now resting on her hips. Chuckling Damian wholeheartedly agrees and leans in to plant a soft kiss on her forehead, after which she wraps her arms around his waist and rests her chin on his solar plexus. He wraps his arms around her, rests his hands on her waist, and angles his head down to look at her large (E/C) eyes that are framed by dark, thick lashes and blue eyeliner.

Before he has a chance to kiss her, Jason mimics a vomiting sound before rudely shouting over the music, "Ugh-ugh, enough of this sappy bullsh*t," as he untangles her from him and grabs her hand. "See you later, baby bird. If you need us, we’ll be dominating at beer pong." At his statement, she throws her head back, laughing deeply, seemingly unbothered by his tugging as he leads her to the back patio.

Knowing that she's safe with his brother, Damian shakes his head and releases a breath before he begins his search for Drake, who conveniently missed out on the appalling shot. Searching for him takes less than 2 minutes, as he already knows his brother prefers to observe from the shadows. Stepping outside, he finds him in a shadowy corner, watching everyone in silence with an untouched cup of malty-smelling beer.

"Have you observed anything of interest?" he asks Drake matter-of-factly.

"Nothing just yet, but when I do," he says, turning to look Damian in the eye, "you’ll be the first to know." Drake slinks through the shadows, going completely unnoticed by his inebriated peers, as he situates himself in another strategic corner.

From somewhere behind him, he hears a round of applause and yipping sounds, which piques his interest enough to make him turn around.

There she is, jumping with joy.

The beaming smile on her face, paired with her bouncing hair, makes his dick twitch hard enough that he had to stifle a groan.

She is so beautiful.

It didn’t help that her deep v-neck top displays enough cleavage that when she bounces, it becomes an unholy arousing show—a show that she is unknowingly putting on for more than a fair share of drunkenly horny eyes. Rage sweeps through him as he realizes how many pairs of eyes are unabashedly ogling her, which makes his blood boil for a very different reason.

Inhaling a crisp breath of air through his nose, he unclenches his fist as he stalks toward her, making sure to maintain eye contact with any of the f*ckers who keep looking at her for more than a second. He feels satisfaction douse his anger as every one of them drops their eyes immediately upon noticing him coming up behind her.

Smirking to himself, Damian crosses his arms over his chest, making his biceps look even larger than they are-and comes to stand a few feet behind her petite form. Sensing him, she looks over her shoulder and gives him a big smile and a sultry wink before returning her focus to the game. Beside her, Jason stands to the side, facing her as he keeps his laser focus on the opponent's cups. Releasing the ball with a co*cky grin, they both celebrate as it sinks into its intended target.

For several minutes, the game goes back and forth as each team removes cups from the pyramid and drinks when necessary. Now it’s down to the opponent’s last cup, and Todd hands her the lightweight ball, which she accepts without looking his way. Turning her body to the side, she stands nearly chest to chest with his brother as he whispers advice to her low enough that their rivals can’t hear. Nodding, her face grows serious, and her brows lower in concentration as she releases the ball with a flick of her wrist.

Everyone awaits with bated breath as the ball hits the rim and circles the entrance of the cup before eventually falling in. Roars of excitement erupt as she and Todd high-five, and he picks her up in a spinning hug while she squeals in excitement.

"Take that, you f*cks; my little sister just bested your asses," Todd hollers toward the dejected-looking boys as she laughs along with him. As his brother puts her down gently, Damian can’t help but feel a swell of pride shoot through him as he sees her brilliant (E/C) eyes twinkle with unrestricted joy.

She turns around and begins skipping her way over as her black leather boots clack against the wood of the patio. Smiling hard enough that it looks like it hurts, she comes right up to him and wraps her small arms around his waist while looking up at him.

"You were brilliant, Habibti," he says fondly, looking down. When she does a happy little dance with her arms still around him, he realizes that she isn't wearing a bra and can feel her soft breasts against his chest. The desire to claim her mouth rips through him as heat assails him, making him wish his pants had more space as she innocently stares into his green eyes with the sweetest smile he’s ever seen.

He needs to get a grip.

Before he can pull away to regain his sanity, she hops up onto her tippy toes and smacks a quick kiss on his lips before releasing him and turning back to the crowd of people still animated from the game. Sighing, Damian shoves his hands in his trouser pockets, hoping to conceal the evidence of her effect on him. Unfortunately, Todd witnessed the entire exchange and gives him a knowing grin before following her closely behind.

Deciding he needs some water, Damian winces at the stickiness beneath his feet as he reenters the loud kitchen. Expertly navigating through the tight crowds without brushing against anyone, he collects a clean cup from the stack and fills it with water from the refrigerator dispenser. While he waits, he scans the room once more, looking for Drake, when his eyes land on her best friend Sam talking to a group of girls off to the side.

Taking the now-full cup of water, he deftly maneuvers around the blundering teenagers toward her friend. Looking up as he draws nearer, surprise flashes across her face as she steps away from her group of friends and meets him halfway.

"Hey, I didn’t know you were coming to this... or any party, actually," she remarks, unable to contain the shock in her voice. Giving her a tight-lipped smile, he responds, "There’s a first for everything," smoothly. They exchange more pleasantries before he notices her gaze anxiously darting behind him, prompting him to turn around slightly.

Jackson Anders.

Jackson f*cking Anders.

Damian can feel his mood plummet as he watches the quarterback cheerily clap one of his friends back. Turning back to Sam, he notices her furrowed brow and the way her mouth has become a thin, bloodless line.

"Has he done anything further to harm (Y/N)?" He inquires, allowing the unspoken threat to hang in the air between them.

Swallowing heavily, she doesn’t take her eyes off him when she responds, "No, nothing that I know of, and certainly not at this party." She looks down at the floor and bites her bottom lip.

Sensing there is more, Damian steadies her with a suspicious glare before grounding out, "What aren’t you telling me?" She looks at him with a new sense of fear, taking a small step back from him before releasing a shuddering breath and taking a sip of whatever is in her cup.

"Nothing..." she says in a hushed tone. "I mean... nothing really. It’s just that," she says, running her hand through her hair. "It’s just that I get the sense that he’s angry with her."

His heart kicks into high gear as he feels his blood begin to roar in his ears. "And how exactly," he spits the word out, "have you come to that conclusion."

Looking me straight in the eye, I notice a new steeliness emerge as she replies, "It’s just a gut feeling. I don’t have any concrete evidence, and I haven’t heard anything from anyone else. I don’t know... I just have this sinking feeling, that’s all." She offers me a weak smile before some girl calls out to her, snatching her attention away. Mumbling a goodbye, she shoots an apologetic glance over her shoulder as she becomes enthralled in whatever conversation she’s been dragged into.

Flaring his nostrils, he closes his eyes for a moment to reign in his temper before he begins searching for her.

Not in the kitchen.

Reaching the back patio in a few strides, he quickly scans the area to conclude that she isn't there either. He can feel his panic rising as he checks the kitchen one more time, only to confirm that Jackson isn’t where he was a moment ago and is certainly not outside either.

Water cup forgotten, he pulls out his phone and texts his brothers to let him know if she's with either of them before shoving it back in his pocket-but not before turning his ringer on to the highest volume. Rushing into the hall as inconspicuously as he can manage, Damian’s eyes frantically search every room on the bottom floor. When she doesn’t appear in any of them, his stomach sinks and his heart pounds that much harder in his chest.

He knows he hasn’t received any messages from either of his brothers, but he still irrationally checks his messages just in case. Growling out a couple of profanities, he storms back into the kitchen to see if she has magically reappeared there. She hasn't.

There in the back corner, Drake stands with his phone in hand and a tight look on his face. Grunting, he pushes his way past his peers, ignoring their yelps of protest, and comes to stand directly in front of his brother, who doesn't even bother to acknowledge him before saying, "No, I haven’t seen her, but the last I did, she was wandering around with Jason." He holds up one of his hands and says, "And no, I have not seen Jason either."

Finally looking up, he must recognize something feral in Damian’s gaze because his eyes flood with sympathy and his features soften as he places a hand on his shoulder. "I’m sure she's just in a bathroom or something, and Jason’s waiting for her outside the door."

Wordlessly, Damian turns on his heel in search of Sam.

Girls always go to the bathroom in packs; maybe she’ll know.

Without turning around, Damian can feel his brother following him as they make their way through the thinning crowd of students. Since it’s nearly 1 am, the music has been turned down a few notches, and what few students remain are no longer having boisterous conversations but rather timid ones.

Going down the hall that leads to the foyer, he turns a sharp corner and runs right into Todd, who expertly sidesteps the would-be collision. He doesn’t give his brother a moment to speak before growling, "Where the hell is (Y/N)?"

His eyebrows raise, and his features darken as he slowly says, "I thought she was with you."

Releasing a frustrated groan, Damian grills him on her last whereabouts when Sam comes from behind with wide eyes.

"Have any of you guys seen (Y/N)? She’s not answering her phone, and Jackson is also MIA. " Her frantic eyes and red face have my brother’s heads snapping in his direction, and both synchronously ask, "Who the hell is Jackson?" Even though the only source of light is coming from a low-emitting sconce on the wall, he can see their eyes glitter with a dangerous stillness.

He rushes out, "There is no time to explain, but all you need to know is that he’s a danger to her and we must find her immediately," which his brothers thankfully accept as they nod their heads and split up.

"Sam, you’re with me." He says, already walking toward the staircase with the grace and power of a predator. She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear the rapid shuffling of her feet as she tries to keep up with his long strides. Gripping the banister, he gives himself a push as he bounds up the stairs three at a time. The only sound that can be heard is Sam’s labored breaths as she struggles to catch up.

"sh*t man, don't these people have decent lighting in here?" She exhales as we reach the top. Eyes roving around the hallways, Damian notices that Sam is correct—so far, the only source of light is coming from wall scones, whose bulbs purposefully flicker to give the illusion of a lit candle. Normally, Damian would appreciate the subtle detail, but currently, each dancing shadow pulls his attention, making it more difficult to discern if there is any actual movement.

He hones his listening skills for any sign of motion when, all of a sudden, he hears a deep thump and a high-pitched cry. Not thinking, Damian simply reacts on pure instinct and sprints in the direction he thinks the sounds came from. Rounding the corner, his vision begins tunneling as his legs pump and his breathing picks up the pace.

Just a few feet away, a door swings open, flooding light into the hallway, and out she comes running-not looking where she's going—right as she crashes into his chest. Gasping, her head snaps towards him as he gently steadies her with two hands on her waist and watches the relief flood her face in slow motion.

Looking up, he freezes in his spot as the sharp iciness of bitter fury tears through his blood. He can’t hear what she's saying as his mind tries to compute the sight in front of him. There on the bathroom floor, kneeling over, is Jackson Anders.

Jackson, Mother f*cking Anders.

Red.

The last thing Damian remembers is seeing red.

______________________________________________________________________________

(Y/N) POV: 10 minutes earlier:

The victory high after absolutely dominating our opponents in beer pong is still tingling through me as I listen to Jason vividly recount the events. Craning my neck to watch him, my heart fluttered at the memory of him calling me his little sister as I fought back the tears welling from behind my eyes. The warmth that blossomed in my chest as he hugged me tightly made me feel so giddy and light.

Thankfully, he couldn't see my wince when his arms squeezed my back.

The alcohol is helping me curb the pain, but sooner rather than later I will need another heaping dose of that numbing balm if I have any hope of getting through tomorrow. At this point in the conversation, I’ve become invisible as the others badger Jason with questions about his time at Gotham Academy with wide-eyed wonder. Jason, basking in the attention, happily obliges them with wild stories of his youth, to which they hang on every word.

Not wanting to ruin his storytelling momentum, I slip away in search of the bathroom again. Sticking to my tried and true powder room, I bang my hip into the railing of the stairs as I practically pull myself up them. Stumbling, I laugh at how drunk I am as I close the door behind me and quickly do my business.

I wash my hands, use the excess water to tame my hair, and lightly pat my cheeks before shutting the lights and opening the door when I run into a hard wall of muscle.

"Oh, sh*t," I mumble as I step back. Flicking the lights on, my heart jumps into my throat when I see Jackson leaning against the doorframe, leering down at me.

"Well, this must be a night full of deja vus," he croons, filling up the doorway with his large frame. My anxiety spikes fiercely as I suddenly feel more sober than I know I am. He backs me completely into the bathroom before shutting the door behind him with his right hand.

"What the f*ck are you doing?" I snap, trying to project more courage than I really have. I ball my hands into fists, clench my teeth, and flare my nostrils.

"Well, little red, I’ve been trying to talk to you aaaaalllll night, but you’ve rudely been ignoring me." He tilts his head to the side and flashes a dramatic frown as his amber eyes grow darker. Swallowing a lump in my throat, I rebuke, "Well…" I gesture wildly with my hands and say, "f*cking talk then."

"You know, you’re not being very nice," he says coldly as his face darkens into something dangerous. "After the scene that you made in art about being lightheaded or whatever the f*ck, I just wanted to check in." With my back against the floral wallpapered wall, he takes another daring step toward me, invading my personal space.

"I’m fine, as you can clearly see," I grit out, holding my head up high and staring him down in his hollow eyes. Dread pools in my stomach and settles like cement as I see a flicker of something menacing slither into those beady eyes. Trying to take subtle, deep breaths to calm my racing heart, I flinch as he raises his shaking left hand to hover next to my face.

"Well you see, I’ve noticed a little change between you and Golden Boy over the last week or so," he says, bringing his head close to my neck before inhaling sharply, "and I’m betting you let him touch you." With his face so close to mine, he can’t help but hear my rapid breathing before he looks at me with a chilling smile.

"Jackson, he’s my soulmate; of course, he’s touched me," I counter vehemently, which does not work out in my favor since he retaliates by grabbing my throat and squeezing.

He curls his lip back as he seethes between clenched teeth. "Yeah, is that so, huh?" His nostrils flare wildly before he forcefully brings his mouth down on mine. Surprised by the contact of his cold, dry lips, I whimper, which only excites him further as he grips my wrists with his other hand, holding me still.

A feverish hysteria courses through my body as he tries to force his tongue down my throat while shoving me against the wall with unexpected force. The lancinating pain that shoots through my back makes me unwillingly open my mouth to scream, giving him the exact opportunity he wants.

Deepening the kiss, his grip on my wrists loosens enough for me to wiggle them out as I brace my hands on his shoulders and sharply raise my knee into his groin with a satisfying oomph. Releasing my throat, he stumbles back and falls to the floor as he loudly groans while cupping his ‘boys’.

Not wasting a moment, I keep my eyes glued to him as I jump around his hunched form and tear open the door before sprinting into the hallway. Seeing him crouched like that shoots a wave of smug pride just as I run—for the second time today—into a well-muscled chest.

Gasping, I snap my head around as a swell of fear rips through me but quickly dissipates into utter relief when I notice Damian’s wide, verdure eyes. As I bounce off him, his quick reflexes kick in as he steadies me with both arms around my waist. Breathing heavily, I witness the sheer panic transform into a blistering rage when he registers the man behind me.

I grip his forearms and lightly dig my nails into his skin as I say, "Damian?"

No response.

"Damian? Darling, please look at me," I plead, as Sam’s breathless form appears from behind him. Not giving her a chance to speak, I sharply order her to find his brothers as I hold onto him.

"Damian, I need you to look at me, darling," I say with etched desperation in my voice. At the sound of Jackson moaning more, I feel his muscles become tauter, and a predatory stillness encompasses him.

He won’t look at me.

He won’t answer me.

Shifting tactics, I step into him while running my hands up his arms and cupping his face, trying to break his attention.

He won’t budge.

I move my thumb in little circles near his smooth jaw. I whisper for him to look at me, to hold me, to take me home, but he continues to stand deadly still and unblinkingly at Jackson.

I hear the pounding of running feet from behind him as both Tim and Jason round the corner at full speed before coming to a sharp stop.

"What the f*ck happened?" Jason roars as his eyes dance between Damian, me, and Jackson. Before I can answer him, understanding dawns on his face as his eyes go wide before they become slits. Tim, coming to the same conclusion, acts first and comes to stand behind me, blocking his view of Jackson.

"Move," Damian’s voice booms, as I hear a new gravely timber I’ve never heard before laced within it. The fear of him attacking Jackson if I take my hands off of Damian sits heavily in my gut, so I turn my head and shoot Tim a pleading look before turning back. I hear some shuffling behind me, but I’m too scared to turn back around when Damian raises his hands and gently places them on top of mine on his face.

His gaze returns to mine as I register the resolute promise of violence in his eyes before they soften just a bit. He takes my left hand and kisses the inside of my wrist so delicately that I feel like I’ve imagined it. He kisses my other wrist in the same manner before looking at me again and murmuring, "Go downstairs, Habibti, you don’t want to see this."

Fear spikes through me at his suggestion, to which I simply shake my head. He sighs and looks past me to Tim before stating, "Take her downstairs, Drake, and make sure she stays there." The calmness in his voice frightens me the most, and when he tries to step around me, I block him.

"He’s not worth it, Damian, please," I practically beg him.

With a new level of frigidity, Damian replies, "Oh, but he most certainly is," before whirling around me and barreling toward Jackson.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Damian’s POV:

Ignoring the searing pain in his back, Damian expertly maneuvers around her as he closes the distance to that piece of sh*t, Jackson. Now standing at his full height, still cupping his balls, Damian beholds the undeniable look of fear in his eyes as he raises his arms to protect his face.

Rookie mistake.

The world moves in slow motion as Damian’s first punch lands squarely in his solar plexus, making the boy grunt as his other fist meets his throat. Reveling in the sound of him choking, he ignores the shouts from behind him as he throws his full force into the right hook that has the f*cker flying backward into the wall. Damian's plan to beat the living sh*t out of him is abruptly thwarted when his two brothers grab him from behind and drag him back.

"Enough, Damian; you’ve made your point," Drake grunts out, struggling to maintain his hold on him. The only sound he can hear now is the scuffing of shoes on the bathroom tile, which is quickly drowned out by the carpet as they successfully pull him through the door. Still struggling, he goes to elbow Todd, but he swerves and chuckles just before impact.

"Not so fast, baby bird," Jason comments between breaths, making Damian rage harder against them. Their hold is slipping as he releases a guttural cry when Drake pipes up and says, "Jesus Dami, you’re scaring (Y/N)."

At the sound of her name, his heart drops into his stomach as he feels the anger dissipate, making him cease his struggle against them. Cleverly, they maintain their hold on him while he turns to her and sees her holding her hands to her mouth as she stares silently in horror.

As he sees the fear directed at him in her eyes for the first time, it feels like his breath is being punched out of him.

"(Y/N)," he takes a step forward and out of his brother's grasp, "(Y/N), I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to see that," he says apologetically. Shame tears through him as he takes another tentative step toward her. Unclenching his bloodied fists, he holds up his hands as he ever so slowly walks up to her.

She hasn’t moved an inch or made any sort of noise, which concerns him more than if she were screaming and crying. Standing in front of her, he cautiously places his hands on her waist before pulling her into a light hug. Instantaneously, she wraps her arms around him and burys her face in his chest.

Relief floods through him, but it’s soon replaced with worry when she begins violently shaking in his arms. Pulling back from her slightly, he curses the dim, flickering sconces as he tries to uncover what emotions she's feeling.

"It’s OK, Habibti, it’s OK," he soothes as he strokes her hair. She's looking up at him with wide, oddly dry eyes, which makes his brows draw together. She opens and close her mouth like she's trying to find the right words to say before finally stating, "You could have gotten hurt," airily. An inappropriate shot of amusem*nt hits him as he realizes she's not angry with him but rather concerned.

She repeats her statement, this time louder and more sharply. Her hands grab his as she studies the minor cuts and bruises before kissing each one ever so delicately. Now holding them to her chest, she looks at him with tears shining in her eyes as her voice cracks when she says, "Don’t ever scare me like that again."

Chuckling, an anxious knot forms in his stomach as he agrees before adding, "I am perfectly well (Y/N). There was no chance of him hurting me," reassuringly. His eyes flash with anger as she remembers why they were there in the first place. Stepping around him, he watches as she digs her nails into her palms, her jaw clenches, and she presses her lips into a hard line.

If Jackson hadn't been rendered completely unconscious, Damian would never have allowed her to stomp past his amused and confused brothers and stop right in front of his slumped form. He can feel his eyebrows raising as curiosity sinks its claws into his chest. Watching Jackson very closely for any signs of movement, he’s surprised when she winds her foot back and kicks him square in the balls. Squaring her shoulders, she huffs, spins on her heel, her (H/L)(H/C) hair swishing with the movement, and walks back to him with a sly smile on her face.

With a matching smile of her own, she tucks herself under his outstretched arm and wraps hers around his waist as they leave. Damian has never felt more certain of anything in his life, but at this very moment, the unrelenting truth slaps him in the face.

He is so thoroughly in love with her.

Chapter 16: Don't try to get between a drunk girl and her Taco Bell

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Damian’s POV:

His blood still thudding in his ears, Damian continues to ride the adrenaline high as he leads her and Sam outside, with his brothers close on their heels. Despite her drunken protests not to be dicks and "Irish goodbye," he gently steers her outside, gripping her a little closer to him when she shivers. The frigid air has them all hunkering down and picking up our pace as we walk to the car.

His heartbeat slows to a steady, powerful rhythm as he allows the bitter wind to settle into his skin like a soothing balm. His formidable temper melts into a new and unwelcome sensation of disquietude when he registers both her and Sam’s uncharacteristically void expressions.

Silently, they enter the vehicle, with Drake and Todd in the front and the three of them in the back, with her in the middle. The only sounds that can be heard are the engine coming to life and the blistering wind whipping the bare limbs of trees. His concern soars as she unblinkingly stares straight ahead despite the motion of the car, prompting him to delicately reach over her to buckle her seat belt.

Flicking his eyes at the rearview mirror, Damian catches the echoing glances of both his brothers, who promptly sport furrowed brows in response. A suffocating weight settles deeper into Damian’s chest as each second of silence stretches into moments. Looking at her, he watches closely for any sign of emotion in her glazed eyes before gently taking her hand.

This must be how she processes arduous situations.

Looking back at the road, he uses the pad of his thumb to lightly rub cadenced circles on the back of her petite hand. When he realizes he doesn't know how to comfort them properly, he watches the dim street lights illuminate a gentle hue of light upon the equally disgusting and sparkling streets of Gotham.

A soft gasp breaks the silence, drawing everyone's attention to the source before detestable shame can burrow into his gut. Sam, having finally processed the events of tonight, angles her body towards her and grabs her hands gently. Trying to extrapolate his brother’s reactions, Damian keeps a close eye on them without making so much as a whisper of noise.

He doesn’t want to interfere in a moment as charged as this one.

Emotions pour out of Sam as if a floodgate has been obliterated, and she begins apologizing profusely as crocodile tears stream down her ruddy face. Her admonishment and self-appointed guilt snaps (Y/N) out of her stupor as her head whirls in her direction.

Damian is simultaneously grateful to Sam for being the one to snap her out of a nearly comatose state but equally aggrieved by the fact that he could not achieve such a response. Unable to see her face now that she's turned towards Sam, he watches the exchange over her shoulder as the both of them hold onto each other. Sam continues to profusely apologize, while she rebuts with tears liberally flowing.

Relief pounds through him with an undercurrent of discomfort as she finally allows her emotions to be purged. In an attempt to be respectful of both of their fragile and vulnerable states, he and his brothers try to focus on the road. He fixes his gaze on Todd and catalogs the dropped shoulders, unclenched fists, and slightly parted mouth.

He, too, is relieved.

The prior tension dissipates, leaving behind a weary rawness in the chilly air. The level of inebriation between the two of them becomes clear as they begin drunkenly professing their love for each other while dismissing Sam's misplaced sense of responsibility over the incident. His eyebrows rise into his hairline as she lets loose many ‘colorful’ adjectives for Jackson, which elicits a face-splitting smile from Sam, a chuckle from Todd, and even a small smirk from Drake.

Women truly perplex him.

How can they have gone from an unrelenting sobbing session to being incapacitated by fits of laughter in 10 minutes? The secondhand emotional whiplash has Damian shaking his head as he resigns himself to the fact that he’ll never understand what just happened. Despite being relieved to see her giggling and sniffling, he still feels an unidentified heaving stirring in his chest.

Watching her closely now, he notices her begin to fan herself as the conversation with Sam devolves into gossip and animated recounts of the night. Feeling confident that her emotions have stabilized, he gently begins kneading her shoulder with one hand while his other hand wraps her hair around his fist and lifts the hair off the back of her neck.

Without so much as a glance toward him, she places a hand on his thigh near his knee and gives him a "thank you" squeeze that has no right to shoot a bolt of electricity straight to his dick. The combination of her unintentional turn-on and the softness of her (H/L)(H/C) has his breath shortening and his heart racing.

Fortunately, the car is dark, and the evidence of his lack of bodily control is hidden, but one glance at the rearview mirror has him scowling as Todd shoots him a Cheshire smile. Content to let them both have their moment, he remains silent while admiring her graceful neck when they stop at a street light that illuminates the car and notices a slight shiver go through her. Goosebumps rise on her skin as she tightens her grip on his thigh, making him subconsciously shift close enough that her shoulder blades brush his chest.

Inhaling deeply, a mixture of leather, vaporized alcohol, and her intoxicating scent smothers his senses as his eyes flutter closed, and he relishes in it for a moment. A loud squeal shoots alarm through him as Drake swerves and Todd flinches as he tenses. His eyes snap around the car, trying to identify the threat. Realizing the nerve-wracking, high-pitched squeal was one of excitement, he relaxes a bit as both of them start wiggling in their seats.

As she squirms, her shoulder blades continue to rub against his chest, and her scent wafts into the air, making him uncomfortably hard. Clearing his throat, he tries to back up slightly in an effort to regain control before asking, "Would either of you like to divulge the source of entertainment?" with an intentional hint of amusem*nt.

They seem to be in high spirits, and he will not be the one to crush them.

Inhaling deeply, Sam dramatically tries to annunciate, "You ashorlutely neeeeed to turn this bad bitch around and wHIP into that Taco Bell." In response to that, she turns to face the front again with a huge smile on her face while grabbing both Todd's and Drakes's shoulders. They grimace as her nails dig into them, and she begins drunkenly pleading with them as if Todd has any semblance of control over the vehicle.

But Drake keeps his eyes on the road and tries to gently talk them out of it, which even Damian knows is a mistake.

Never try to bargain with drunk and hungry women.

Sitting back, he smirks as he watches the refusal wash over the women, which has Todd leaning into the door and Sam bursting into tears and throwing unsavory insults their way. Drake’s attempts at a veiled scowl. This inspires Sam to threaten him by promising to jump out of the vehicle at the next red light, pretending to have been kidnapped, if he doesn’t turn around.

Damian snorts uncharacteristically when Drake makes a screeching U-turn in the middle of the road over double yellow lines, eliciting excited whooping from the girls, which is quickly followed by declarations of love. The latter has Damian trying to conceal an unnecessary growl that is blissfully missed by the increasingly intoxicated women but not by the cowards up front. Granted, he would prefer several hours of physical torture rather than being barraged with insults and threats by two small, besotted, and hungry women with sharp nails. Sharp nails, which have a tendency to dig into muscles.

Their cheers reach an all-time high—which he can secretly admit makes warmth blossom in his chest—when they finally park outside the deplorable fast-food restaurant. Faster than he thought possible, the girls bound out of the car, talking excitably about an earlier promise being fulfilled, while Todd, unsurprisingly, joins in on their fun. However, he and Drake hang back as they try not to exhibit our disdain.

The girls barely spit out a coherent order of Doritos Locos Tacos, Crunch Wrap Supremes, and Gordita Crunches before their uncoordinated fingers can open their wallets, and he pays for the sad excuse for food and signs the receipt. Looking over his shoulder, he is rendered speechless by her eyes brimming with tears as she comes up behind him, wraps her arms around his midsection, and whispers, "Thank you for the food, Habtibi." Her mispronunciation of "habibti" has him lightheaded with a swelling sense of adoration followed by a ferocious wave of protectiveness.

Delicately prying her hands away, he turns around to face her and rests his forehead against hers silently as he allows this moment to sink in and sear into his memory. However, the moment is cut short by the sound of their order being called, which has her eyes brightening before she practically skips to a table after acquiring it.

We find our seats, with Sam across the table with his brothers and them flanking her, which she promptly ignores in favor of digging into the meal. We’re too stunned to move at the frenetic pace at which they tear into the bags. Before long, Todd joins in, and the three of them inhale the abhorrent excuse for food, which disappears at what must be a record-breaking speed.

Damian watches her closely and pulls her hair back when it begins to fall into her face, earning him a small smile from her stuffed cheeks. He thought he’d feel queasy watching her tear through the food, but instead, he feels content and happy to know that he was the one who provided her with something that gives her pleasure.

Maintaining a neutral expression, he allows the swell of pride to wash over him, which is quickly replaced by a rush of heat when her eyes flutter close and she moans into her taco. Sucking in a sharp breath, he berates himself for feeling this way when he knows nothing can come of it due to her inebriated state.

Swallowing roughly, he tries to focus on anything other than her as his eyes rove around the small seating area. Despite his disdain for the harsh fluorescent lights, he’s grateful for how well they illuminate the area, making it easier for him to discern potential threats. At this time of night, there are only a couple of other people, both of whom are deeply invested in their own meals.

After his thorough inspection, Damian has strewn together several escape routes in his mind, which helps douse the heat in his blood and the strain in his pants. The conversation between everyone now flows freely, as their vigor has abated. Leaning back against the booth, she rests her hand on his thigh again while maintaining the conversation with Todd and sporting a barely imperceptible grin on her lips.

She knows exactly what she's doing.

The realization of her intentional touches has flames licking him inside to such a scorching level that he barely refrains from groaning. Feeling his face warm, he bites his bottom lip hard in hopes of dissipating the increasing tension. She spares him a glance that has her own face reddening before throwing a leg over his own. Inhaling sharply, he digs his nails into the palms of his hands at the action, which does not go unnoticed by the others.

Breathing heavily through his nose, Damian’s features remain neutral as his eyes bore into her while she continues to make small talk as if she has no idea the effect she has on him. But she does. And slowly, that leg hikes further and further up his own until he brings his hand down on her thigh to stop its advancement.

Her surprise flickers across her face as she bites the corner of her bottom lip and her nostrils flare. Now tilting his head toward her, he says, "I am trying to be a gentleman (Y/N), but you’re making it very difficult," in a tone low enough that only she can hear. Sparing the others a glance, he’s satisfied to see them enthralled in a conversation, paying them no attention.

"What if I don’t want you to be a gentleman?" She whispers in a sultry voice he’s never heard before. Looking up at him through her eyelashes, he takes in her blushing cheeks, glittering eyes filled with a heat he’s never felt before, and the most alluring pouting lips that would have brought him to his knees if he weren’t already sitting.

His heart is beating in his chest too quickly; he feels momentarily disoriented as he searches her eyes. "Darling, I promise you I will fulfill that request, but it will not be tonight," he concludes remorsefully. Before she can protest, he brings his hand to cup her face and uses the pad of his thumb to brush over her bottom lip. Suppressing a shiver from the feel of her unreasonably soft lip, he watches her closely for a moment before she nods slightly with a newfound tension in her gaze.

Slowly, she slides her leg off of his, leaving behind a coldness that does nothing to alleviate the strain thrumming through his muscles. Unbeknownst to her, his resolve is nowhere near as bulletproof as he lets on, but thankfully she does not push him further at that moment, or it would have snapped. Trying to regain a semblance of control, he collects all the trash and promptly throws it away before recycling the cups.

Turning back, they are all making their way to the door while she watches him silently, waiting. When he reaches her, she laces her fingers through his while her other hand comes to rest on his bicep. A ripple of male satisfaction courses through him as she leans into him, her head barely reaching his shoulder. Looking down at her, he gives a small smile that he reserves for her eyes only.

Back in the vehicle, a comfortable and lethargic silence descends as the city blurs past them once again. Hands still intertwined, she rests her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes, allowing him the chance to watch her with unrestricted desire. He loves the way her eyelashes fan out over her cheeks and the way her nose wrinkles when she sniffles. For the rest of the car ride, he watches her in silence as her breathing evens out and her limbs slacken.

Asleep.

Soon they finally park a few blocks down the road from her townhouse. When he wakes her up by touching her cheek, she peeks at him with a bleary, tired look and gives him a small smile before exiting the vehicle. Speechless, he and his brothers form a tight shield around the women and sneak around to the back door. Once the door is unlocked, she and Sam make their way inside and rush out, whispering goodbyes, before we stealthily return to our vehicle. I wait a moment longer for the flicker of light in her bedroom before Drake speeds away.

The car ride back to the manor is silent. Without her distracting his senses, a million thoughts rush through his head. He knows the moment they step through the door, his father and Grayson will descend on them armed with questions. Releasing a breath, he rests his head and closes his eyes, resigning himself to the inevitable grilling that will no doubt be followed by a severe scolding.

For the first time in his life, Damian can't bring himself to care about the consequences he will undoubtedly face; all he can think about is her. The sound of tires crunching over gravel is the only indication that they’ve reached their final destination of the night. Wordlessly, they shuffle out of the car and make their way to the library, knowing that his father is already waiting for them there.

As usual, Damian is correct. His father is sitting in the warmly lit library with his hands clasped in front of his face, while Grayson lounges across the couch on his phone. Before the door even closes, his father gruffly says, "Speak."

The next 30 minutes go by quickly as he recounts the night's events in detail, with his brothers occasionally chiming in. As the report progresses, Damian is met with varying reactions from his father and oldest brother. His father mostly sports a stern and reprehensible glower, while Grayson conveys shock, pride, and blazing outrage. By this point, his other two brothers have made themselves comfortable on the other couch while he remains standing.

He completes his report and waits patiently as his father processes all the new information. After several minutes of complete silence, the sound of his heavy chair scraping against the wood floors has them all waiting with bated breath for his likely rude outburst.

Meeting his father’s eyes, he is unsurprised by the simmering wrath swirling in their depths, but what he did not expect was the slight glimmer of approval to be there as well. Sucking in a breath, he can feel his eyes go wide when his father states, "Good job," with a lopsided grin gracing his usually stoic face.

They’re all speechless at his response, but just as quickly as the grin appears, it disappears, which is then followed by the reprimand he was anticipating. He continues to reprimand him for his rash and immature reaction to Jackson while pacing back and forth. While this half-hearted scolding continues, Damian can’t bring himself to muster an ounce of remorse for his actions, despite the potential of being served with an aggravated assault lawsuit.

He knows his father’s heart isn’t into it, not like the time he was caught sneaking back through a bedroom window after meeting with someone he should have never been consorting with.

No.

He’s different. His anger is divided. His mind is torn between disciplining him and patting him on the back—Bruce versus Batman. As punishment, he’s "grounded" from recreational activities with other students, as if he didn’t already try to put as much distance between himself and his peers.

As his punishment is doled out, another matter comes to light.

"So I guess that means you really do have some severe sciatica or something," Todd says, diverting the conversation. Sitting on the taut leather couch, his elbows rest on his knees as he slowly rubs his hands over his face, pulling the skin around his eyes. Just then, Alfred enters with a cart full of tea cups and finger sandwiches, silently placing each saucer filled with their favorite blends in front of them.

Damian, now sitting next to his father and Grayson, silently sips his tea while considering his words. They’re all looking at him now, waiting for his response. "I suppose so; from what I could tell, there was no evidence of injury. However, the pain radiated from my back, and I had no visual on hers, so I cannot be 100% certain." Looking around, he notices them nodding their heads in agreement before Drake supplements, "It must not have come from her." "If the pain was as severe for her as it was for you," earning a scowl from Damian, "then it is highly unlikely she would have been at the party at all."

They continue to lament the unlikeliness of her being the source of the pain, which he finds both relieving and disconcerting. Now, they are back to square one in finding the solution to the problem. Looking toward his father, he can tell that he is about to suggest further medical examination, but thankfully, Grayson interrupts, "Wait," and he holds up his hands, "What are we going to do about this dickwad?" No pun intended... "Who assaulted (Y/N)?" At the reminder of what Jackson did, each of their eyes darkens with malice and the promise of retribution.

Damian takes a moment to center himself, allowing the rage to wash over him as his mind races with different scenarios of him gutting the useless sack of flesh. His father surprises them with the icy timber in his voice when he declares, "He will be dealt with." "Privately." He feels the seemingly impermeable ache in his chest ease slightly at the finality of the statement.

Before Damian can assure his father that he was planning on decimating Jackson’s carefully construed life, Todd excitedly states, "Oh, by the way, did we mention how (Y/N) absolutely kicked the sh*t out of his balls when he was down?" with a bright glimmer of satisfaction and pride. A low chuckle erupts from beside him, turning my brother's eyes into saucers at Bruce's obvious amusem*nt. "That’s our girl," he says assuredly before standing up and ordering them all to go to bed.

They all stare at one another, dumbfounded by his response, before wordlessly obeying. A glance at Alfred’s undeniably wicked smirk confirms that they did not hallucinate Bruce’s reaction. Once in bed, Damian allows the granite resolve of finally putting an end to Jackson Anders to lull him into a deep sleep.

Chapter 17: Suspense and Suspicion

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: (Y/N) POV:

I jolt awake in a state of semi-panic, which immediately sends a wave of burning pain through my back as I catch my breath. Slowly, the memories of yesterday come slinking back into my consciousness as I rub the back of my hand against my crusty eyes. Blinking slowly, I look around and realize—with tremendous relief—that I’m in my bedroom. Staring straight ahead again, I notice the candescence of the silver threading in my area rug is accentuated by the streak of sunlight coming through the parted curtains.

A groaning sound next to me sets my heart racing, but when I look over, I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize that it’s just Sam. With tangled blonde hair splayed wildly across my blue pillow, smudged mascara, and dried drool down the side of her face, she looks worse for wear.

I can only imagine how I look.

I move to stand slowly as a wave of nausea rolls through me and a dull pounding takes residence at the base of my skull. Swallowing down the excess saliva pooling in my mouth, I stumble toward the bathroom and briefly stop on the small, warm patch of my area rug before reaching the doorway. An aching twinge in my back makes me reconsider leaning heavily against the doorframe when I hear Sam mumble a few expletives and a "good morning."

Without turning around, I return the sentiment and close the door behind me, making sure I silently lock it. I don’t need or want her to see the evidence of Bran’s fury on my back. That would raise too many questions that I don’t have a reasonable answer for. Sighing, I flip the light switch on, recoiling from the brightness that makes my head pound harder. Between the perpetual eucalyptus scent and the bright white lights, my headache is sure to become exponentially worse.

At least the fuzzy rug under my feet feels nice.

After a moment of wallowing in my hangover misery, I mumble affirmations or some bullsh*t and pull my pajama shirt over my head.

A hiss escapes from between my bare teeth as I roughly apply the soothing menthol balm across my back. Normally, I’d take care not to aggravate it, but with Sam here this morning, I don’t have time to be a prima donna. I quickly redress and do an abbreviated version of my normal morning routine. I didn’t think to check the time before locking myself in here, so I have no real idea how much time we have to get ready.

Thankfully, after the encounter with Bran, he jetted off somewhere else in Europe and wouldn't be back until Saturday morning. Giving myself another once-over, I notice that the purple smudges under my eyes aren’t eyeliner but rather bags, and no amount of cleanser would be able to wipe them away.

Of course.

I don’t even bother to tame my hair today and elect to just throw it up in a messy bun held up by my all-time favorite comfort scrunchie. When I reenter the bedroom, Sam has already made the bed and gotten dressed in our school uniform, albeit with many groans of protest. I smile at her equivalent dispassionate attempt to look put together when I notice one side of her button-down is untucked and both of her cuffs are uncuffed.

"My mouth is so dry and gross right now," Sam murmurs with half-closed eyes. Now that she mentions it, I realize how dry my mouth is too, despite having just brushed my teeth. "I’ll get us some water while you freshen up." Before heading downstairs, I check my phone and breathe a sigh of relief when I notice we still have 45 minutes until the first bell rings.

I grab two large glasses and fill them up with the refrigerator's water dispenser before grabbing a couple of apples to bring upstairs. I lock the door again once I'm in the safety of the room, which Sam notices and responds to with an arch of her brow. Shaking my head slightly, I’m reminded how much I love her when she simply shrugs and takes a glass from me.

Like two water-starved fiends who barely survived in the sweltering desert heat, we pound the water in silent gulps. Both of us release satisfied groans once we’re done, enjoying the sensation of the cool water working through our bodies. "I feel like sh*t," Sam proclaims as she plops down on the bed while rubbing her temples. "Don’t get me started," I add while changing into my uniform.

Once everything is tucked in where it should be, I go to the nightstand and pull out the holy grail of all hangover saviors: extra-strength ibuprofen. When she catches a glimpse of it, she mumbles, "Oh, God bless," and takes one for herself before dry swallowing it.

I gag at the ease with which she just did that before proclaiming, "You’re a psychopath, who dry swallows pills?" to which she simply chuckles and points her thumbs at herself. When we’re halfway down the stairs, the reminder that she left her car at Ingrid's has us both stopping dead in our tracks and groaning out unladylike curses.

Looking at each other with equal levels of frustration, we discuss the likelihood of us actually walking to school unnoticed with a comedic lack of enthusiasm and hope. Dread pools in my stomach, and my chest constricts at the memory of the last time, but I do my best to hide my true terror from Sam.

I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs, biting my chapped lip as I consider asking Damian to pick us up, but before I can voice the idea, Sam turns around and asks, "Do you think Damian would be down to come scoop us?"

Twirling her hair nervously, I can see the battle of indecision raging in her swirling blue eyes as she tries weighing out the pros and cons of both. Ultimately, though, despite not liking either option, we decide that inconveniencing Damian is the lesser evil.

Besides the fact that my back aches, my head is still pounding, my nausea won’t relent, and I’m exhausted, I don’t want Sam to ever have to experience what I did. Pulling out my phone from my blazer pocket, I text him as I sit down on the mudroom bench.

While we wait for a response, Sam sits beside me and shoots me a mischievous smile. "So, what were you and lover boy talking about when you were shamelessly canoodling?" she says while wiggling her eyebrows.

Letting out an exasperated huff, I sputter, "I..we..no…we were notcanoodling.We..it wasn’t like that at all." Feeling the heat rise up my neck, I bite the inside of my cheek and studiously stare at the herringbone wood floors when my phone screen lights up next to me.

Be there in 10 minutes.

Flipping the phone I show Sam his message with a smile, hoping to redirect the conversation to literally anything else. However, as per usual, she doesn't fall for my diversion and presses, "You so were." Looking pointedly at me, she swings her legs back and forth, her toes barely skimming the floor, as she impatiently waits for my response. I relent. "Ok, so what if we were? We’re soulmates; that is completely natural," I snap in mock defense as my heart skips a beat.

"Oh, I’m not judging; I just want to know what transpired." A naughty look in her eye takes root as all the lights in the house come to life, alerting us that the staff are starting their morning routine. Not wanting to be overheard, we lean into each other as embarrassment overcomes me while I give her the cliffnotes version.

Like the good friend she is, she dramatically fans herself and picks her hair up while oohing and aahing at the appropriate moments. Giggling like middle schoolers, I inwardly flinch at the thought of how bold the alcohol made me. I knew better than to tease him, especially considering how poorly our night was going, but damn did he know how to rock a turtleneck and slacks.

Last night, on more than one occasion, I noticed his "physical" reaction, and rather than get flustered or embarrassed, I got more turned on. There was something so empowering in knowing that my touch was like an aphrodisiac for him. The pad of his thumb brushing along my bottom lip sent shivers up my spine and heat bursting through my limbs. I never thought something so innocent and light could set me aflame. By the time we left Taco Bell, a pulsing ache had settled in my lower stomach and would not yield.

Just remembering my own physical reaction to him has me feeling flushed.

When Damian texts me that he’s here, we quickly put on our coats and shoes and covertly run to his car. We slip inside unnoticed, and I huff out a sign of relief as I relax my head on the soft headrest before thanking him. Chuckling, he bids us a "good morning" and lightly kisses my knuckles, which elicits an oddly primal reaction as heat once again pools like molten lava in my lower stomach.

I need to get a grip.

I quickly look away and clench my legs together in an effort to stave off the intoxicating sensations he brings to life within me. Sam, observant as ever, clears her throat and stares dutifully out the window for the rest of the car ride as we sit in utter silence. We soon pass through the gates of Gotham Academy, and I silently thank whoever invented tinted windows. Begrudgingly, I can see why Damian wants me to accept his proposal of daily pick-ups and drop-offs.

Alfred, like the ninja he is, opens the door for us before we can even unfasten our seat belts. Shaking my head in a silent chuckle, I thank him, and he graces me with his signature wink and bow of the head. I inhale deeply through my nose, taking in the crisp, chilly air, and tilt my head back to bathe in the sunlight’s warmth. For the first time since Soulreaching, I feel at ease as the crystal blue sky, light breeze, and scents of fall become a natural muscle relaxant. My shoulders drop and my jaw unclenches as I appreciate how uneventful and stress-free this morning has been. Despite my hangover and heavy limbs, my nerves aren't as fried as usual.

Walking into school, I’m sandwiched between Sam and Damian, with the latter lacing his fingers through mine as we are swallowed by throngs of students, some of whom look equally disheveled as us. Looking down at our interlocked hands, I hit him with an inquisitive look, to which he just shrugged while giving me a rare boyish grin that softened his features.

I stare at him in awe, not needing to see where I’m going because I know he’d never lead me astray. While I continue to unabashedly stare at him, I notice for the first time what a beautiful and sharp cupid’s bow he has and how the tint of his full lips leans more towards caramel as opposed to my pale rose ones.

When we stop outside of our first-period class, I drown out the noise of shoes scuffing across linoleum floors and the dull, flat voices of hungover students and solely focus on him. When he quirks an eyebrow, I realize that he’s asked me a question, but I was too enthralled to have noticed, which makes his emerald eyes flash and the corner of his mouth lift. I sheepishly look at the ground and begin fidgeting with the straps of my backpack before I feel his hand tilt my chin up.

I’ll never get sick of looking into his eyes.

He leans in and places a soft kiss on my forehead before his expression sours and he becomes unnaturally still. Concerned, I search his eyes for any indication of what might have bothered him, but before my mind can jump to some crazy conclusion, he curses under his breath and reluctantly rifles through his unreasonable, well-organized bag before reluctantly handing me a small yet thick piece of paper. Confused, my eyes scan the contents of the embossed cream card with elegant gold script when understanding dawns on me.

an invitation to the Wayne Gala, with both my name and Brans'.

The blood drains from my face when I read his name. I knew this day was coming, but I didn’t think it would be here so soon. I was naively hoping it would never happen at all. Breathing through my nose, I try my best to mask the slight tremble in my hands as the pain in my back makes itself known again.

It's almost as if my back has a memory of its own.

Damian notices the shift in my demeanor but clearly jumps to a different conclusion as he runs his hand through his hair, making him look even more boyish than before. He huffs out a sigh and leans in close so that the students not-so-subtly watching us can’t hear before saying, "I understand being paraded around the stiff geriatrics will be a laborious task, but once it is over, I assure you that you will never need to do so again."

I stiffly nod my head in response, not trusting my voice to remain steady, which makes his brow crease further as he places a hand on the side of my neck. He rubs circles with his thumb more gently than I would have thought possible for a man of his stature while adding, "Father believes it will quell their interest in you if they meet you in person. Many of the individuals attending are powerful, some of whom have influence over the media, and once they feel you are demystified, they will leave us be." His voice sounds just as annoyed as his face, which elicits a light chuckle from me.

"Who would have thought that the great Damian Wayne would be intimidated by a mere party?" I muse teasingly in an effort to lighten his mood. He scoffs before quickly rebutting, "I most certainly am not intimidated, but rather apprehensive. I find this function to be a hideous waste of time where attendees drivel about their wealth and influence." Rolling his eyes, he continues massaging my neck, which sends tingles up my spine.

"Well, then, isn't it a good thing we'll have each other for company?" Biting my lip, I look around to find that the hall is mostly empty at this point since the class will begin within a moment. Looking back at Damian, I lick my lips and pull him closer, which excites him if the heated look in his eyes is any indication.

Standing on my tippy toes, I bring my lips to his ear, purposefully brushing against it, and suggestively whisper, "Perhaps we’ll get lost while you give me a tour of the venue." Leaning back again, I turn on my heel quickly, not giving him a chance to reply, and throw him a wink over my shoulder.

I laugh as a dumbfounded expression flashes across his face for a flicker of a second before he expertly schools his features. Smiling to myself, I enter the class with my head down and deftly find my seat behind Sam.

The bell rings, and a moment later he strolls into the room, his neutral mask firmly in place but the slight tint to his cheeks giving him away. I know that none of the other students pick up on the subtle difference, but of course, Sam is not like the other students and shoots a look over her shoulder, mouthing, "What did you say to him?"

To which I nonchalantly say, "Oh, you know, this and that," while adding a dramatic wrist flick and a wink that earns me a splitting grin from her. Turning back around, Mr. Reiner jumps into the lesson, which effectively captures our attention. The class flies by as he passionately hypnotizes for the next 40 minutes. I startle when the shrill sound of the dismissal bell rings and place a hand over my lumbering heart before throwing my school supplies into my bag.

As the day progresses, my once easygoing mood darkens into rolling frustration as I battle between fighting off this wicked hangover and students approaching me about "the photo." Thankfully, I never have to reply because before I can muster a witty response, Damian sends the inquirer a scathing and chilling scowl that has them casting their eyes down and scurrying off. At first, I shoot him dirty "I could’ve handled that" looks, but they quickly transform into grateful ones as more and more students badger me.

He acts like my permanent and towering shadow all morning, so I let him handle those still bold enough to approach me. Regardless of how irritating it is to have peers bring up yesterday's incident, I find myself increasingly entertained by Damian’s sardonic yet imaginative remarks.

However, by the afternoon, I can't help but show the exhaustion on my face. With only three classes left before I can go home, the three of us huddle near the wall, waiting for the teacher to unlock the classroom door.

At this point, my eyes feel dry from the offensive fluorescent overheads, and my energy has plummeted into the negatives. Just standing feels like more effort than it should. Leaning against the cool plaster of the wall, I tilt my head back and close my eyes, trying to drown out the snickers and hushed tones of those around us.

My eyes peel open when I hear the telltale sign of keys rattling as our teacher finally decides to grace us with her presence. Sluggishly, we shuffle our way toward the classroom, but I stop when I feel the pinpricking sensation of someone watching me. Looking over my shoulder, I see the principal’s office door swing open, and none other than Jackson Anders comes strolling through with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

My eyes go wide at the sight of him, which makes Damian and Sam follow my gaze when they notice my reaction. Now, we’re the only three left in the hallway since the bell has just rung, and the four of us are just quietly staring at one another. I inhale sharply as I notice the large purple bruise on his jaw, even from this distance, and if I squint, I can also identify a small cut on his forehead.

As I catalog his obvious and awful injuries, apprehension floods through my body, making my body go rigid as it soaks into my muscles. My hands curl into fists as he stares directly at me, and a sinister smirk arises before he turns around and walks in the opposite direction. Principal Hammer stands in the doorway of his office as his eyes critically flick between us.

We stand there, holding our breaths, just waiting for him to usher us into his office, but instead, he flicks his wrist and reenters before the door falls shut. I stand there gaping like a fish out of water while Damian’s hands repeatedly ball into fists. Snapping out of my stupor, I mumble for Sam to go into the class, which she obeys with a grim nod.

With his back still to me and his focus lasering in on where Jackson was, I delicately place a hand over his forearm and softly call out to him, "Dames, darling," in an effort to get him to look at me.

He doesn’t.

I walk around to stand in front of him, never taking my arm off of his, and reach up to cup his cheek, making sure to rub my thumb across his impressive bone structure. "There’s nothing we can do right now," I try to bargain.

His jaw is still stiff, but at least he spares me a glance. His nostrils flare one last time before he covers my hand with his own and grounds out, "He’s up to something," squinting his eyes, "and I’m uncertain what his end goal is, but I vow that I will discover whatever his nefarious plans are."

The combination of the genuine steal in his eye and the promise laced in his voice makes me laugh at how absurd the last 24 hours have been. Surprise lances across his face when he hears my hearty laugh and watches me with a new, inquisitive glint in his eye. Between sucking in breaths and laughing, I manage to explain, "It’s just hysterical how ridiculous that statement is. He's not some James Bond villain trying to cripple the world bank; he’s just Jackson," I conclude with a shrug of my shoulders.

At that, I see Damian tense further before he gruffly adds, "Perhaps, but I can practically smell his ill intentions." He holds my gaze, silently pleading with me to understand. I sober at the intense undercurrent of his words and nod my head in agreement. I rub my hands up and down his arms, trying to soothe him. "I know you’re worried about me, but whatever you think he has planned can’t be worse than what he has already done," I state gently.

The reminder causes a feral flash in his eyes, which fades almost as quickly as it appeared. As I watch him clench and unclench his jaw, the only sound around us is the obnoxious buzzing of the overhead lights.

I can only imagine how his molars are feeling.

Suddenly, and much to my delight, his face and posture soften as he pulls me into him, wraps one arm around my waist, and uses the other to hold my head to his chest. I close my eyes and melt into his warmth, letting the steady rhythm of his heart lull me. We stay like this for a few minutes before he places a kiss on the top of my head and pulls away just enough so we can look at each other.

With my arms securely wrapped around him, I nestle my chin on his solar plexus as he cranes his neck down to look at me. "I will never allow another person to harm you like that ever again (Y/N)," he says with so much sincerity and certainty that it brings tears to my eyes. Sniffling, I nod enthusiastically into his chest before affirming, "I know you won’t."

At my simple and earnest response, he smiles down at me, and I see relief flood his eyes, making his pupils dilate and his stiff shoulders loosen. Returning his smile, we finally untangled from each other and walk into class, only to be met with expectantly curious looks from peers and an annoyed one from our teacher. I sheepishly shrug and find my seat while she continues droning on about something.

Thankfully, the next three periods go on without a hitch, and I once again find myself in Damian’s luxurious vehicle as Alfred drives me home after an exhausting practice. With Damian sitting next to me with his signature look of indifference and hand interlaced with mine, we silently peer out the window and enjoy the rush of fall colors blurring past us.

______________________________________________________________________________

The chirping sound of an incoming text message snaps me out of my concentration, and I quickly check to see who it is.

Bran

My stomach drops when I see his name flash on my screen. He never texts me unless I have done something wrong or he needs me to do something. One of those scenarios occurs much more frequently than the other.

I roughly swallow and finally work up the nerve to read his message.

I have been informed that Bruce Wayne is hosting another gala this weekend. I am certain that you have heeded my last request and secured an invitation from the boy.

I breathe a sigh of relief and sit back in my chair as my racing heart calms down. After a few more deep breaths, my shaking hands obtain the invitation from my bag, and I simply respond with a photo of it. Immediately, three dots appear on the screen, and I wait anxiously for his response.

As I expected I will return Saturday morning, and we will have a lengthy discussion.

He doesn’t add anything further, but I know what this means. He will set unreasonably strict behavioral expectations that I will not be able to maintain, just so that he can scold me under the guise of my disappointing performance.

In the past, his expectations included chewing completely silently, never slouching an inch, continuously smiling even when eating and drinking, and never speaking unless spoken to. Despite my best efforts, I have never once "achieved" those goals to the degree he wanted, which resulted in his being "disappointed."

Luckily, the swelling and bruising on my back have reduced considerably, but it is highly unlikely that they will be completely gone by Saturday evening. Just the thought of how much more painful the cane will be when it meets the already delicate skin and muscles makes my back spasm.

This is going to be one hell of a weekend.

I spend the rest of the night doing homework, writing essays, and watching Netflix, never letting my mind wander to what this weekend would almost certainly bring. But despite my best conscious efforts to take my mind off it, my subconscious fills my nightmares with tuxedos, gowns, bruises, twirling, champagne flutes, and canes as I fall asleep.

Chapter 18: And So It Begins

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: (Y/N) POV: Saturday - p.m. onward

It’s not the sunlight streaming into my bedroom, warming my face, nor is it the sound of quiet footfalls throughout the house; it’s the thunderous slamming of the front door that shakes the very walls of the house that startles me awake.

Brans returned.

Sluggishly, I rise and sit at the edge of my bed, firmly planting my feet on the floor, listening carefully to his specific footfalls, and mentally mapping his route around the house. I only breathe easily when I hear them going in the opposite direction ofmyroom, where the master bedroom is. I’ve only ever ventured there a handful of times, and each time made my heart pound so loudly that I thought he’d be able to hear my guilty admission from wherever he was.

I know what’s to come.

Moaning to myself, I listlessly stumble to the bathroom, making sure to go through the luxurious skincare routine that I reserve for occasions such as these to prep my skin for tonight’s gala. After pulling my hair up and going through it, I put on some gold glycerin eye masks as my final step and use the next 20 minutes to research past galas while I lounge above my bed's comforter. Long ago, I decided that once I make my bed in the morning, I am not allowed back under the covers until it is time to fall asleep. That small ritual has helped my productivity tenfold throughout the years.

By the 20-minute marker, I had discovered the astronomical amount of money they raise for various charities and foundations, as well as op-ed articles on who was the best dressed or who were the most notable attendees. Although fascinating, none of the information I found is all that helpful.

Rather than putting my mind at ease, the opinion pieces make my anxiety crank up several notches. As I scroll past all the pictures from the last gala a few months ago, I berate myself for not considering that there would be a professional photographer there to document the evening.

No wonder Damian despises these events.

With a newly formed pit in my stomach, I resign myself to the fact that this will be a psychological gauntlet. To combat my rising panic, I practice meditative breathing, which oxygenates my blood until my fingers feel tingly and my muscles relax.

There are far more people suffering far worse fates in the world. I am beyond fortunate to live such a privileged life. I will embrace this day with a positive mindset and count my blessings. I will be the embodiment of grace, gratitude, elegance, and intelligence.

I keep repeating this mantra in my mind until I feel my resolve solidify and meld into an unyielding ‘diamond’ armor. No matter what this evening may bring, I will be ok. Smiling to myself, I return to my bathroom feeling lighter than before and peel off the cotton patches under my eyes before gently massaging the remaining serum into my skin.

There is something so deeply therapeutic about skincare and the act of taking time out of my day to treat myself. Looking at my reflection, I’m pleased to see that there are no rogue pimples deciding to show themselves today and that my skin has a luminescence that only the right combinations of glycerine and vitamin C can give it.

Just as I am applying my mattifying sunscreen, there is a soft knock at my bedroom door, which means it’s time for whatever bullsh*t meeting Bran wants to have with me. In my matching Costco pajama set, I open the door to find a small, middle-aged woman whom I’ve never seen before wringing her hands as she quietly says, "Mr. Toremine requests your presence in his office," and walks away before I have the chance to answer.

I learned early on that there is always an influx of new employees in this household and to never make the grave mistake of befriending them. The last time I dared to hold a cordial conversation with one of them, Bran fired her the next day with no explanation whatsoever. I suspect he does this so that if I were to confess to his abuse, they would not be able to confirm it, and it would always remain "hearsay."

I square my shoulders and hold my head high as I make my way to his office. Thankfully, he is not standing in the doorway today. I know there will be no physical repercussions of what I say or do today since my skin cannot be marred for this gala. But despite that reprieve, I’m not foolish enough to think that he won’t take it out on me tomorrow or any other day after.

Reaching the heavy wooden door, I gently rasp against it with the stupid lion-shaped door knocker and wait until I hear a muffled "come in" from the other side. Using all my weight to shove the behemoth open, I enter my least favorite room of the house and wait in front of his desk like always. I stand motionless as the door slowly creaks shut with a groaned oomph as the air is forced out.

I know he had the walls and doors of his office specifically designed to be soundproof as insurance against anyone ever saying they could hear the "conversations" that took place. His cover story was that the topics discussed here with his colleagues contained national security issues that could be dangerous in the wrong hands.

Funny that he’s never had a colleague over before.

He doesn’t spare me a glance as he reads from the large pile of papers neatly stacked in front of him. As usual, the office is pristine, and whatever contents he threw off his desk during our last ‘meeting’ are once again in their original spot. All the evidence was scrubbed away. None of the cleaning staff is allowed in this room, so he personally deep cleans it after every ‘session’ to erase any potentialproof.

No detective will ever be able to find my fingerprints or hair follicles in this room. Only when I hear the telltale click of the door being firmly closed does he look up from what he's doing. Despite knowing that this will just be a conversation, my palms begin to sweat since my body can’t help but react to his glacial gaze.

I swallow the lump in my throat when he gracefully stands to his full height and begins tapping his fingers on the heavy desk. Tilting his head, he scrutinizes me for a moment before coming around to lean against its front like usual. He crosses his arms before stating, "Let’s discuss how this eveningwillplay out," with extra emphasis on "will."

In lieu of a vocal response, I simply respond with a single nod as I clasp my hands in front of me like I’m supposed to. "First," he says with the accompanying finger gesture, "you will only wear what I have selected, which includes shoes, accessories, and makeup."

"Yes, sir," I reply.

"Second," his second finger pops up, "you will consistently smile and outwardly look happy throughout the night." I remain quiet as he watches me for any micro facial movements or resistance in my eyes before continuing, "Third, you will only speak when spoken to."

Figures.

With three fingers in the air, he pushes off his desk and slowly raises a fourth as he comes to stand directly in front of me and whispers, "Fourth, you will make appropriate small talk when necessary and never stray beyond surface-level topics." A serpentine smile cracks his stoic expression as he knows that he is setting me up for failure, but I do not give him the satisfaction of blatantly recoiling.

Tilting my head back I make direct eye contact and watch his smile fall as I reply with another neutral, "Yes, sir." I fight back a grin when he takes a step back, eyes swirling with frustration, and flares his nostrils before his fifth finger unfolds. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, tilting his head from side to side as that smile returns. "Let me see your back," he asks in the same manner as someone simply ordering a coffee.

Taken by surprise, I can’t help but flinch at his request, which makes his eyes brighten in delight.

Dammit.

He watches me expectantly for a moment before he loses his patience, and he brusquely says, "Come on now, we don’t have all day," between clenched teeth.

His rising hostility becomes apparent when his normally dead eyes begin to sparkle with unrestrained aggravation, giving him unsettling miosis pupils.

He’s not even trying to hide it.

Snapping out of it, I turn around, grab the hem of my pajama top, and pull it over my head. My skin pimples as the cool air brushes my sensitive back, and the weight of his stare makes my skin itch. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder and instead elect to bite the inside of my cheek.

I watch his shadow on the floor move closer and hear a strained exhale of air through his nose. While pain snakes through my jaw from grinding my molars, I mentally keep track of his movements, grateful for the bright overhead chandelier casting his shadow on the thick ply cream carpet.

Several silent moments pass, and I know he's staring at the nearly perfectly healed skin, before the flicker of his shadow moving closer catches my attention. Before I know what he’s doing, I feel his hot breath on the back of my neck and the barest sensation of his rough knuckles lightly grazing across my shoulder blades.

I resist the urge to bow my back away from his touch when goosebumps rise without my consent, eliciting a hot chuckle from Bran. I feel his breathing become more rapid on the back of my neck as he begins tracing the barely visible outlines of his cane with the tips of his fingers. The situation's humility irritates me, but I know better than to make, move, or sound.

With each moment that passes, my nerves become rawer, and a tingling sensation runs down my legs, threatening to make my knees buckle. But then, my muscles stiffen painfully when his voice croaks when he wistfully murmurs, "Just beautiful." I force down the bile that threatens to come up and squeeze my eyes shut when I feel hot tears start to brim. Finally, his oppressive presence lessens as he takes a step back and coolly says, "Redress."

Not sparing a second, I pull the top over my head and turn around to face him once more. A small wave of relief surges through me when I see he has returned behind his desk. However, he is now leaning heavily into the leather top, as evidenced by his shoulders being hiked up to his ears. The image of him standing like that reminds me of a tiger stalking its prey in tall grass. Head lowered, shoulders stiff, and an unblinking stare are some of the overlapping features they share at the moment.

He flashes his full row of bright white teeth with a forcefully warm smile before cooing, "You’ll be a good girl tonight, won’t you?"

With his head now tilted and loosely laced fingers laying on his desk, he fixes his gaze on my mouth as I repeat, "Yes, sir."

"Very well, then, you’re excused," he says dismissively, waving his hand to the door. I quickly, but not too eagerly, leave his office and return to my room, locking the door behind me as always.

Deep breathes.

I repeat my mantra and breathing exercises from earlier today until I once again feel cool, tingly, and relaxed. For the next several hours, I lay stomach down on my bed and busied myself with re-reading my favorite fantasy romance books when another light rasp at my bedroom door pulled my attention away.

Rolling off the bed, I open the door to the same woman from earlier, who is now holding several large boxes in her hand. Scurrying out of her way, I hold the door open for her as she comes in to situate them on my desk.

"Mr. Toremin requests you wear these items tonight," her soft, slightly accented voice says demurely. After she scuttles out of my room when I thank her, I immediately remove the contents of each box and place them on my bed, except for the heels, of course. Stepping back, I eye each piece critically before begrudgingly admitting that Bran has good taste.

Well, if nothing else.

Clearly, he took the black tie dress code to heart considering almost everything is, well, black. The gown that I am expected to wear is a black silk floor-length gown with lace detailing. Wanting to get a better look at it, I put it on a felt hanger and place it on the robe hook on the back of my door.

I can tell it's an expensive gown by the way the silk’s smooth, soft, and almost waxy finish feels when I touch it. Despite the thickness of the gown, it feels lightweight on my hands, and the folds create a natural billowing effect near the bottom. The gown has a diamond neckline that falls just under my collarbone, and the thin straps are delicate lace intricately woven to be thin yet sturdy. The only other part of the gown that has lace is the lining of the leg slit, which has a thin scalloped pattern.

Absolutely beautiful.

It’s unique yet elegant, simple yet interesting, and high-quality yet lightweight. I hate the fact that I love something that Bran has chosen, but I can’t deny that this is truly stunning. When I turn the gown around, I notice that the entire back is made of the same lace as the straps and leg slit. Despite its see-through nature, nobody will be able to see the remnants of his abuse.

Upon closer inspection, I can see that the pattern of the lace mimics the stylization of my Soulmark. I have a feeling that it will blend right in and look as if the lace is thicker along my spine, creating an intriguing effect.

He’s really toeing the line. It makes my skin crawl to think that he wants me to know exactly what kind of power he has over me.

He almost wants to be caught just to laugh it off because he knows he’ll get away with it. And of course, this is the gown he wants me to wear when he meets my Soulmate’s family.

What a sick f*ck.

Nausea rises to the back of my throat, which prompts me to sit heavily in my desk chair while I take deep breaths for a moment. Rather than wasting time admiring the gown, I take the black heels from their box and remove the paper stuffing.

A simple, black satin pump with two straps over the top of my foot as its only decoration The thin heel and pitch of the shoe will certainly be incredibly uncomfortable, but I will have to grit my teeth and bear it because there is absolutely no way that I’ll be able to take them off at any point.

I shudder to think what he would do if I even grimace in pain as its pointed front crushes my toes. Clearly, his plan is to make me suffer. Dropping the torture device back in the box, I move on to the smaller ones. The smaller velvet boxes must be the jewelry. Opening the largest one, I audibly gasp at the emerald and diamond earrings. The top and bottom stones are teardrop emeralds, with five smaller brilliant round diamonds in between. All of which are set in 24k gold. Although not overly intricate, the quality of each stone is what makes them so breathtaking.

Moving on, I open the rest of the velvet containers and notice that he’s picked out two complementary emerald rings and a diamond tennis bracelet for me to wear. Each is more exquisite than the next. I will certainly blend into the indulgent wealth that will be on display. Lastly, the final box reveals a small, silk-wrapped, unadorned clutch that can only fit a phone and maybe lipstick.

After putting all the boxes in a corner and tidying up my room, I check the time on my phone to see that I have just over two hours to get ready.

It’s go time.

Hopping into the shower, I do a hair mask and use my special honeysuckle and gardenia-scented body wash that has an accompanying lotion. After I dry off and wrap the fluffy towel around my chest, I begin combing through my now silky-soft strands of hair before applying several products, one of which is a heat protectant. I spend the next hour blow-drying my hair and putting it into rollers so that when I finally take them out, they'll fall in subtle yet refined curls that frame my face.

I was considering pinning my hair back into a sophisticated updo, but then I wouldn't be able to use my hair as a shield, which I have a feeling may come in handy tonight. Curlers in place, I turn on my cosmetic mirror and begin my formal makeup routine.

In one of the boxes that Bran sogenerouslygave me, I found a note with dos and don'ts on what colors and styles I should wear my makeup in.Helpfully,he provided me with eyeshadows and lipsticks that he thinks will be appropriate. I was quite surprised when burgundy lipstick made it into the fold, but I’m not complaining.

I plop down onto my fuzzy stool in my towel and curlers and begin my base. Since I’m no beauty guru, I skip contouring and foundation and just apply my usual tinted CC cream before moving on to eyeshadow primer.

Knowing that I plan on wearing a bold lip, I put on a nude eyeshadow that has a slight shimmer to it and a slightly darker nude towards the outer edge and under the outer corner for some depth. Once that is applied, I layer two mascaras, one for lengthening and the other for thickening. Bran included some false lashes in the box, but I don't know how to apply them, so I skip them and hope he doesn't notice. Luckily, I have naturally long lashes that look even more impressive with the mascara.

Once my newly heavy lashes dry, I slap on some blush and highlighter before picking out the exact lipliner and lipstick I’m going to wear. Knowing it will be a long night, I pick the "Nyx 16-hour wear" one that has a clear sealing gloss on one side and the actual pigmented lipstick on the other.

I lean my elbows on the countertop and begin lining my lips before filling them in. Izzy taught me that filling in my lips with lip liner helps deepen the color and makes it stay on longer. I spend the next 5 minutes painstakingly applying the wine-colored lipstick perfectly, loving the way it makes my (E/C) pop. Sitting back, I analyze my face thoroughly and find myself content with the overall aesthetic.

With just under an hour before the gala begins, I quickly set my face, remove the curlers, spray loose-holding hair spray on, and spritz some perfume on my neck. I close all the lights in the bathroom as I leave and zip into the exquisite, light, and buttery gown before slipping on the toe-crushing stilettos. Grimacing at how uncomfortable they are already, I sit at my desk while putting on the jewelry, loving the weight of the sumptuous gems and how the cold metal feels against my skin.

With the slip of the last ring on my finger, my look is complete. Standing in front of my floor-length mirror, I take this moment to appreciate how the gown sinches and flares in the appropriate spots, flattering my slightly athletic build. Despite knowing that I’ll have to ingratiate myself with Bran in order to reduce the severity of the inevitable punishment, I feel powerful and beautiful when I look at my reflection.

Between the gown fitting me beautifully, my hair falling in soft waves around my face, and my polished makeup, I am the spitting image of a refined high-society lady.

I wonder what Damian will think.

When I think of him, a knot forms in my stomach, settling painfully, and I find myself wringing my hands and twisting my bracelet subconsciously. Bran can’t see how nervous I am or he’ll tear into me, so with a final deep breath, I head downstairs.

The only sound in the house is the echoing of my heels with each step I take. Gripping the banister, I descend the staircase carefully, reminding myself to "step and kick" as I go. At the bottom, I find Bran in an all-black tuxedo with silk lapels and a burgundy bow tie that has me wrinkling my nose.

No wonder he included the lipstick.

At the final step, I pause as he critically drags his gaze from bottom to top, far slower than necessary, before barking out "sufficient" with a sneer. Once he turns his back, I secretly roll my eyes.

"We’ll be leaving through the front door," he states casually.

Of course.

Turning his head, he looks at me with a pale glower imbued with venom that deepens the dread sitting heavily in my gut before innocently asking, "You won’t behave in your usual contumacious manner, will you (Y/N)?" I deliberately return a smile, knowing that it’s showtime, before saying, "Of course not, sir." Holding out his arm, I quickly walk over and nestle my hand in the crook of his elbow. He turns his head to look at me and firmly states, "And remember, from this point forward, do not call me sir."

I nodded, a smile still on my face, as he opened the front door to a flurry of blinding flashes. Now more than ever, I wish Damian and his brothers were here, but wishful thinking will do me no good from this point forward. We start walking to the town car waiting for us on the street, while Bran occasionally nods his head to the photographers in a sign of respect that they don’t deserve.

I, on the other hand, maintain my focus on the shrinking distance between us and the vehicle while drowning out the questions being shouted at us. Like the gentleman he most certainly isn't, Bran holds the car door open for me as I climb in first. Staring straight ahead, I put on my seatbelt and remain silent even as the vehicle peels away from the street.

I keep my hands wrapped around the clutch, not bothering to pull out my phone like he is, knowing that if I do, he will be—you guessed it—"disappointed." Fortunately, the car ride to the venue is short since the event is being held at Wayne Enterprise's ballroom. Looking out the window, I see our car being ushered into a queue with many other high-end vehicles and limousines. As we wait our turn to step onto the red carpet, which is overflowing with more photographers than I have ever seen, Bran clears his throat, garnering my attention.

"Remember what we discussed earlier." "I expect you to be obsequious tonight," he announces without so much as a glance in my direction. I almost chuckle at his unnecessary and obnoxious vocabulary, but I don’t dare. "Of course, si-" I catch myself and quickly backpedal. "Father," I say obediently. He narrows his eyes and huffs in response to my near slip-up. Referring to him as my father feels like such a deep betrayal to my actual father that I have to lean my head back in an effort to stave off the tears that threaten to spill over.

The crater in my chest widens as I think of my parents and how desperately saddened they would be if they really knew the nature of the monster next to me. But it’s no use thinking about them right now—not when so much is riding on me to be the perfect quiet little mouse.

That diamond armor I built earlier snaps back into place as I readjust the smile into place, just in time for our doors to be opened. Stepping out, I quickly go around the car and place my hand back through his arm as we slowly—so painfully slowly—walk the red carpet. The flashes of light are agonizingly blinding, but my happy mask stays firmly in place even as the shouting elevates to a heinously boisterous level.

Our presence has drawn the attention of the other guests on the carpet, and when they notice who we are, their eyes go wide as they begin feverishly whispering to one another.

No different than a high school it seems.

I haven’t spotted Damian or his family just yet, which means they’re more than likely already inside and away from this madness. Bran, not wanting to seem too desperate to be photographed, doesn't stop for photos but rather continues walking down the carpet at a much slower pace than I would have liked.

He doesn't want to seem too desperate for attention, but he also NEEDS to be recognized and seen at this event.

I don't break "character" once during our agonizing crawl across the carpet. Finally entering the illustrious Wayne Enterprises, we and a few other guests enter the all-glass elevator and silently enjoy the lobby music as it shoots us at breakneck speeds to the top floor.

With a lightding,the elevator doors open to reveal the breathtaking scene before us. I can’t help the slight gasp that escapes my lips while I take in the jaw-dropping party. Walking to the man at the podium near the entrance, Bran gives our names, prompting him to run his pen down a list, flicking a small check on the paper when he sees it. He welcomes us with a smile and a flourish of his arm, signaling that we can officially enter the splendidly decorated venue.

My head spins as I look around to take in the beautiful andginormous chandelier.Even the elongated white-cloth tables are exceptionally beautiful, with stunningly diverse and robust floral centerpieces. Rather than the expected cloth table runners, low-lying moss runs through the middle and spills to the floor dramatically in a waterfall effect. To my left, I notice the deep wood-paneled walls lined with birch trees that are draped with twinkling lights and strings of crystals.

On the opposite end of the room, magnificent floor-to-ceiling windows give a stunning view of Gotham below. With Wayne Enterprises being the tallest skyscraper in the city, the view is entirely unobstructed as we tower over the rest of the city. I’m so absorbed in the decor that I don’t hear the server ask if I would like caviar-topped bruschetta until Bran clears his throat loudly. I snap out of it and politely decline, daring a glance his way, only to be met with a repulsive scowl.

As we resume our slow pace, I mumble my apologies, which he does not dignify. Everyone is dressed to the nines. Women are drowning in jewels and fur, while men are layered in starchy and oppressive coattails or tuxedos. In the back, an 8-piece orchestra plays a beautiful symphony led by a very stiff-looking conductor whose back is to us and will probably remain that way.

It's a shame he should miss this splendor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a server handing out gold-rimmed champagne flutes filled to the brim.

The drunker they are, the more money they’ll fork over.

I smile to myself at Mr. Wayne’s brilliant strategy when Bran releases me and grabs two flutes. He hands me one, despite the fact I’m 17—as opposed to the 21 years old you need to be to legally drink—but I accept it graciously nonetheless. At the reminder of Mr.Wayne, or Bruce, as he prefers me to call him, I keep my head on a swivel in an effort to locate them.

Even though we arrived right on time, the room is full of people, making it harder for me to find them. Finally, my eyes are drawn to 5 heads peaking above all the others.

There they are.

Near the back, Damian, his brothers, and his father are all making small talk with the group surrounding them. I should have known they’d be at the center of attention. I mention my discovery to Bran, who looks expectantly at me while offering his arm once more. With one hand holding my untouched champagne flute and the other wrapped around his forearm, we make our way toward the tall men.

Their backs are turned toward us, so they can’t see us approaching, but as we veer off to the side, Damian’s head swivels in our direction, and I notice him wearing the cutest, most concentrated look on his face before it relaxes a millimeter when he finally spots us.

The music and chatter fade away as we ogle one another, hungrily absorbing every detail before our eyes finally meet.

He’s breathtaking.

Truly, there are no words to describe how absurdly handsome he looks in his tuxedo and evergreen bow tie. This may very well be the most impressive sight I have ever seen. Gotham City’s sparkling skyline has nothing on him and his family. Now that we're facing them, we’ve caught their attention, which in turn has everybody nearby watching us as well.

This introduction is about to be a spectacle; better fix my posture.

I continue watching Damian as we near, finally getting close enough to see his brilliant irises. Guests in the near vicinity go quiet as we come to stand before the host and his sons, all of whom are smiling warmly. I return theirs with a pleasant one of my own and look toward Bran as I politely say, "May I introduce to you my father, Bran Toremin?" as 5 sets of eyes turn toward him.

Chapter 19: New Experiences For All

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Damian’s POV: Saturday, 5 p.m. onward

As he steams his black dress shirt for tonight’s event, Damian grinds his molars as he thinks about how he’d prefer to writhe in pain from his fingernails being pulled off than have another geriatric woman with saggy earlobes tell him how dapper he looks. His father insisted they would all be required to attend to maintain their ironclad unified front.

Standing in his walk-in closet that boasts row upon row of top-of-the-line garments, an island with a cushioned bench attached, and an entire vanity with the appropriate accouterments needed for any woman to get ready. Exhaling through his nose, he diligently steams out any and all wrinkles in each article of clothing that will be metaphorically suffocating him tonight.

With only an hour left until they were expected to begin greeting the falsely altruistic guests to raise awareness and money for liver cancer research, he marches to the ensuite bathroom to begin his quotidian skin routine. Just because he is a man does not mean that he should not have a dedicated facial care routine to be diligent with.

He basks in the cool breeze coming from the open window behind him as his racing thoughts dissipate and his body goes into autopilot. After applying the necessary anti-aging serums and creams, he takes care to comb and lightly gel his hair into a pristine style. Opening the antique medicine cabinet, he finds the cologne he’s looking for and dabs it on his wrists. He generally does not bother with aromatics, but tonight is different, and he is hoping she will notice and enjoy the fragrance.

Reentering his room, he witnesses Pennyworth placing a tray of tea on the table near the door.

"I have taken the liberty of preparing your favorite blend with the inclusion of lemon and brown sugar, Master Damian," Pennyworth mentions while turning to face him. "Even in a china cup you so tenderly have an affinity for," he teasingly adds. Narrowing his eyes, he replies, "Thank you for the consideration, Pennyworth; that will be all."

When the older gentleman promptly exits the room soundlessly, he grabs the saucer and brings it with him into the closet. Taking a small sip, he inhales the lovely aroma of what is indeed his favorite blend before gently placing it on the island. Quickly and efficiently, he gets dressed, ensuring there are no wrinkles or visible inconsistencies.

Once satisfied with his outward appearance, he exits the closet, fine china forgotten, and makes his way to his father's office, where they had agreed upon convening. As per usual, he is the first one, other than his father, who is currently seated behind his desk, studiously reading something on the computer screen.

"Father," he says as a way of greeting. "Is there anything of interest you are reading?"

He moves to lean against the arm of the couch, facing the desk.

"I’ve obtained the name of the photographer who illegally took and distributed the photo of (Y/N)." At his confession, Damian’s pulse jumps as he growls at the memory of that day. He catches his father’s attention when he gruffly asks for more information on the matter, to which he simply raises his eyebrows in response.

"We will be taking legal recourse against him. Dick has assured us that our defense will hold up in court and that the defendant will face serious charges since it’s considered child p*rnography," he concludes.

Relief floods through his system at that knowledge, but there is still one more question he needs an answer to. "And the photos?"

Bruce smiles at the question, most likely enjoying having anticipated it, before stating, "They will promptly be removed from all sites, and if they aren't, that site will be taken down. However, we will have to wait until the final verdict is out before they can do so."

Frustration rages through him as he curls his hands into fists, but he knows there is nothing they can do to expedite the process. He would much rather just hack into every server that displays the photo and obliterate it so thoroughly that the owner of whatever website carried it would not be able to recognize it. Better yet, he’d rather mutilate the photographer responsible for causing the traumatic experience for her.

Which reminds him…

"And the photographer? What name did his poor mother give him?" He asks innocently, but to no avail. His father knows him too well. His eyes and expression darken when he says, "I will not be sharing that information, and you will not have access to it at any point."

Wrath like no other assails him at his father's words. He still doesn’t completely trust him after all these years. As if he can read his mind, his father says in a gentler voice, "Having a Soulmate can drive you to do things that you normally would not consider. The need to protect and defend them is blinding under the best of circ*mstances, and Damian," he uncharacteristically hesitates before continuing, "you already have a penchant for violence and a track record of crossing the line."

Indignation and hurt blindside him as he feels his eyes burn at his statement. "Perhaps, but I am no longer a 9-year-old child in need of direction, and I do not deserve to still be treated as such," he says, allowing his emotions to bleed through. He sees a flash of regret cross his father’s face, but before he can respond, Damian is out of the office.

Once in the hall, he passes Todd, whose brow furrows when he sees him. "What did he do now?" He asks. As usual, he jumps to the conclusion that their father did something wrong, and in this instance, he is correct. Rather than answering, he stalks past, unfurling his fists while stomping down the pain in his chest. Wordlessly, Todd turns around and walks with him in a peaceful silence through the manor’s halls with no destination in mind.

Still lapping around 20 minutes later, they run into both Drake and Grayson, who briefly share a look before trailing behind them in silent support. He’d never admit it, but Damian is glad that he and his brothers have grown so attuned to one another that they don't have to verbalize their needs any longer.

Checking his watch, he sees that it is time for them to leave, so he changes direction and heads to the garage. His father is already there, waiting for them patiently, and when he looks into his eyes, he sees a silent apology swimming in their blue depths.

As far as an apology goes, that is the best that he’ll ever get from his father.

Giving him a small nod to let him know that all is well, he can visibly see the tension in his shoulders ease. "All right, let’s depart," he says unnecessarily. Looking at each of his brothers, he nods his head to alert them that everything is okay. He knows that if Damian desired it, they would give him the cold shoulder. Despite his father's reservations about Damian's maturity level, he does not want discord in his family.

Once the limousine pulls up, they all stifle groans at the obnoxiously conspicuous vehicle before reluctantly clambering in. His father fills the rest of them in on his discovery and the subsequent events to come, which all seem to mimic his displeasure and relief as he continues. They listen attentively and sprinkle in complaints and ideas that have his father scowling at them while Damian veils his amusem*nt behind his impassive mask.

Once that conversation is over, they sit in silence for a few moments before Todd mentions, "So we’re going to meet (Y/N)’s guardian tonight," with a mischievous glint in his eye. Damian had been preparing for this moment since he discovered her unfortunate circ*mstances. Despite their digging, they had not been able to find any incriminating evidence on him, which frustrated them all immensely.

Even in the low lighting of the car, he can see the others tense slightly at his statement. They had felt certain that they would discover at least a morsel of dirt on the man, but according to all paper and electronic trails, he is the Mother Teresa of our time. As a UN ambassador directed to defend the national interests of citizens in the Balkan region, he has fought vehemently against authoritarian governments, defended women’s rights to their bodies, and helped bring terrorists to justice.

Even outside of his profession, he donates millions to charities and research foundations, as well as visiting children in both hospitals and schools. Every article written about him raves about his uncompromising charisma and intelligence. He’s won awards for his bravery and duty over the years, but the person who would know him the best is the only person who seems to want to be as far away from him as possible.

Why?

Curling his fingers into the supple leather, Damian breathes steadily through his nose while his mind races with theories, but his stream of thought is interrupted when Drake responds, "Yeah, it’ll be interesting to see if he is actually as charismatic as the papers say he is."

"How bad could he be?" Grayson adds nonchalantly. They all give him a droll stare before he continues defensively, "I mean, the guy volunteers at a children's hospital almost every Sunday and has honorary medals of valor." For some reason, Grayson defending him has Damian’s blood boiling, so when he replies, "It’s a marvel that you’ve survived this long with such naivety," he can’t keep the bite out of his tone.

Despite his eldest brother’s laid-back demeanor and tendency to see the best in people, he does not like to be called naive. Eying the gymnast, he sees him lean forward on his elbows and squint before rebutting, "Not everyone and everything has a dark ulterior motive that needs to be snuffed out, Damian. He may very well be a great guy, and (Y/N) just doesn’t want to grow close to him because she feels like it would be a betrayal to her parents." Glancing at the others, he sees both his father and Drake give small nods of consideration, while Todd co*cks his head to the side doubtfully.

"I don’t know; doesn’t it seem suspicious to anyone else that he isliterallyperfect on paper?" At Todd’s question, everyone remains pensive.

His father breaks the silence by stating, "Enough theorizing about her guardian. We’ll have our answers soon enough. Instead, I recommend preparing yourselves for a long night of networking," in a flat tone.

The identically dejected looks from his brothers make Damian chuckle darkly.

It is comforting to know they despise these experiences just as much as he does.

They ruminate for the remainder of the drive and suppress groans as the red carpet and hoards of photographers come into view. Before the door opens for them, they look at one another and plaster on a smile before the offensive lights swallow them whole.

For the next 10 excruciating minutes, they pose for the photos and answer questions pertaining to the charity, seamlessly avoiding invasive ones about their lives. On more than one occasion, a journalist asks them about her, to which Damian is grateful for their nonanswers and topic changes.

By the time they make it into the preposterously decorated ballroom, he feels like he’s already run the gauntlet. Unfortunately for him, this is just the beginning. Damian finds himself craving her soothing presence and begins uncharacteristically tapping his foot impatiently. Thoughts of her drown out the conversations around him as he entertains various scenarios of how this evening may play out.

He’s surprised by how much he is looking forward to seeing her in a gown and wonders if she's chosen to wear her favorite color again. Subsequently, it has also become his favorite color. Prior to meeting her, he thought having a favorite color was childish and immature, while secretly preferring black. But now he understands and finds it impossible to see Emerald without thoughts of her in that suit making his pulse race.

He’ll never admit it to anyone, but she's most certainly altered his brain chemistry these past weeks. Damian returns his focus to the present when a haggard older woman with far too much rouge adorning her wrinkly cheeks approaches him.

"Now, dear boy, look how tall you’ve gotten," she croons. "You look so much like your father, it is absolutely uncanny."

Smiling tightly, he replies, "I do believe that is how genetics work," with a hint of sarcasm. Beside him, his father clears his throat in disapproval, but it’s inconsequential since it goes straight over her head as she cackles in response.

When guests are not pestering him, he continuously scans the crowd for her. By this point, they’ve reached the back of the venue and are surrounded by men and women who are seemingly in a silent competition over whose display of wealth is more apparent.

Wrinkling his nose at the aggressively putrid combinations of perfumes and colognes these people are wearing, he begins breathing through his mouth to curb the headache it’s beginning to cause.

Nobody appreciates the art of subtly anymore.

He and his brothers continue to fend off the crowd's encroachment while gently dissuading the old women from setting them up with their granddaughters. A slight prickling sensation has the hairs on the back of his neck standing at their roots. Suddenly more alert than before, Damian’s eyes diligently scan the crowd for the source.

There.

Off to the side, she walks arm in arm with the man, whom he’s only ever seen in photos. However, at this very moment, he could not care less.

His eyes remain glued to her as they hungrily devour every detail.

She is a vision.

His breathing becomes more rapid as everything around him ceases. Nothing and nobody could tear his attention away from her positively enchanting presence. She's wearing a sophisticated black gown, decorated with tasteful lace accents and a slit that runs midthigh, which secretly has his mouth watering.

The sight of her bare leg against the fabric of the gown stirs something primal within the depths of his soul. His irregular heartbeat roars in his ears as she draws closer, now captivating everyone’s attention. Someone next to him, one of his brothers, sucks in a sharp breath, but Damian can't be bothered to see who it is.

Now, only a few yards away, he can see the elegant drop earrings and the blood-red lip stain accentuating her sultry pout, which makes his dick twitch. Damian’s throat goes dry when she comes to stand before them. Still, his gaze languidly trails the luxurious length of her neck, deeply appreciating her elegant collarbones and sharp jawline. He’s so lost in his perusal of her that he almost misses her tight smile as she politely asks, "May I introduce you to my father, Bran Toremin?"

Father?

The word slaps him across the face like a bucket of cold water. Immediately sobering, his eyes snap to the tall man whose arm she rests her hand on.

"Rest" is generous. Hover is more apt.

Bran. Toremin. Tall, athletic build, pale hair, pale eyes, tanned skin, a brilliant row of perfectly set teeth, freshly shaved, manicured nails, an expensive tuxedo, threaded eyebrows, crisply ironed cuffs, unmarried, middle-aged, conventionally attractive, and rigid posture.

What’s wrong with him?

She takes a slight step away from him, still smiling, as he extends his hand to Damian's father and smoothly says, "It’s quite an honor to meet you, Mr. Wayne. I’ve been following your efforts in medical technology advancements, and I must say you’ve done an incredible job creating an efficient and tactful protocol, amongst other things." His voice carried a deep and quiet assurance.

His father shakes his hand and replies, "The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Toremin. I’m grateful you could make it to this event, and I’m impressed by your knowledge of my lesser-known projects," with a hint of suspicion masked by "surprise." Her guardian flashes an even more dashing smile as he brings his arm around her back, ushering her forward a bit.

She looks at Damian, still with that same radiant smile, as his father begins introducing his brothers. When he reaches Damian, Bran’s eyes light up before he says, "Ah, so you are the young gentleman who’s been lucky enough to Soulreach with my (Y/N)," with a teasing undertone that comes out a little tight.

My?

Flashing a quick look at her not for the first time tonight, he notices that her posture is a little too stiff and the radiance of her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. In fact, he’s never seen her (E/C) eyes look so flat and guarded.

His gut tightens slightly at this odd version of her, but he isn't certain if that is due to Bran making her uncomfortable or if she, like Damian, is wearing a mask for this event. Looking back at Bran, he quickly shoots back, "That would indeed be me, sir, the luckiest man alive."

Bran chuckles at his response and shakes his hand firmly before continuing, "It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man, and your brothers as well. You seem like a tight-knit family."

"That we are Mr.Toremine," Todd supplements. Gauging his brother’s reactions slyly, he notices that the skin around their eyes is tight as they too try to ascertain as much information from this encounter as possible.

"Well, there is nothing more important than that," her guardian brightly says as he returns his arm to casually rest on her back. If he didn’t know her well, he would have missed the incredibly nuanced way she arches her back away from his touch. He doubts anyone else noticed it—maybe not even his brothers.

Something is incredibly wrong here.

As he watches the two of them, his mind is filled with a slew of alarms. Not once has she said a word, stopped smiling, or even twitched. Looking at her hands, he catalogs the way she is clutching her small purse tightly. As his eye shifts upwards, he sees the stiffness in her shoulders and a nearly dissociative glint in her eyes.

Nobody says anything for a moment before Bran concludes, "I would love to stay and chat further, but I’m sure you have your hands full greeting other guests, and I would hate to monopolize your time. We’ll be on our way and hope to run into you gentlemen more throughout the night." He holds his arm out for her to take, which she obliges before giving Damian a slight nod of her head and a twitch of the lips before the two of them walk away.

Staring at her back, he can't fully appreciate the beautiful lace work that blends seemlessly with her Soulmark due to how baffling that experience was. To everyone else, it simply looks like the lace thickens down the length of her spine, but he knows better.

Servers holding glass trays of hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne weave throughout the venue as more and more people filter in, demanding their attention.

2 minutes turn into 20 as he repeatedly delivers small smiles and idle chitchat to the socially depraved upper crust of Gotham while keeping an eye on her. However, one particular guest comes to stand directly in front of him, which makes him want to punch him in the throat. Damian calls forth every fiber of restraint during the entire dull conversation, and just when it’s about to snap, he moves on.

When he realizes that he’s lost her in the crowd, he feels his stomach drop as fear makes his adrenaline pump. As he furiously searches for her, he feels a hand on his shoulder, making him snap his head in their direction.

"What?" He growls.

"Easy there, baby bird; you look like a half-crazed man right now. You need to take a deep breath; you’re starting to draw attention," Todd whispers in the second half. Doing a quick survey, he realizes that he’s right when he notices the confused and wary glances he’s receiving. Closing his eyes briefly, he calms himself immediately, and when he opens them again, he sees that his family has formed a protective circle around him.

At this point, we have greeted almost everyone, and now they are standing off to the side near the ridiculous birch trees. The furrowed brows of his brothers and his father’s locked jaw are the only outward yet imperceptible indications that they too are bothered.

"Anybody else think that was f*cking weird?" Todd whispers unnecessarily. Between the free-flowing booze, lively conversations, and the 8-piece orchestra, it is unlikely anyone will be able to discern the contents of their private conversation.

The 5 of them are now standing in a circle, with their backs to the rest of the room, when his father admonishes his language before Grayson intercepts, "Oh, c'mon, Bruce, you have to admit that entire encounter felt unnatural." His eyes darken as concern flashes across his face.

But rather than agreeing, Bruce says, "Perhaps, but there could be a myriad of reasons why it felt awkward. Nervous energy could be the culprit, or the setting may have felt unnatural to them, so they presented themselves in an overly formal manner. In any case, we cannot pass judgment based on a single conversation."

"Awkward? Bruce, that was like agonizing," Todd says dramatically, but makes an entirely valid point.

"I have to agree with Jason on this one. It was more than awkward; it felt like a hostage situation. (Y/N) didn’t speak once or maintain eye contact. That goes beyond discomfort," Drake defends Todd unexpectedly. Damian assumed that he would side with their father like usual, but a pleasant warmth blossoms in his chest at his statement.

Drake gives him a brief look before accusing, "You've been unusually silent, Damian. You know her best; what did you gauge when you examined him, right after you stopped drooling over her."

He squints his eyes at Drake's attempt at making him uncomfortable, which he won’t admit actually worked. He hadn’t realized his brothers were watching him so closely.

"Firstly, at no point did I visibly salivate, and secondly, I was merely appreciating how exquisite she looked," he barks defensively, only to be met with amused smirks and raised eyebrows. "And yes, I agree with the general sentiment that there was something incongruous with her behavior. She was stiff and quiet, which is unlike her," he says conclusively.

Bruce opens his mouth, looking more tired and concerned than Damian would have anticipated, but Grayson once again cuts him off and says, "And did you see the way she practically flinched when he put his arm around her?"

Damian can feel his eyebrows shoot into his hairline at his astute observation. When he looks at all of their deeply grim expressions, he realizes that they all picked up on it despite how minuscule the movement was.

They’re all attuned to her.

A foreign sensation of jealousy slithers into his stomach as the overhead draped twinkling lights illuminate the worrylines etched into their faces. When he realizes that they have formed a bond with her despite how little time they've known her, another foreign sensation of guilt thrashes about.

Shaking his head to rid his mind of such humiliatingly unreasonable emotions, he focuses his attention on his father when stating, "We need to keep an eye on her. There is something clearly wrong." His father thankfully agrees with his request and goes into Batman mode when he adds, "When we get home, I want Tim to obtain every piece of information there is to know about him online, and before you ask, no, there are no restrictions on how you obtain them. Dick, I need you to pull some strings with your DA and get all the records before and after her parents' deaths. Jason and Damian, the two of you are charged with keeping an eye on her all night, even after this function ends." Pointedly looking at all of them, he asks, "Is everyone clear?"

They nod.

"All right, for now, I think it's best if you stayed by her side for the rest of the night." His father directs his attention toward him.

"Of course."

Not waiting to see what he says to the others, Damian weaves through the crowd effortlessly, looking for Bran’s pale blond hair. Since she's smaller, it's easier for her to blend into the crowd, but her guardian is fairly easy to spot with his unique hair color and height.

Within minutes, he spots the two of them. He dashes in that direction, narrowly avoiding conversations with guests who preen with insincere levity about cancer's devastation. He knows they couldn’t care less; they simply want to curry favor with his family. If they truly cared, they would go beyond simple donations. They have the means to make a meaningful difference in medical advancements, but without recognition, they won't lift a finger.

Pitiful.

She continues to stand beside Bran with her hands clasped and a smile permanently splitting her face as he speaks to someone. Neither of them gives her a second glance. As he draws closer, he nearly stops when he notices who Bran is consorting with.

Lionel Anders. Of course.

Resuming his confident stride, his eyes catch hers, which light up as she recognizes him. That small acknowledgment sends tingles of awareness shooting through his body as he comes to a stop before them.

"Ah, Damian, good to see you, my boy. How have you been?" Lionel Anders, Jackson’s father and a prominent hedge fund CEO, asks with a beaming smile.

He is seemingly more charismatic, at least.

Returning the gesture with a tight smile of his own, Damian replies, "Very well, Mr. Anders," curtly, trying to keep the sharpness in his tone to a minimum.

Seemingly missing it or intentionally ignoring his dislike, the tall old man chuckles before stating, "Well, it’s good to see you out and about. It’s high time you participated in these incredibly generous events." The undercurrent of meaning does not go unnoticed by Damian as his eyes squint in scrutiny.

From the corner of his eye, he catches her tense as the true meaning of his words wash over her. Before the situation escalates, he says, "These events are merely a playground for the affluent citizens of Gotham. The real, meaningful work is done in our labs, which is where I concentrate my attention." He pauses for a moment, daring the two men to rebuke his factual statement before continuing, "After all, the sybarite attendees are here more to network during this fatuous event than to invest in our charitable foundations."

At his statement, both Bran and Lionel quirk their eyebrows before Jackson’s father says, "Well, it’s certainly clear that you must have aced your SAT, boy," with a greasy smirk. Rather than taking his obvious bait, he smoothly changes the topic.

With his beady eyes still glued to Damian, he turns his body toward her and says, "It has just come to my attention that his delightful young lady is your Soulmate."

Doubtful.

He spares her guardian a quick glance and detects the slight tensing of his muscles as all their gazes fall upon her. When he looks at her, he can clearly discern that the shift in attention makes her deeply uncomfortable.

"Indeed, I am incredibly fortunate to have (Y/N) as my Soulmate," he declares, a genuine note of pride lacing through his words. Whereas Bran indiscernibly bristles at his words, she beams. The evident change in her demeanor with him nearby solidifies his resolve to stay by her side throughout the night.

But far too swiftly, the lightness in her eyes fades when Lionel asks, "(Y/N)? Are you the young lady my son has been raving about all these years?" with a suspicious undercurrent. The reminder of Jackson provokes the slumberous coils of his wrath that make his hands unconsciously ball into fists.

"I’m certain you must be mistaken, Mr. Anders, Jackson, and I are merely acquaintances," she says in a deceptively placid tone that distracts from the storm now looming in her (E/C) eyes. Her surprising response douses the flames of fury crashing through his veins and replaces them with sensual heat.

"No, I'm quite certain you’re the young lady with whom he is very well acquainted," he counters. But before anyone can respond, he continues, "As a matter of fact, Jackson recently came home bloody and bruised after a party, which he claims he obtained after defending the honor of a lady who was being mistreated," his eyes sliding to Damian, "by her significant other."

He can see the alarm shoot through her despite her outward appearance and her maintaining a stiff neutrality. Sobering quickly she states, "How very noble of him to come to that poor young woman's defense. However, I can assure you that I am not she," in a tone sweet enough to induce a cavity.

Lionel's eyes narrow for a brief second before he replasters a smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. Bran’s smile, on the other hand, falters for a moment as he shoots her a brusque, scathing glance before he too recomposes himself.

"Yes, indeed, I have raised a strong young man," he affirms before a slight frown tugs at his lips. "It is a shame, though, that he would not divulge the identity of the man who had the temerity to attack him so heinously." His eyes flick quickly to Damian's knuckles.

With a tsk and shake of his head, Bran supplements, "Young men truly have no decorum these days," darkly. "It’s truly a shame how this younger generation has no respect," he spits, "or discipline." Although his response is aimed at Lionel, his eyes sharply cut into her as he speaks.

Although the former misses the intended recipient of his words, Damian does not. He bristles. The hairs on the back of his neck stand straight as a sense of foreboding fills the marrow of his bones.

Something about this man is deeply disturbing.

What surprises Damian the most, however, is her nonreaction to his invective.

As if she was expecting this.

That thought has him eager to whisk her away from his presence. Before he can interject and announce their departure, Lionel concludes, "That man will be brought to justice," while clasping his hands loudly. "Jackson has already spoken with his headmaster at Gotham Academy on the matter. I am certain he will be able to get to the bottom of it." His smarmy grin, accompanied by a devious glint in his eyes, has him on the verge of striking the old man down.

With a small shake of her head, she disarms the tempest churning in his chest. He inhales deeply through his nose, deftly moves beside her, and places his hand on the small of her back.

"Thank you both for your time," he barely succeeds at keeping the venom from his voice, "but I will be stealing this gorgeous woman for a moment." Before Bran has the chance to object, he applies light pressure to her back, which prompts her to start walking.

They walk in silence. The only sound remaining is that of idle chatter and the reverberating clacking of her heels. Neither of them dares to stop until they are on the far side of the ballroom. She releases a deep breath and allows her shoulders to relax slightly before turning to stand directly in front of him.

As she blinks up at him from under her pristinely curled, dark lashes, he can see the tension seep out, leaving behind a weariness that tightens his chest. He pushes her closer to him with the hand that’s already on her back as he says, "You look ravishing, Habibti."

She gives a shaky smile before replying, "You clean up quite nicely yourself, Mr. Wayne."

Grimacing at her use of his father’s name, he amends with, "Just Damian, or darling, or preferably any other pet name."

She lets out an earnest chuckle, which helps relax her shoulders a bit. "So you wouldn’t mind if I called you my shmoogily moogily?" He can’t bring himself to cringe at the awful name because the light in her eyes that he has so desperately missed has returned.

Loving the teasing tone, which he finds so arousing, he bends his head down and whispers, "You can call me anything, as long as "mine" is at the top of your list."

She sucks in a breath at his blatantly flirty response. "Well, well, well, who thought my little oogily boogily would be so amiable?" She says between smiles.

Audibly groaning, he says, "I’m going to regret that, aren’t I?"

"Oh, absolutely," she fires back with a deliciously wicked glint in her eyes.

Unable to stop himself, he asks, "Are you alright?" with genuine concern, knotting his brow. Taken aback, she blinks a couple of times before nodding. "Yes. I can’t believe he brought up Jackson like that," she says, now chewing her bottom lip absentmindedly. Her eyes take on a faraway look as they remain silent for a moment.

"He knows something. That is clear to me now," Damian softly replies. She is no longer looking at him but rather staring past him as she nods her head in agreement. Suddenly, her eyes snap back to his as she asks, "Do you really think Jackson told the headmaster what happened?"

Before he can quell the rising panic in her voice, she says, "I mean, if he did, wouldn’t we have been called into his office already?" cutting his reply off. With an artificial nonchalance, he calmly reminds her, "If he truly said something, we would know by now."

She nods her head vigorously, repeatedly mumbling, "Yeah, of course," before he continues, "He may suspect, but without concrete evidence, witness testimonials, or indisputable confessions, they will not be able to trace it back to us."

As she absorbs his rationale, the tension in her muscles slacks. Knowing that it is his words that are putting her at ease makes his chest blossom with a pillowy content he’s never experienced before. Yearning to turn this night into a more pleasurable experience for her, he is about to suggest that they sneak off when an older couple comes up to them.

"The two of you certainly make a handsome couple." At their statement, she snaps her head around, surprise lightening her features before the telltale sign of embarrassment reddens her cheeks. Clearing her throat, she says, "Oh, why thank you. That is very kind of you to say."

There’s the (Y/N) he knows.

They turn themselves to face the elderly yet graceful couple, whose eyes radiate a warm welcome. "You must be the Soulmate, dear; I apologize for not knowing your name," the older woman says. She is one of the few guests who doesn’t wear her affluence plainly. In fact, both she and her partner wear subdued yet high-quality garments.

"Oh, it’s quite alright. My name is (Y/N), and I am indeed Damian’s Soulmate," she says while a blush creeps down her neck. Damian finds her uncontrollable blushing to be incredibly endearing. His chest constricts as he watches her converse with this seemingly humble couple. She laughs at something they say, throwing her head back, which makes the strain in his pants more uncomfortable.

Unable to stop himself, he moves his hand from the small of her back to her waist, pulling her tighter to his side. She huffs out a small breath and gives him an incredulous look, as if to convey that we’re committing a crime.

After a few moments of them trading compliments and short anecdotes of him in his formative years that have her sputtering in disbelief, they move on to speak with others. But his hand remains tightly around her while he bends down to her ear and whispers, "Don’t look so guilty, beloved; we’re Soulmates, this is to be expected."

She playfully smacks his chest in response but doesn’t move out of his grasp, which makes his chest rumble in approval. The lights dim slightly, and the tempo of the music slows to a steady romantic rhythm. Noticing the shift in mood, she looks at him and asks, "Would you like to dance, my reigning gumdrop?" while batting her eyelashes dramatically.

Chuckling, he shakes his head before responding, "I’m not much of a dancer, but if it’s what you desire, I will bow to your wishes."

Heat flares in her gaze as her chest begins to rise and fall more swiftly. "How very considerate of you, darling, but perhaps instead you can give me that tour I asked for," she asks innocently. Looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes once again, her luscious lips part slightly in anticipation. He swallows gruffly.

"I would love nothing more," is all he can manage to say.

What is she doing to him?

He pulls himself together and scans the room quickly, noting everyone’s location. His father and Drake are deeply embedded in a discussion with several people, while Grayson is flirting with the pretty young photographer, and Todd is standing off to the side, double-fisting champagne alone. Bran, on the other hand, is across the room speaking with other guests but continuously refocuses his gaze on her.

Damian meets his gaze and narrows his eyes, which he smirks at before returning his focus to the man in front of him. Satisfied, Damian moves his hand to the small of her back once more, lightly directing her toward the side doors.

Since this event is being held at Wayne Enterprises, he has top-level clearance and can go wherever he so pleases. As they walk out of the ballroom, their shoulders relax as the only sounds they hear are her heels and his dress shoes clacking against the stone floor.

He spends the next 10 minutes genuinely showing the large kitchen, meeting rooms, and board room where the important decisions are made. We do a full lap around this floor before coming to a stop in front of the large oak double doors that lead to Bruce’s office. An idea sparks in his mind as he sends her a mischievous smile that makes her immediately suspicious.

"What’s that look on your face?" she says hesitantly.

"Would you like a thorough tour, or should we stop here?" He asks. She hesitates for a moment, and he watches as she goes back and forth, but ultimately curiosity prevails.

"Well, now that you’ve piqued my curiosity, a thorough tour it is." He smiles widely at her uncertain tone and pulls out one of 5 key cards. He grabs her hand and pulls her along as he swipes it past a sensor that lights up green before a low-clicking sound is made. With the hand not holding hers, he pushes open one of the large oak doors and leads her into his father’s massive office.

"You’re one of only a dozen people to have seen the inside of the enigmatic Bruce Wayne’s office," he says, looking over his shoulder at her. She doesn’t answer him as her eyes go wide at the luxurious stone and glass accents of the massive space. Her mouth hangs slightly open, making his dick throb.

Once she's done a 360-degree turn, he lightly tugs her into him, garnering her undivided attention. "What do you think?" He asks, genuinely curious.

"It's — something alright," her diplomatic response earns a hearty laugh from him.

"It’s atrocious, darling; you can say it." He says teasingly. Tsking, She fakes being offended and says, "It's... it’s not THAT bad," while looking around the office. Laughing at her flustered complexion, he finally decides enough is enough and crashes his mouth down on hers.

He hauls her flush against my chest as he feels more than hear a soft gasp escape her softly parted lips. A shiver shoots up his spine as he relishes the softness of her body against his. Arms tightly wrapped around her waist, he deepens the kiss, eliciting a delectable moan.

There is nothing delicate, innocent, or sweet about this kiss.

His pulse skips when she brings her small hands around his neck and burys them in his hair. As his hands begin to wander across her body, he grunts his approval, loving the smooth silk and lace beneath his finger but wishing it was skin.

A slight tremor shoots through her body when his hands dip below her back and squeezes her perky ass, pulling her ever further into him. Her tongue caresses his, startling him in the best way possible—with heat ripping through his body and his co*ck straining uncomfortably against his pants.

She steps back for a moment, her chest heaving in tandem with his as we both stare breathlessly at each other. Her eyes are glassy, and her parted lips have him craving more while he brings his hands back to respectably grip her waist.

"What do you think you’re doing?" She asks, licking her lips. Quirking an eyebrow, he says, "Holding you."

"I prefer how you were holding me before," she says in a sultry voice as her eyes darken with desire. A slow smile creeps up his face as he presses himself into her further and whispers, "Your wish is my command, Habibti."

Not giving her a chance to respond, he kisses her again, promptly returning his calloused hands to her perfect, decadent ass. Her moan against his mouth is his undoing, and he begins ravishing her lips with such intensity that a small part of him fears she will break.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she reciprocates with equal passion as her shaking hands claw down his back and grip my shirt tightly. Needing more, he effortlessly lifts her, hands still firmly on her round ass, earning a surprised yelp from her as she instinctually wraps her legs around him.

Damian never thought he’d be thankful for a dress, but tonight he is. The slit gives him perfect access to her bare thigh on one side, while his other hand grips her silk-covered ass. His dick throbbing in his pants painfully makes him groan into her mouth, which she welcomes with her own pleasure-filled whimper.

With her in his arms and her legs wrapped around his waist, she tilts her head downward to meet his lips, which makes her hair fan around our faces. In our own private little world that her beautiful (H/C) hair provides, she pulls away slightly and stares at him with her innocent glassy eyes before whispering, "You should put me down; I’m too heavy."

He snorts before rebutting, "Absolutely not; my warm-up bench press weighs more than you." At his response, lust floods her eyes, and before she knows it, his mouth descends on hers again. This time, he squeezes us so tightly that there is no room between us.

His heart pounds throughout his entire body as her warm core rubs against his raging erection. She shudders in his arms as he rhythmically rubs himself into her over and over again.

"Damian," she moans into his mouth. The sound of his name on her lips nearly has his knees buckling. In response, he walks over to the edge of the large desk and sets her on it. Her legs don't unfurl from around his waist as she pulls him down with a hand behind his neck.

We’re just teeth and tongues clashing and hands grasping at each other as she keeps rocking against his hardness. She grabs him by the lapels and begins kissing down along his jaw, sending waves after waves of pleasure down his spine. With his hands securely planted on either side of her on the desk, she flicks her tongue over a vein just below his jaw that has a moan ripping out of him.

She licks, nibbles, and flicks her way around his neck, which has his eyes rolling to the back of his head in ecstasy. At any moment, he feels as if he will burst, and he cannot allow that. Painfully, he pulls away slightly, which has her eyes snapping up to his.

"What’s wrong?" She laces her question with genuine concern as panic floods her eyes.

"Absolutely nothing, darling," he says soothingly, kissing the inside of her wrist.

"Oh," is her only response as her eyes flutter briefly closed.

"It’s my turn to ravish you," he says, looking at her with his tongue against her beating pulse. "Do you trust me?"

"Implicitly," she moans out.

God, that admission alone has him holding back his org*sm.

"Good," he growls before lowering his mouth to her neck. Another whimper escapes her mouth, which shoots another shot of pleasure straight to his groin. Against her neck, he admits, "You are going to ruin me." He feels her pulse jump against his lips before he pulls away and looks deeply into her lust-clouded eyes. His hands trail down her body and make their way under her dress, squeezing her smooth thighs.

Unable to stay away, he feverishly kisses her again as her hands wrap around his neck. Ever so slowly, he moves his hands up her thighs, hiking the gown up as he goes, and stops when he feels the waistband of her lace thong.

Her breath hitches as she pulls away and looks at him for a moment before nodding her head ever so slightly. Wrapping his hands around the delicate fabric, he slowly brings them down her legs, his knuckles grazing her soft skin. She doesn’t say anything, but her breathing gets heavier as her chest rises and falls with it more rapidly.

Flicking his gaze downward, he is almost undone by the glistening evidence of her passion. Releasing a shuddering breath, he licks his lips before looking into her eyes for permission. She's biting her bottom lip, now swollen, and nods.

That’s all he needed to see.

He sinks to his knees slowly, always maintaining contact with her skin as he does. There is something so erotic about being on his knees before her that it has him thinking about calculus to stave off the org*sm. He rubs his thumbs in small circles on her inner thighs, loving how her juices have dripped down. Kissing her inner thigh, she scoots forward when he raises her legs over his shoulders.

The heat of his breath on her core has her shuddering. Pressing his tongue on the inside of her thigh, he licks all the way up to her center, allowing the saliva to dribble down the side. She writhes and squirms against him as he presses his tongue flat against her cl*t before lightly flicking it.

She moans at the sensation as her hands grip his hair and her nails dig deliciously into his scalp. Like a man starving, he alternates between long, slow licks and fast flicks, feasting on her. Unable to help himself, he digs his fingers into her flesh while he devours and ravishes her beautiful puss*.

Flicking and twirling his tongue, he can taste the sweetness of her feminine aroma before he uses his teeth to gently tug at her cl*t. She throws her head back as he quickly flicks the tip of his tongue over her most sensitive part, and she explodes in his mouth. She squeezes his head lightly with her thighs as wave after wave of her org*sm crashes through her, calling out his name as it does.

Panting heavily, she slowly blinks to open her eyes and relaxes her thighs. He slowly stands up and kisses her lips, which are still covered in her juice, before sliding her underwear back up. Her eyes are ablaze as she opens and closes her mouth repeatedly, at a loss for words.

He smirks at her, knowing that he is solely responsible for her pleasure.

"That was... that was... that was... I... there aren’t even words," she mumbles.

Standing up, she almost collapses, but he catches her around the waist as her shaking legs take a moment to adjust. He laughs lowly as her face flushes and she averts her gaze. Lifting her chin, he bores into her eyes before saying, "There is nothing to be embarrassed about (Y/N)."

She gives him a small smile before noticing his erection eyes widening and quietly asking, "What about your needs?" Her concern for him warms his heart and sends his pulse racing before he answers, "There is no need to fret; I’m quite alright."

Biting her bottom lip, she looks at him in disbelief as her eyes jump back and forth between his eyes and his very hard co*ck. "You sure about that?" She asks, heat already slithering back into her gaze.

Laughing outright, he says between breaths, "Yes, and anyway, we have been gone for a while. We need to head back into the party after freshening up." Her eyes sparkle humorously as she nods, and we make our way to the private bathroom attached to the office.

While she reapplies her lipstick and adjusts her dress, he combs water through his hair with his fingers and shifts his dick up into the waistband of his underwear to minimize the obvious boner he has. Shifting his attention back to her, he sees her brow furrow as she wets a paper towel and leaves the bathroom. Curious, he follows her and feels a shooting surprise pulse through him when she sheepishly wipes down the spot on the desk where she sat.

Before he can comment on it, she turns around and barks out, "Not a word," with narrowing eyes, which makes him throw his head back in laughter.

Chapter 20: What Do Old Men Have In Common: Their Nefarious Plans, Of Course

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

The heat of my embarrassment as I gently wipe down the surface of his father’s desk sobers me from the high I just experienced. As Damian leans against the doorframe of the ensuite bathroom with amusem*nt lightening his eyes, I clear my throat and bark out, "Not a word." Despite my best attempt at scowling at him, he simply throws his head back and unleashes a throaty laugh that has my thighs slick at the recent memory of where his devious mouth just was.

Huffing a breath through my nose, I brush past him to reenter the mammoth ensuite that is larger than most people’s entire living room. I approach the sink and silently send thanks to the bathroom gods for inventing wall mirrors with vanity lights built into them.

Looking at my complexion once again, I make sure that the sharp lines of my lipstick are back in place before finger-combing the stray pieces of my hair into their designated space. Satisfied with my outward appearance, I do a quick 360 twirl before exiting.

On the way out, I shoot Damian what I hope is a sultry grin, which he reciprocates before slapping my ass. I squeal as the impact makes me jump a little before an uncontrollable laugh bubbles up. Twisting around, a smile edges across my face as I lean forward and start tickling his abdomen mercilessly.

Damn. Those are some rock-solid abs.

Despite my vicious attack, he simply chuckles, slips his hands into his pockets, and gives me a crooked smile. I gape up at him as the realization that he’s not even remotely ticklish dawns on me. I’m certain that I look like a fish out of water before I clamp my mouth shut, teeth clacking, and switch gears.

I am now absolutely hell-bent on getting a reaction out of this man, so I sharply lift my twitching fingers to his underarms, going in for the kill shot.

To no avail.

He remains stony-faced, if a bit entertained by my dire efforts.

Nothing.

"What the f*ck?" I whisper under my breath. Entirely exasperated by my lack of success, I look up at him, perturbed and in awe of his resilience. "C’mon, there is no way that you’re not ticklish," I murmur.

The only response I get is a slight tilt of his head and a shoulder shrug. Defeated, I drop my arms to my sides and stomp toward the door with a huff.

Oh, I’ll get him. Maybe I just need to wait when he’s least expecting it.

He follows closely behind me as I make my way to the massive oak doors that have secretly housed us this past half hour. Cracking the door, I take the soft glow of the floor lights as a comforting sign that we’re in the clear and slip out into the hall.

Turning around, I watch Damian silently close the door behind him, which gives a faint ‘click’ to let us know that it is once again locked.

The sacred office of Bruce Wayne is even more sacred now. At least for us.

Wordlessly, he gives me his outstretched hand while turning his head left and right to make sure we’re truly alone. Taking it, I revel in the way the warm, rough skin of his hand has the power to send licks of heat dancing up my arm.

As we begin walking back to the ballroom, I feel as if the clicking of our shoes has a certain guilty pitch to it. I can only imagine how Bran’s fury will be unleashed on me once we return home.

I inwardly flinch at the thought but quickly sweep it away. I will not allow thoughts of him to tarnish this memory. It is too dear to me. This was our first truly intimate experience. I have never been so exposed to someone and yet felt so utterly safe. As the images come rushing back with each step we take, I try my best to breathe deeply in an effort to stave off the heat rising up my neck like a criminal caught in the act.

We take several turns before the delicate sounds of piano cords hitting their marks begin to filter through the hall. Not wanting this moment to end, I slow slightly, which catches Damian’s attention. With furrowed eyebrows, he eyes me with concern before he stops us.

Looking at me tenderly, he whispers, "Is everything alright, Habibti?" I smile at his favorite endearment for me - which I still do not know the meaning of, and reply, "Of course," hesitantly.

Not satisfied with my answer, he steps closer, casting a shadow over me from the harsh hall lights triggered by our movement, and scrutinizes every facial micromovement. While his eyes dance across my face, I take this time to truly soak in the last moments. Not wanting to worry him, I smiled up at him and rub my hands up his arms.

"Everything is perfect; I just don’t want this moment to end," I admit solemnly. I can see the tension visibly drain from his face as his boyish features finally return. He gives me a soft smile and says, "Me too, darling, but we’ll always have this memory," now resting his hands on my waist.

"Nothing can take this away from us," he says with a wicked glint entering his eyes, "and I’m certain we’ll have many more like it in the future." The bold statement gets my heart racing as excitement begins buzzing through my body. Before I can convey my excitement, we hear the telltale signs of a strong stride coming toward us.

We break apart quickly, but Damian angles his body slightly in front of mine to shield me from whomever it may be. I suck in a sharp breath when I recognize the footfalls of Bran rapidly heading in our direction.

Oh sh*t.

Before he even comes into view, I can tell how upset he is. His stride always carries a certain rhythm when he’s in a bad mood. On the nights he comes up the stairs like that, I barricade my door with a chair under the door handle, making sure not to make a sound.

However, at this moment, there will be no wall to separate me from his wrath. All I have is Damian. As he rounds the corner, Damian’s shoulders go stiff as he recognizes the perpetrator who ruined our tender moment.

"There you are," he annunciates sharply. Knowing him, he would be yelling at me by now, but with Damian as a buffer, he can only take it so far. I sneak a quick glance toward my Soulmate, cataloging his impassive expression except for the subtle tick in his jaw.

Returning my attention to Bran, I’m surprised by the ‘concern’ on his face as he comes to stand before us. "I was worried about you (Y/N)," he says delicately, "you’ve been gone for nearly 45 minutes," with a hint of fear threaded in for good measure.

"I’ve taken her on a tour of our expansive offices," Damian explains mildly. Bran rakes his eyes over him for a second, before doing the same to me.

Inspecting us, no doubt.

With a tight smile in place, he says, "Well, everyone misses you both terribly," as he gestures for us to follow. We silently obey and fall into step with the older man.

He sends us a sideways glance and casually says, "You know, it is awfully rude to disappear at a function like this. Especially as one of the hosts." He pointedly looks at Damian with mock disappointment.

Completely unbothered by Bran’s admonishment, Damian doesn’t even spare him a glance, despite him burning a hole through the side of his head with his sharp glare.

"I find it more important to show my Soulmate around the building she’ll be frequenting in the future," he smoothly responds. A jolt of surprise goes through me at his statement. I have never really thought that far down the line before. "After all, not only will I be working here, but one day I will run the entirety of Wayne Enterprises. It’s best she gets accustomed to the vast layout now."

A small smile creeps onto my face, which I easily hide from Bran since he’s too astonished by Damian’s words to notice. Picking up on the finality of his tone, Bran refocuses his gaze on the hall before us as we enter the ballroom.

Since the evening is nearing its end, the crowd has thinned and the lights have dimmed, making the trees cast romantic shadows on the floor. Our entrance catches the attention of some of the stragglers, who politely smile before returning to their important conversation.

Thankfully, Bran slithers away to rejoin a group of huddled men who are more than likely negotiating. A group of men, including Lionel Anders, unfortunately, who is one of those that noticed our absence. His eyes flickered between us before narrowing slightly. He gives us a tight smile before reentering the conversation.

I’m about to ask him if he thought Lionel’s reaction was weird when a photographer comes to stand directly in front of us and says, "Closer, please," while making the accompanying hand gesture. Stifling a groan, I take a small step closer and wrap my arm around his waist while he does the same. With his hand resting on my hip nostalgically, a bright flash blinds me as the snap of the camera shutter goes off.

The photographer looks down for a brief moment before exclaiming, "Perfect, thank you," and heads off to take more candid photos of the patrons.

"How much do you want to bet that picture will be on the cover of the society papers?" Damian drawls. Chuckling, I say, "I don’t even think a death in the family would top that." He smirks at me in response before we walk in the opposite direction of Bran and the photographer.

Unsure of where Damian is leading me, I remain silent and politely smile at those who greet us as we pass by. His brothers and father come into view as I sigh in contentment.

Thank goodness.

Jason is the first to notice us as he smiles brightly, a glint of knowing reflecting in his crystalline eyes. "Well, well, well, it looks like the mystery of the vanishing couple has been solved," he says cheekily.

Heat rises to my cheeks as we come to stand before them. Looking at the group of unreasonably tall, well-dressed, and handsome men, I can’t help but feel dwarfed despite my heels. "Enough of that, Jason," Bruce says in an endearing tone. I smile at him in silent appreciation as the others eye us with restrained amusem*nt.

"So (Y/N), what did you think of your first Wayne gala?" Dick asks with an embellished woosh of his hands. They all watch me expectantly in silence before I say, "It was wonderful." In return, the boys give me a disbelieving look as their eyebrows raise in accusation.

Leaning toward me Jason gives me a dull look as he flatly says, "Really? Wonderful?" I chuckle at his response and decide to be honest. "Alright, fine, it was a little painful," I admit with a wry grin. Tim and Dick nod their heads while Jason, who is sufficiently drunk, drapes his arm around my shoulder and shakes me a little before slurring, "See, that right there is why she’s one of us." Despite his being drunk, his words burrow into my chest, and a blossom of hope sprouts.

"Oh, you know what I’d kill for right now?... Pesto pasta," Jason excitedly proclaims, now leaning into me more. At the mention of pasta, Dick and Tim make a light oohing sound as we begin debating the best way to make pesto. For the next several minutes, Dick and Jason team up against Tim on the ratio of vegetable oil to olive oil, how many heads of garlic should go in, and if there is such a thing as too much parmesan.

"No, dude, listen, if you want a creamy texture without the overpowering flavor of oil, you can only use a splash of olive oil; otherwise, it gets bitter," Dick passionately explains.

"No shot. That is essentially nullifying the best part of pesto," Tim defends, his shoulders now practically grazing his ears as he becomes tenser. The rest of us swivel our heads as if we’re watching a tennis match while they go back and forth.

"Dude, you drink black coffee straight, like five times a day. I can’t trust that your taste buds work properly anymore," Jason responds to Tim’s latest rebuttal. The heated conversation gets louder as they continue to bicker. It’s at the point where Jason’s adrenaline has kicked in, and now he is sober enough to no longer lean on me for support.

The three of them are practically red-faced when I interject, "Guys, why debate the right ratios when Costco has already perfected it?" Their ‘conversation’ comes to a halt. Looking at me dumbfounded, they share a glance before Dick gets all serious and inquires, "What Costco pesto?"

Now all three of them sport identical inquisitive looks while I explain, "You know, only the best pesto on the planet!" They blink in response. "Oh. My. God. You’ve never tried it?" I excitedly ask. My eyes have gone wide in the realization that these poor souls have never been graced with the delight of the most creamy, delicious basil concoction on the planet.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I can barely contain my excitement as I do my best to give an in-depth recount of exactly what it tastes like. They hang on to every word, even Damian, the self-proclaimed hater of ‘repetitive’ Italian food, is invested. Bruce, on the other hand, clearly could not care less.

By the time I’m done, they are practically salivating, and I’m nearly certain that Jason does actually have drool dribbling down his chin. "You guys haven’t lived until you’ve tried their pesto and their rotisserie chicken," I claim, making sure to emphasize "lived’.

Dick snap replies, "What time does Costco close on the weekends?"

I give him a dreaded "I'm sorry’ look and break the bad news, "6 p.m. tragically." Several ungentlemanly curses are mumbled, which earns a small smile from Bruce just before he reprimands them for their language.

I’m so invested in this conversation that I startle when Damian places his hand on my waist and leans down to whisper, "Bran is inbound." The smile slips from my face for a fraction of a second, which I can tell he notices by the slight crease forming between his brows.

Before he can ask me about it, Bran is standing before our group, looking slightly put out by not being included in this jovial conversation.

"I hate to ruin the splendor," he says a bit bitterly, "but I’m afraid it is time for (Y/N) and I to take our leave." A sadness descends on me as the night comes crashing to a close, which means I will now have to return to the bleak reality that is Bran Toremin.

I nod my head slightly toward Bran, who beams brilliantly and extends his hand to Bruce, to express his gratitude. "Thank you for inviting us to this lovely evening, Mr.Wayne. It has been a pleasure to meet you all." He dips his chin to each of them respectfully before returning his false gratitude to the host.

"I’m pleased to hear you have enjoyed yourself this evening," Bruce responds graciously, his tone strong and even. "The Wayne Foundation appreciates your large charitable donation," he concludes. A small part of me delights at the fact that he didn’t offer Bran to call him by his first name.

Bran’s smile widens at the mention of his donation before he turns his attention to Damian and remarks, "You are quite the young man, my (Y/N) is lucky to have found you." For some reason, his words bore into me, searing shame deep within my skin. However, that shame quickly evolves into bitter resentment as my nostrils flare uncontrollably.

God, I want to punch this man.

Completely oblivious to my rising anger, Damian smoothly contradicts, "No, sir, I am the one who is lucky to have found (Y/N)," in a tone that leaves no room for debate. As the words sink in, Bran’s facade cracks just a little as his right eye twitches almost imperceptibly. Emboldened by his proclamation, for the first time ever, I smirk at Bran Toremin, and boy does it feel like heaven when I see a vein in his forehead pop.

His outward appearance remains sincere and kind, but I can see the shadows whipping wildly in his eyes.

Oh, I’m going to pay for this later, but it’s so worth it.

Having no other option but to backpeddle, he concedes, "Of course, you’re both incredibly fortunate to have found each other. And so young!" The smile on his face must be killing him, but for me, it gives an exhilarating jolt of life.

We continue with our goodbyes, and I’m surprised to receive a hug from each of them, especially Bruce, who even includes a light squeeze. Smiling at them, I turn to Damian, who envelopes me in a tight hug before he plants a gentle kiss on my cheek.

I’m reluctant to let go, but at this point, whatever prying eyes remain are glued to us, so I step back and give his hand a light squeeze before turning around and walking through the ballroom entrance with Bran in tow.

Once we’re out of sight, he puts his hand on the small of my back, ushering me forward at a much faster pace than when we entered. As we reach the lobby, I notice that there are still photographers outside, waiting to take more photos of departing guests.

It takes nearly all my willpower to refrain from making a ‘distasteful’ face, as Bran would put it. His attitude immediately shifts from seething disquiet to relaxed satisfaction as we approach the onslaught.

With a smile plastered on his certainly aching face, he says through his teeth, "Smile or so help me, god," which reflexively makes me comply. I hate that his threats work on me, but at this point, I am already in enough trouble as it is, so happy-go-lucky persona it is.

The doors fling open, and we’re immediately blinded by the flashing lights as we painstakingly begin our very leisurely pace back down the carpet. The journalists waiting with the photographers are incredibly generous to wait for us to make it halfway before they begin barraging us with questions about the event, attendees, and hosts.

Mercifully, there must be a god on my side because Bran doesn’t stop to answer their questions and remains silent. Finally, we reach the vehicle, and a smartly dressed valet opens the door for us. Ever the gentleman, Bran gestures for me to enter the limo first before climbing in himself. The door closes behind him, drowning out the sounds of reporters and the epileptic flashes of their lights.

Despite my mind’s desire to relax, my body refutes the instinct and tenses further. It’s not until we’ve driven far enough to where the city is firmly slumbering that Bran’s eyes grill into me and demands, "What is this business with the Anders boy Lionel was talking about?" I swallow past the dry husk of my throat and reply, "It was just a scuffle at a party that is being blown out of proportion," sedately.

He surveys my face and considers my words when his nostrils flare, as if he can smell the lies on my breath. The limo is dark, save for the dim lights along the bar and under the seats, but with the help of the street lights blurring past, I can see the wheels of his mind turning.

"It better be," he responds, malice weaving through every syllable. I know better than to say anything more. Not that I even have the energy to, especially since I know what is to come when we get home. Closing my eyes but keeping my other senses sharp, I start mentally preparing for the worst as the car rolls to a stop.

Wow, look MORE paparazzi!

Thankfully, the walk to our front door is far shorter, but the downside is that there are no ropes separating us from them. Yet, the absolute worst part is that Bran must wrap his arm around me ‘protectively’ while we make our way through the crowd.

The second we are behind the closed doors of the townhouse, he drops his arm from around my shoulder as if touching me will give him boils. The dim light of the chandelier casts an ominous glow around us as I patiently wait for him to demand that I go to his office.

But that doesn’t happen. As a matter of fact, the second he severs physical contact, he turns his back to me and wordlessly goes upstairs. Stupified, I stand perfectly still for several moments, afraid that breathing out loud will remind him to punish me. Listening to his footfalls on the carpet runner, I heave a shuttering sigh of relief as I trace his steps to his bedroom. It's only when the final click of his bedroom door closes that the death grip on my muscles releases.

Through many years of practice, I quickly and quietly run to my room without disturbing a single creaky floorboard and lock the door behind me. Now, breathing heavily, my heart racing, and with shaking hands, I deftly remove my jewelry, gown, and heels. I stumble into the bathroom as my sore feet readjust to flat surfaces.

This is too good to be true.

Frigid trepidation grips my lungs and squeezes hard as I find myself struggling to suck in enough air. I double over and lean heavily on the counter of my sink as my mind races a mile a minute, trying to discern what new levels of hell he is going to put me through. Somehow, this is so much worse.

Numbly, I go through my skincare routine and stare at the reflection of my vacant (E/C) eyes. Robotically, I plug in my phone, taking solace in the small fact that I can sleep in tomorrow. However, sleep does not come, and for what feels like days, my mind conjures up the most horrifying and gruesome scenarios of different ways Bran will surely torment me.

______________________________________________________________________________

Monday:

Just as I thought, waking up to a shrill alarm is as relaxing as a hungry cat climbing your leg for food. Groaning, I throw my covers off as the sunlight peaks through the pesky cracks of my closed curtains. Groggily, I go through the motions of getting ready for school as I recount my blissfully boring weekend.

I had the luxury of not having to leave my bedroom, save for the moments when my hunger pains became too demanding and I had to sneak into the kitchen for some food. Bran, too, remained firmly in either his bedroom or his office. I waited with bated breath, expecting him to come knocking at my door at any minute. But he didn’t.

It both relieved me and stressed me out to no end. Sam and I had FaceTimed about the gala as she excitedly sent article after article of Damian and I plastered on the cover about us becoming the new ‘it couple’.

Oh, how fickle the media was.

It seems they have completely moved on from my illegal Marylin Monroe moment and Damian's scintillating ‘indiscretions’. Suspiciously, when I googled my own name, (yes, I did that), the oh-so-infamous picture of me was nowhere to be found. Granted, I didn’t look all that hard, and honestly, I was grateful for it.

Now, the trending photo was of Damian and me at the gala, with a wide range of speculations and ‘inside’ sources claiming to know what happened. Comically, none of them were remotely accurate. Knowing that I could trust Sam, I told her about most of the events that occurred behind the closed doors of his father’s office. Everything except for that one thing.

Damian and I also FaceTimed, although with Bran in the house, I kept them short and sweet. Fortunately, he flew out early this morning and isn’t scheduled to come back for at least a week.

By the time I climb into the back of Damian’s car, I feel more refreshed and awake, which I’m certain has something to do with the good morning kiss I received from my Soulmate. Humming with delight, I lean back into my seat as Damian reaches over me to put my seatbelt on.

Rolling my eyes at him, I say, "You know, I do know how to put one of these weird contraptions on," blandly. He shoots me a lopsided grin and a wink as he relaxes into his own seat. "You can never be too careful these days," he fires back uncharacteristically.

I shake my head and communicate my insincere disapproval through various eyebrow motions, which he returns with his own rendition. Chuckling at his best attempt to tell me to deal with it through facial muscles, we conclude with intertwined fingers, silently watching the city come to life with a new day.

We make it to school without incident, but of course, nothing can go smoothly for too long. As we enter the halls of Gotham Academy, we are instantly greeted by whispers and stolen glances from the student body.

"Let me guess," I lean in to whisper to Damian, "they discovered that scandalous gala photo." His hand squeezes my own in affirmation as we continue down the halls, studiously ignoring their stares.

Well, I guess this is better than before.

With our fingers still interlocked, I allow him to weave us through the crowd as I keep my eyes cast downward in an effort to stave off the spidery feeling of so many eyes on me. I’m not confident that this will ever get easier, but at least I know that we’re in this together.

A familiar squeal has my eyes snapping upward as Sam jogs toward us before she stops just shy of an inch away.

"You guys are totally like the new Angelina and Brad Pitt," she exclaims, "but minus the whole messy divorce thing." She amends quickly, wrinkling her nose. Breaking contact with Damian, I go to hug her as her infectious joy immediately lifts the heaviness around me.

Craning my neck, I mouth an appreciative ‘thank you’ as Damian steps back while Sam and I head off arm in arm to Mr. Reiner’s class. Looking back over my shoulder, butterflies flutter in my stomach as I see him trail closely behind us, flinging withering looks at anyone who tries to approach us.

We’re just about to stop with the other meandering students when Headmaster Hammer’s office swings wide open, banging loudly against the unfortunate wall. Startled, we stop dead in our tracks, Damian coming close enough behind me that I can feel his body heat radiate off him. The students fall silent, watching in anticipation as his head pivots furiously.

A cinder block settles in my stomach when his eyes zero in on us. Even from this distance, I can see him clench his jaw. Students part like the red seas as he storms toward us, with none of his usual rigid composure.

When he reaches us, he silently glares at Sam, effectively dismissing her without a word. She gives me an apologetic look as she walks into the classroom. Damian immediately fills her vacant spot and curtly asks, "What is this about?"

He barely acknowledges his presence before gritting his teeth and saying, "My office, please," and turning on his heel. Sparing a disbelieving peek at Damian, we begin following. Now, students are staring at us for an entirely different reason, ushering in a new frenzy of whispers. Solemnly, we enter the familiar office as he holds the door open for us.

With a loud bang, the door slams shut, and we turn around to see a vision of fury. I thought he lacked composure before, but now I can see I was completely wrong. His entire face is red, and he looks like he’s about to start frothing at the mouth. Moving to stand behind his desk, with silent, jerky motions, he orders us to take a seat. Taking a deep breath, he grounds out, "Now, would either one of you care to explain why I have received a call from Lionel Anders claiming that you two are solely responsible for his son's," using air quotes, "grave injuries?"

If I were in front of a mirror now, I’m pretty certain I’d see my jaw hit the floor.

That motherf*cking absolute piece of shi-

"Hmmmmm?" He groans, his eyes wildly flickering between us. Neither of us speaks.

Taking another, yet longer, deep breath, he says in an eerily calm voice, "One of you better say something or I’ll have you both expelled, understood?"

Oh sh*t.

Chapter 21: Reaping What You Sow

Chapter Text

Damian's POV: Monday

The headmaster has sequestered them in his banal office. It conforms to his achromatic personality with its bleached walls and threadbare faux leather seats that are starting to discolor from the many oily hands that have rested upon them. Between his boisterous demands and the humming of the citrine-hued lights, a low pounding begins to take residence behind his eyes.

Taking another, yet longer, deep breath, he says in an eerily calm voice, "One of you better say something or I’ll have you both expelled, understood?"

The ice enveloping Damian’s veins would typically render a middling human stupified, but with Damian’s "stress management" training, he is able to smoothly disregard his caprice.

However, casting his eyes on her, he becomes keenly aware that those words have shaken her. They may not breach his armor, but her apparent distress rips past it and skewers his chest.

A violent rush of anger seizes him as he watches the color drain from her face. Snapping his head back toward the perpetrator, he seethes, "On what grounds do you have to make such a preposterous statement?" He allows the asperity to bleed into his tone.

His question reduces the man to his wrathful base. It is evidenced by his right eye beginning to twitch, his unkempt nails curling into the cheap wood of his desk, and his nostrils flaring violently. The reaction elicits a sharp intake of breath from her as her wide eyes try to silently plead with him to stop.

Too late.

"On the grounds that you are a student at MY school and have violated several rules under the student handbook," he booms, nearly tripping over his words. The air thickens with humidity from his laborious breaths and domineering accusations.

Unwilling to look at her for fear that his control will snap, he unflinchingly stares the Headmaster in the eyes as he carefully inquires, "Firstly, am I mistaken for recalling that you once proclaimed that you were not responsible for what occurs off of school property?" He can see the exact moment that his past words come to haunt him. Now the Headmaster’s eyebrows descend heavily while he purses his lips. But before he rebuts, Damian holds up his hand, effectively cutting him off.

Tilting his head, he maintains his stare at the portly man. "Not only are those claims unverified speculations, but they are entirely inaccurate as well," he says, definitively.

At his statement, the aging-by-the-minute man roughly sits back against his creaky swivel chair. Clasping his hands together, he roughly sets them on the edge of his crossed legs as he surveys them carefully. Several moments pass as her rigid composure remains steadfast before he speaks, "Then do tell, what exactly occurred?"

Interesting. He is not defending his past statement.

He refrains from smirking at his silent victory before she and Damian share a quick look. He tries to convey that they need to tell him chronological events through a series of eyebrow motions. In response, she purses her lips, pondering the repercussions, before ultimately agreeing. Nodding his head, he grips the armrests tightly as he begins recounting the events of the party. He knows that it will now require Samantha’s testimony, which will upset (Y/N), but it is inescapable.

His recounting is concise and succinct. It is important to refrain from including any room for doubt or baseless observations that can later be torn apart. As he continues, he spares her a glance, to which she encouragingly nods her head in response. When he concludes, the Headmaster’s expression turns weary and contemplative.

The silence returns as he opens and closes his mouth multiple times. Finally, "Let me get this straight," he says uncertainly, "he attacked her first, in a bathroom upstairs, that you just so happened to pass at a loud house party?" He ends his question with a disbelieving look. Grinding his molars, Damian’s temper rears its head at this petulant man’s doubt.

She must notice his thinning patience because she rushes out, "It’s true. I went to the upstairs bathroom when Jackson cornered me. I was snarky, and he didn’t like that, so he slammed me against the wall," she looks sadly at him, "which Damian heard since he was already looking for me." They remain respectfully quiet as the emotion of that night causes her to swallow harshly. She begins picking her cuticles and blinking back the tears welling in her eyes.

He could kill Jackson for what he's done to her.

Continuing, she rasps, "Damian only used force when necessary. Only when he was protecting me. Once I was safe, we left immediately." Her hoarse voice grates against him. She isn’t looking either of them in the eye, probably feeling shame despite the emotion being entirely unwarranted. At least the Headmaster has the decency to respectfully nod his head and delicately mention, "I will need to bring Samantha in to corroborate your story."

Surprise lights up her eyes as they go wide with the realization of the dire nature of this situation. Her lips thin, and her jaw spasms as she allows reality to take root. She agrees softly, prompting him to stand and request that they wait in the sitting room while he pulls Sam from class.

Entering the adjoining waiting room, the bright lights assault his eyes as he blinks a few times for them to adjust before taking their seat against the wall of chairs facing the Headmaster’s door. Sitting side by side, he watches her pick her cuticles nervously as her head remains tucked, allowing her hair to drape around her face.

Gently, he takes her hands with one of his own and uses the other to push her hair behind her ear. Leaning forward, he watches her carefully, noting the gleam of her dispirited (E/C) eyes. A familiar vise of anxiety clamps around his heart as he sees how the full depth of this experience has enervated her.

She looks over to the secretary, who is either blissfully ignorant or actively ignoring them, before she licks her lips and whispers, "I’m so sorry, Dames." Her hot breath against his own lips shoots sparks of awareness through his body. He silently curses himself for the entirely inappropriate physical reaction.

Blissfully unaware of the conundrum in his pants, she says, "It’s my fault that this is happening in the first place. I should have never gone upstairs or even to that party, but I was just so sad with everything going on with the photo…" she begins rambling feverishly, "and at home and at school and with the weight of everyone watching."

Her eyes widen and her cheeks blush when she finally sucks in a deep breath. They sit there. Silent and still. His eyes narrow while he catalogs every micromovement and counts every rapid breath she takes.

At home?

He can’t help the frown that tugs on his mouth at those words she so quickly brushed past. Her eyes take on a defensive quality as she leans back and snatches her hands away, now resting motionless on her lap.

What just happened?

Unsure of how to proceed, he leans back into his own chair, not wanting to accidentally encroach on her personal space. Unfortunately, the words fall out on their own accord, "Why did you pull away?" He inwardly flinches as his unintended, stern tone further alienates her. Her jaw ticks slightly, and her lips thin as she considers his words.

Simply, she states, "I just need some space." Clearing her throat, she busies herself with her phone.

What?

More confused than ever, Damian refrains from pushing for an actual, non-avoidant answer and just watches as she scrolls aimlessly. Perhaps she feels overly emotional, guilty, or shameful for that night. Is she hungry? Thirsty? Could it be that time of the month?

His eyebrows knit at the thought. Not because he finds it revolting; it is completely natural, but rather because he is entirely inexperienced in how to handle it. His mother never educated him on the matter, and his father and four brothers certainly wouldn’t even know where to begin.

As his mind races on a myriad of scenarios or plausible causes for her detachment, he hears muffled voices from the Headmaster’s office. The youthful, feminine one presumably belongs to Sam. She hears it too and perks up immediately. The sudden movement causes the secretary to slant them a ‘no funny business’ look.

They will not be able to eavesdrop on their conversation with her nearby, and there is nothing he can do to get her to leave. If he didn’t know better, he’d be convinced that she was glued to her weathered, gray office chair.

She returns to clacking away loudly on her keyboard while simultaneously chewing gum loud enough for him to suspect she may have TMJ. He shifts uncomfortably in the wooden and steel chair, which catches (Y/N)’s attention. When his gaze meets hers, she quickly looks away, if not a little guiltily.

Interesting.

His nerves skyrocket as alarm shoots through his system. He can’t do it. He can’t just leave it at this. Leaning forward, he stares at her earnestly and allows his gut feeling to override, asking, "What else happened that night (Y/N)?"

Her eyes go wide with fear and… anger? Confused, he tries to reign in his instinct to kill something as he takes a deep breath. "I don’t know why you pulled away, but when you did, you looked defensive. That means that you’re hiding something from me because you feel guilty or because you want to protect me," he explains honestly.

Her mouth is set in a firm line as her eyes flutter shut for a moment while she tucks her chin down to her chest. The silence that fills the air begins to suffocate him as his heart hammers against his ribs in agonizing anticipation. The sound of chewing gum, keyboards, buzzing lights, and muffled voices all bleed away as tunnel vision assails him.

When did he begin breaking out in a cold sweat?

After what seems like forever, she lifts her head and looks at him with the most gut-wrenchingly resigned, glassy eyes he's ever seen. He’s never experienced his heart being ripped out, but he can most assuredly confirm that this must be what it feels like.

With a shaky breath and in a voice so low that he can barely hear, she says, "He forcefully kissed me." Blinking, he just stares as the words run through his brain before registering completely. Now, every one of his senses comes back with a vengeance as it overwhelms him. Sheer, utter, blistering rancor rips through his body as the image in his mind slams into him hard enough to steal his breath.

"He. What?" Damian asks, allowing the enmity to reside in his tone. She looks at him, scared and nervous. Taking his hands roughly, she leans forward, stopping just shy of their noses brushing, and elaborates, "He kissed me right before I kneed him in the balls." Her panicked eyes rove around his face. I’m certain she must be witnessing what the killing calm does to him, which just confuses and stresses her out more. Her brows furrow as she begins biting her bottom lip.

"Damian," she says, her voice cracking, "listen to me," now pleading, "I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you would react poorly." She watches his face, eagerly searching for signs of him relaxing. He isn’t. Pushing forward, she pleads, "I need you to look at me. Really look at me."

She has his hands in a vice grip stronger than he thought possible. However, he continues to stare unblinkingly at her as plan after plan formulates in his mind. He has gutted many vermin, but this one, in particular, he will relish. He will bathe in his blood and savor its silky warmth slipping between his fingers as he dies the most agonizing, drawn-out death he can conjure.

Forcefully breaking his daydream, she grabs his face and pulls it closer to her own, her nails lightly digging into his cheeks. With her own much-earned rage, she grits out, "Snap. The. f*ck. Out. Of. It." Her eyes bore so deeply into his own soul that he’s confident she can see every guilty thought, disgusting act, and regrettable decision he has ever made.

Can she see the shadowy coils of unbridled hate slowly poisoning him?

He is so close to the edge that he is absolutely certain it would be easier to nose-dive into the shadows of his own mind than to come back from the brink. But, if he were to delve into those murky depths, he would lose her. Guaranteed.

As her fury dissipates into haunting fear, he claws through the shadows of his violent desires and shoves them back into the deep recesses of his mind. Finally, tingles of warmth return to his fingers as he lifts them and softly places them over her hands. Reluctantly, she lets go of his face, releasing a shuddering breath, and gifts him with the most beautiful, radiant smile.

He doesn’t deserve her.

He is going to hurt her.

He is going to destroy her.

Ruin her.

Break her.

Taking her hands, he slowly lowers them and kisses her palms. He knows that there are no words that he can say that will placate her nerves after what she just saw. And he doesn’t want to placate them. It’s better she sees the monster beneath the surface now. Before it's too late. He can’t apologize for it because there is no difference between that monster and who he is. If he were to apologize for anything, it would be the guise he’s learned to wear around everyone. The guise that they’re all familiar with. The one that they all think he has become, when in reality it is far from the truth.

They stare wordlessly at each other, her confusion and uncertainty written across her face. Just as another depressing thought enters his mind, the door to Headmaster Hammer’s office swings open, snatching our attention.

He doesn’t speak; he just waves for them to come in before turning to sit behind his desk again. Rising, they obey. She walks before him, apprehension in her steps as they cross the threshold and close the heavy door behind them. She takes a seat in her usual spot, while Sam stands off to the side. The girl shifts her weight from one foot to the other while we wait for the Headmaster to speak.

Damian glowers at the morning sunlight that is streaming in through the substantial bay window, further intensifying the stuffiness of the small office. Pointing to Sam, the Headmaster explains, "It looks like both of your recounts match up." Pausing, he stills. "However, since time has passed since the incident," he mumbles sheepishly, "Jackson and his father can claim that you have coached her."

The girls’ shock is clear on their faces as they look at each other for a beat before Sam defends, "I wasn’t." Raising his hands, he says, "I believe you; however, it will be called out as hearsay." Exhaling a breath, Damian considers having his father pull strings. However, Lionel Anders is also an influential man in Gotham. The repercussions could greatly damage his father's and the company’s reputations.

Gnashing his teeth, he runs through various scenarios in his mind, none of which are promising, and most are more damning. At the sound of a gasp, Damian’s attention refocuses on (Y/N) as she turns to face the Headmaster.

"The other week," she says excitingly, "when I was in art with Jackson, he grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise." Frowning, she continues, "which I don’t have anymore, but Mrs. O’Malley saw and even asked if everything was ok." Her eyes scan the room, brighter and more hopeful than before.

"So, if we can establish that he has a violent pattern with her own testimonial, then it’ll bolster Sam’s as well," she says enthusiastically. Once again, for the second time today, he finds himself hurt by a new discovery.

Why didn’t she tell him?

Headmaster Hammer’s head nods as he brings his hand to his mouth in a contemplative gesture. A faraway look comes across him as he blankly states, "You can go back to class now, Sam. I have everything you said recorded." Sam’s eyes widen for a moment before she thanks him and leaves the office. Now it’s just the three of them again. Groaning, he leans heavily back in his chair and calls his secretary to summon Mrs. O’Malley.

"Would you like us to go back to the sitting room?" She asks politely. He considers it before shaking his head and releasing a sigh. "No, that won’t be necessary. But, when she comes in here, you two must remain quiet as I speak with her," he says, looking at them pointedly. "Is that understood?"

Nodding, she turns and gives him a hopeful look, which he returns with a tight-lip smile. After several tense, silent moments, a knock on the door has the Headmaster saying, "Come in." Mrs. O'Malley, who is a kind, patient old lady, enters the room, anxiously wringing her hands together.

"Is something wrong, Headmaster?" She asks in her sweet, high-pitched tone. Shaking his head to appease her nerves, he replies, "No, Mrs. O’Malley, I just have some questions regarding a student's behavior."

"Oh, well, alright," she says, coming to sit in the other leather seats.

"It has come to my attention that there was an incident in your classroom with the student Jackson Anders and Ms. (L/N)," he says, gesturing to her. Mrs. O’Malley’s eyes flash when she looks at her, and she stutters. "Yes. Yes, I recall that day. They were working next to one another, and it looked as if they were having a heated discussion about something," she says delicately. "Ms. (L/N) went to rise, and he pushed her back down by grabbing her wrist. I was concerned, so I went over to see what the matter was, and she said that she wasn’t feeling well. Then she went to the bathroom, and I didn’t see her come back," she concludes. Her worrylines now deepen the wrinkles on her face.

"I see," the headmaster acquiesces. "Thank you. You may return to your class," he dismissively says. Once she leaves the office, he turns back to them and says, "I’ll have to call Jackson in to discuss this issue," matter-of-factly.

She gulps but nods. He can see her shoulders visibly tighten, which makes him take a protective step toward her. He now stands between her and the door, blocking the view of anyone who may enter. Picking up the phone, he tells his secretary to send for him. She watches as she digs her nails into the palms of her hands to make a half-moon-shaped frown face.

In an effort to comfort her, he places his hand on her shoulder and squeezes lightly. Looking up at him, she puts hers over his and shoots him a reassuring smile. Satisfied that she is well enough at the moment, he centers himself with deep breathing techniques his father taught him.

It would be counterproductive if he were to assault the boy now.

For her sake, he will remain poised and aloof when Jackson arrives. Damian’s lip curls at the knowledge that he will have to share air with his Soulmate. Disgusted at the prospect, he sourly watches the door in anticipation.

The knock finally comes, and in walks Jackson at the Headmaster's demand. He looks around, confused, for a moment before a shadow falls across his face. Understanding dawns on him.

"Take a seat, Jackson." There is no room for debate in the Headmaster’s voice. Obligingly, he moves past Damian, who scowls at him before gingerly sitting.

"I’ll cut right to the chase," Headmaster Hammer claps his hands together, "the allegation you produced against Damian and (Y/N) has been refuted."

"That’s absolu-"

"SILENCE," he booms. "You will wait until I give you permission to speak." His eyes regain their furious glint. "Is that understood?"

Nodding his head sheepishly, Jackson remains silent as the Headmaster continues, "Several witnesses have come forward with evidence that is in direct contradiction to your claims." Jackson’s face contorts bitterly, but he remains subdued.

"As a result, the only course of action I can take is to suspend you for a week while a deeper investigation is conducted."

"WHAT?" Jackson bellows as he rises.

"Sit down right this moment," the Headmaster commands, eyes ablaze with authority. Groaning, he once again obeys, but not before shooting her a dirty look that makes her flinch. Rage burns through his muscles as he refrains from punching the piece of sh*t.

"By the end of this week, you will be called to stand trial by the school board. What happens beyond that is out of my control," he finishes.

The tension rises, thick enough to cut with a knife, before Jackson lashes out, "That is absolutely ridiculous. I have never put a single hand on her." His face turns redder by the second.

"She was assaulted by him!" He yells as he turns in the chair to shove his meaty index finger at Damian. Icy fury slithers through his limbs as he levels Jackson with a corrosive glower.

Who does he think he is?

Standing once more, he leans against the Headmaster’s desk and spits, "He was the one who attacked her. Not me" The Headmaster retains a neutral expression as Jackson continues on his verbal rampage against him. Looking at her, he can see her eyebrows rising to her hairline as a wicked glint takes residence in her eyes. Smiling darkly, he appreciates that she enjoys watching him dig his own grave.

His outburst only fortifies their defense. He is volatile and unstable. This is now clear to the Headmaster as he allows Jackson to "express" his dismay. Finally having had enough, he snaps, "You are dismissed. Pack your bag and leave the school grounds now, or I will have security escort you out."

Stunned, Jackson halts mid-sentence as he realizes that there is no use in arguing. Silently, he leaves, but not before sending them a withering glance with a promise of retribution before slamming the door shut behind him.

Since entering this room earlier today, it would seem the old man has shaved ten years off his life. "Ok, you two, get back to class," he murmurs tiredly. Giving his hand for her to take, he looks back at him before stating, "Keep us apprised." Nodding robotically, he shoos them away.

Back in the halls, she releases a deep breath and looks up at him with wondering eyes. "Do you really think this will work out?" she asks innocently. Cupping her face, he leans down for a quick kiss before assuring her it will.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

One week later: Monday

Before the sun’s rays can extend beyond the horizon, Damian is fully garbed in his training gear. He relishes the burn of his corded muscles while striking a humanoid dummy repeatedly with his carbon steel sword.

The past week has been a flurry of anxious waiting and belated relief from the verdict in Jackson’s trial. The Headmaster had been true to his word and kept him updated on its progress. After returning home, he alerted his father to the situation, watching as his eyes darkened as each detail was uncovered. He had sat there pensively, before requesting to keep the proprietary news within the family before returning to his business.

Immediately after, he debriefed his brothers as well, all of whom had promptly stated they would testify on their behalf if need be. A new sensation had swelled in his chest, one he could not yet pinpoint but felt suspiciously like gratitude.

Every day since then, he has picked her up and remained velcroed to her side as the rumors of the Anders boy swirled. As opposed to her impartial facade, Damian could tell their accusations nettled her. A semblance of relief flooded her from not having to interact with her assailant, but it was deeply tarnished by feelings of anxiety.

He knew for a fact that the verdict would land in their favor, but she was not so easily convinced, despite his many attempts to soothe her. For reasons of her own, she would not listen. He, too, had been troubled since that day. The unsettling thought that she did not fully trust him wrestled into his consciousness.

She had forgone telling him about both the art teacher’s concern and Jackson’s undesired kiss. He rationalized the former quickly enough, but the latter bothered him more than he would care to admit.

It ate at him.

There were no reasonable explanations that he could petition his brain to discover. She simply did not trust him. That thought festered and rotted away at his mind for the past week, only to be compounded exponentially by a text from Sam.

The friend had informed him that she had given his number to her in case of an emergency, which had thawed the iciness building around his heart. Only to be completely obliterated by her following message.

(Y/N)'s birthday is next week; we should do something special for the BIG 18!

He had known her exact time of birth when they had initially probed into her background but had forgotten it. However, that was not the issue; the issue stemmed from her lack of informing him.

Did she expect him to already know?

Did she not wish to celebrate with him?

Did she not wish to celebrate at all?

Thoughts of doubt burrowed deep into his mind and were now rooting deep into his chest, constricting. Why not tell him? Perhaps she too has forgotten. Perhaps she did not enjoy her birthday. Regardless of the reason, he had thought that open communication was something they had agreed to earlier. Irrational as it may be, he was hurt. It felt as if she were pulling away, consciously or not. He could not decide which was worse—her making a conscious effort to withhold information or her subconscious truly not feeling safe enough to divulge.

He had expressed his concerns to his family, all of whom had brushed them off and simply chalked them up to him irrationally jumping to conclusions. Damian did not jump to conclusions.

This was now an established pattern that he recognized one that he could not unrecognize. Alfred had not simply brushed his concerns under the proverbial rug. He had suggested coordinating a special evening on the eve of her birthday. Since it was officially on a Saturday, he suggested a romantic dinner on Friday. However, rather than a simple candlelit dinner, Damian had begun planning something more elaborate.

Of course, Sam insisted on aiding him despite his objections. Her claim was that she knew her better, which of course he begrudgingly acknowledged. However, no ordinary dinner at an upscale restaurant would suffice. So, between the two of them, they were able to rent out the National Library for an evening.

It would just be the two of them, staged with twinkling lights, flower arrangements, and an 8-course Michelin-starred dinner by her favorite chef, Grant Achatz. He would never verbally express it, but he was indebted to Samantha for her wide array of knowledge of all things (Y/N). It had been his initial idea to use the library, but it was Sam who suggested flying in the chef.

He had already contacted and purchased most of the necessary items from various vendors for the night. However, there were still a few loose ends to tie up. Keeping this a surprise for her was not difficult, save for the moments her friend poorly kept her enthusiasm at bay. He had to remind her multiple times to tone down her energy or she would become suspicious, which of course she did.

When she asked him outright what was going on, he smoothly fibbed and swiftly changed topics. Of course, that did not placate her. Her suspicions and mood grew darker as the week passed, which caused a tinge of guilt to ring through him, knowing he was at the crux of it.

He would not yield. By the end of the week, she was ablaze with a flurry of anxiety over the verdict. Resplendently, it all came to an end once the Headmaster once again called them into his office to divulge Jackson’s fate.

He had been found guilty.

His punishment included being asked to withdraw from the football team and having the violation on his permanent record. The sigh of relief she released could have been audible throughout the school. The exhaustion had finally caught up to her, and she had sat in heavy silence for a moment before he dropped another bombshell.

As a result, his university was contacted, which prompted them to withdraw his football scholarship and acceptance. He still had time to reapply to different schools, but with his tarnished reputation, he will be pressed to find any reputable institution that will accept him.

Initially, he felt an elated glow thrum through him, which was soon replaced with apprehension. They had successfully ripped apart nearly everything he held dear to him, which makes him more dangerous than ever. His father and brothers had called him soon after they left the office to congratulate him, but he was unable to join in on their jubilant celebrations.

Once he voiced his concerns, they too sobered before vowing to keep an eye on him. He will watch the disgruntled student, fearing the repercussions of his actions. Will it heighten his desire for revenge? His agitation must have been easy enough to read for her because she conveyed her confusion over the reaction. Simply, he stated that he was tired, not wanting to weigh her down with the truth.

Once again, it was evident she did not believe him, but rather than argue, she let it go, which oddly irked him. Nevertheless, they continued as is, but now with a splinter of something growing between them.

As these thoughts drive him harder and harder, he beats the training dummy harder and harder. Sweat coats his arms and palms as he grips the cloth of the hilt painfully, unwilling to let his grasp slip even a millimeter.

Poor handling of a sword can be just as dangerous as being on the other side of it.

The next hour comes and goes as he continues to push himself to his limits before his father orders him to cease. As he puts his equipment away, he passes his father, now wearing a tight expression on his face. He ignores him.

Once showered and dressed, Damian makes his way downstairs to the waiting car Alfred has pulled around. The drive to school is lonely since (Y/N) messaged him that Sam would be taking her today.

The splinter goes a millimeter deeper.

Once within the academy’s walls, he locates them immediately and greets her with a kiss. Suspicion blooms as she returns it more chastely than usual. The coiling shadows within him begin to unfurl as he takes his usual position, scowling at the prattling peers around them. The walk to class is short, as usual, but rather than follow them inside, he gently grabs her elbow and pulls her aside.

They walk off to the side and lean against the cool plaster of the wall. The hall chatter dies down a bit as students enter their classrooms, but not before they throw curious glances their way. He meets them with a threatening sneer. The sconces above cast a harsh light upon her features as he watches her furrow her brow in confusion.

Unable to contain it any longer, he asks, "Why have you not mentioned your upcoming birthday?" Her eyes harden uncomfortably as she begins toying with the straps of her tattered backpack.

"I haven’t really thought about it," she admits, toeing the ground in front of her. Eyes softening, she continues, "I never really enjoyed celebrating it, if I’m being honest."

His tension eases at the honest, albeit melancholic tone. Placing a hand on the side of her face, he smiles down at her before saying, "Habibti, that’s about to change." Her eyes flash in surprise at his claim.

"Oh, really?" Her sultry, challenging tone sends a ripple of desire rushing through him. Her eyes now sparkle with mischievous delight but harbor an ounce of suspicion.

"Absolutely," he says assuredly. "Your birth is a celebratory event I take very seriously." His breath is snatched out of his lungs by the radiant smile she now wears. Stepping closer, she cranes her head back to look up at him with her doe-like eyes.

"Well then, mister, what do you have in store?" she huskily asks.

"It’s a surprise," he reciprocates. She wiggles her eyebrows in response and chuckles lightly.

"Should I be worried?" He would like to bathe in the teasing quality of her voice.

"Never." The word slips past his lips as he allows the blanket of sincerity to cover them both.

Pleased, she inquires, "Dress code?" Looking around to make sure no straggling students overhear him, he smirks before replying, "Scintillating." The desired effects take root as her skin burns under his heady gaze. Her breath quickens as her supple lips part slightly before she buries her hands in the nape of his neck. Tilting her chin up like a flower looking for the light, she rises to meet his lips just as the late bell shrills- reverberating through the halls.

Startled, she drops to her heels and stares at him before bursting out into laughter. Never before had he wanted to destroy inanimate objects so thoroughly. Groaning in displeasure, she smacks his arm playfully before grabbing his hand and dragging him into class.

Chapter 22: The Princess Diary Affect

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

When I tell you the relief I felt from hearing Jackson’s verdict was org*smic, I’m not kidding. I’ve never felt my muscles relax that hard since - well - that night with Damian. I know that sounds weird, and it is, but I can’t deny how good it felt to know he got the justice he deserved.

The week leading up to it was absolute hell. Between the students and even faculty whispering about it and the inexplicable distance that grew between Damian and me, my nerves were fried.

When the Headmaster asked us to sit in the adjoining waiting room, I told Damian about Jackson’s kiss. At first, he just stared - blankly. Then something changed. His face lost all tension, but his eyes grew alight with such cold malice that I nearly recoiled.

It scared me.

I’d never seen this side of Damian. No, I have. But I’d never felt like I was on the receiving end of it. It shamed me to admit that at that moment, I was afraid. I wasn’t afraid of what he would do. I was afraid because I could not recognize him. He went somewhere dark - deep within his mind. I knew firsthand how dangerous that place could be. How easy it is to slip into its shadowy depths. How relieving it is to go slightly numb.

But I also knew that it was a siren song, and if you stayed in there too long, you would lose yourself. I couldn’t let him stay there, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead, I snapped him out of it. By the time we returned to the office, any traces of malice were neatly tucked away. However, no matter how well he concealed that part of him, I will always know that it exists. More than that, it exists just beneath the surface.

The worst part is that I could see how distressed he was for me to see him like that. He never intended for me to know. And that is what upsets me the most. That he could possibly think that there would be any part of him that I wouldn’t accept.

I knew how seductive that darkness can be. I’ve escaped from there many times, and each time it became more difficult. He was toeing the line, ready to tip into oblivion, when I grabbed his face. I watched his eyes as he wrestled himself for control.

He won.

Sam and Mrs. O’Malley both corroborated my story, which forced the Headmaster to reconsider his prior opinions. As a result, he brought in Jackson. At first, the thought of being in the same room as him made my palms itch. But Damian quickly picked up on my distress and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. The small gesture sent small waves of warmth through me. I found myself blushing at the slight contact.

I delighted in the immense amount of secretive joy when Jackson essentially did all the heavy lifting in our case against him. The Headmaster had simply sat leaning into his chair, eyes glazed over, as Jackson whipped up wild accusations against us. His acerbic outburst and every vehement syllable were recorded while the Headmaster remained stoic.

Despite my anxiety, it was challenging to conceal my sh*t-eating grin when Jackson received his suspension. The awe-struck disbelief that painted his features shot such an inappropriate amount of savage satisfaction through me. That satisfaction was doused immediately by the ice in his eyes when he glared at us on his way out.

His reflective, dissociated eyes sent a shiver through me. They reminded me so much of Bran’s when he was disappointed in me. I couldn't help the sense of foreboding that washed over me when the door creaked to a close.

The relief of Jackson’s absence that week was replaced by a gnawing feeling that something between Damian and I had shifted. I knew something was bothering him, but every time I confronted him, he simply brushed it off. As each day passed, his agitation and the divide between them grew. I always thought his surly attitude was endearing because it was never directed at me. But now, being on the receiving end of it, I understand why those victims flinched.

It was unsettling, to say the least, and I was not proud to admit that it made me retreat into my shell. I wracked my brain for answers, but the more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that it had to do with the kiss. Swells of guilt and frustration assaulted me as waves of heat perpetually made my palms sweat.

The guilt made all my insecurities come back with a raging vengeance. I started second-guessing myself with answers on exams, becoming less confident in my teasing jabs, and less assured about the strength of our bond. I’d become more hesitant to tease him with winks and sultry looks and more interested in staring at the floor or desk.

It was the morning of Jackson’s verdict, and I was beyond fed up with my own feelings of inadequacy. Despite the joy of hearing Jackson’s punishment and the subsequent consequence of losing his scholarship, I was still riddled with anxiety. Damian’s mood also did not seem to ease with the news, which compounded my frustration and confusion.

I thought that we had agreed to communicate openly. But now that seems like a fever dream that never happened. There was no trope I hated more than the miscommunication one. So I decided to confront him again. That time, he said that he was just tired. What a load of bullsh*t. But I didn’t want to pressure him to talk about his feelings. I knew that people rarely answered honestly when they felt they were being backed into a corner.

Sam picked up on our rift and gave us a wide berth, but I could see the strain between us concerned her. It felt like we were all walking on eggshells. Then Damian threw me a curveball when he pulled me aside before the first period and asked me about my birthday.

Ah.

The dreaded day of my birth. From his voice inflection, I could tell that he was hurt that I never mentioned it to him. I didn’t avoid telling him for malicious reasons; I just always hated it. Since my parents' deaths, I never did anything fun, and when I asked Bran about a cake one year, I got canned. But more than that, each year that passed was one more birthday I couldn’t celebrate with them.

Every year, around my birthday and the holidays, a surge of depression sweeps in as my memories of them torturously haunt me. It was sad not to do fun things on my birthday, but there was a part of me that liked that. There was something comforting in not celebrating it because some part of me felt like it would be a betrayal to feel any sense of happiness without them.

I was horrified that, for the first time in a long time, I actually wanted to do something. When Damian told me he had a surprise for me on Friday, I felt simultaneously ashamed and excited. I haven't looked forward to something in years - to the point where I almost forgot what excited anticipation felt like.

I knew my parents would want me to be happy, but a small part of me didn’t feel like I deserved it. But Damian brought back a spark in me that I couldn’t deny. And when he told me that I should dress in something "scintillating," I couldn’t hold back the flood of excitement. His words made my heart race, once again reinvigorating my confidence.

This universe was built to maintain balance. For every good thing, there was always a bad one. And that took the form of Jackson. Since his verdict, his suspension has been lifted, but on the condition that he is not allowed to speak or interact with me. It was easy enough to avoid conversation, but we could not evade each other entirely.

Every time I passed him in the hall, he’d avert his gaze, most likely due to Damian assigning himself as my velcro shadow. However, our classes did not align perfectly. Jackson and I shared art class, and without Damian, he’d openly shoot me bitter glares. Thankfully, Mrs. O’Malley switched us to different partners across the room, but that did little to defuse the tension between us.

He was clearly still harboring a grudge, one that made my stomach queasy and unsettled. Annoyingly, his former teammates and friends still rallied behind him, but they blissfully ignored me. A small part of me felt bad for what happened to him, but it was squashed by the memory of why it happened in the first place.

But rather than focus my energy on them, I decided to dedicate myself to discovering what Damian’s surprise would be. In the days leading up, I pestered him relentlessly, but this man was a vault. Nothing I said, did, or promised made him budge. Although he did take a moment to consider one of my promises, before ultimately, yet forlornly, refusing. It bothered me to no end that he wouldn’t even let an itty-bitty detail go, but secretly I was radiating with excitement.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Friday evening:

I am practically buzzing with excitement, and the contagious energy is multiplied by Sam’s own. "You have to promise me not to start your hair until I come," Sam declares, pushing past students. The last bell just rang, and we are making our way through the throngs of students rushing to maximize their weekend.

Rolling my eyes, I reply, "Of course not; I wouldn’t dare compromise your artistic vision." I can’t help the smile that splits my face as my mind races with a million scenarios for tonight. "Good. So help me, God, if you do." She wags her finger in my face. Chuckling, I wave her goodbye as she turns into the girl's locker room.

I’ve never skipped a practice before, but this occasion warrants extra pampering. The sound of excited chatting and weekend plans carry me through the halls toward the doors of freedom. I scan past the students, looking for a devilishly tall and handsome man I call my Soulmate. Luckily, I don’t have to search too hard.

Unlike the rest of the student population, he literally stands above everyone else. I spot his dark head of hair above the rest and beeline toward him. He spots me immediately and graces me with one of his rare, genuine smiles.

When I reach him, I wrap an arm around his waist and lean into his warm floral and spice scent. I inhale deeply, enjoying the familiar comfort it brings. "I’ll have to gouge out the eyes of any man who looks upon you with the face you're making right now, habibti," he whispers, brushing his lips against my ear.

Delightful shivers rake my body as I feel my face flush at his words. I shake my head, not trusting my voice. With a deep chuckle, he takes my hand, leading me to his Rolls Royce. Alfred, as always, stands with the door open as we climb into the luxurious back.

Man, I can get used to this.

We pass through the gates in silence as I watch the city fly past us. Our hands are still interlocked when I look over at him and bat my eyelashes innocently. Scooting closer to him, I rest my hand on his upper thigh and run my tongue over my teeth. Damian’s eyes flare for a moment before narrowing with a suspicious glint. Leaning into me, he huskily says, "You’re playing a dangerous game, (Y/N)." He purposefully allows his hot breath to graze my skin, knowing the unreasonable effect it has on me.

Pouting, I blink up at him and say, "I have no idea what you’re talking about." I add an extra layer of sweetness to my voice as I press into him further. He flashes a wicked smile that makes warmth pool in my lower stomach.

God, why does he have to be so infuriatingly hot?

I squeeze my legs together, trying to ease the growing pressure. He catches the small movement and sucks in a sharp breath before clearing his throat and adjusting his pants. I can only assume my sinful grin is responsible for him loosening his tie. Squeezing his thigh a little, I say, "Just a little hint, Dami." Licking my lips, I lower my voice and say, "I promise to reward you greatly." I let the insulation permeate the air while I continue looking up at him from under my lashes.

His sultry smile in response has my heart fluttering and my body thrumming. "Oh, I have no doubt." He leans closer. His lips are now just a breath away as I close my eyes in anticipation, but they fly open when I feel his body heat retreating. He leans back into his seat and closes his eyes when he addresses me. "My dear, I admire your effort to seduce the information out of me, but alas, my resolve is far stronger," he proclaims amusingly.

Huffing out a breath, I stare at him, mouth open, as my defeat cools the warmth flowing through me. I give him an aggravated sigh and shoot him a dirty look that he can’t see. "Now, habibti, that is not very nice."

"Wha-? How did you know?" I sputter.

How the hell?

He turns to look at me with a devious gaze and replies, "I know you well." I wait for a moment, expecting more of an explanation, but he simply remains silent. I shake my head and look out the window again. I don’t want him to see how my cheeks warmed at his words and how much of an effect it has on my body.

I discreetly cross my legs, trying to stave off the heat of desire from his admission. I’m not sure why I find it so hot, but damn did those four words send lighting through my veins. The car slows to a smooth stop near my home, and Alfred comes around the side to open my door. Looking back at Damian, I say with a devilish grin, "Fine. You won. But you’ll pay for that."

Without waiting for his response, I exit the vehicle and creep toward my house through back alleys. Once inside, I drop my bag when I hear the sound of a door slamming shut. Freezing, I hold my breath, praying that it is one of the staff. However, when I hear the telltale signs of Bran’s footfalls, my heart sinks to my stomach.

The carpet under my feet feels like cement as goosebumps pucker my skin. I stay silent. Frozen in the moment. Bran descends, eyes narrowed and fixated on me. Stopping in the middle of the staircase, he gruffly says, "A word," while tilting his chin upward.

I nod my head and silently follow him up the stairs. He turns around at the landing and clasps his hands behind his back. A few steps below him, I still. Looking at him closely, I can see that the bags under his eyes are more pronounced than usual. His mouth is set in a hard line as we watch each other silently. He leans toward me, sniffing once, and croons, "You know where to go (Y/N)."

My mouth goes dry, and a bead of sweat drips down my back as I try to skirt around him - maintaining as much distance between us as possible. From the corner of my eye, I see his mouth curve upward in a cruel grin. As I walk toward his office, I can feel his body radiating heat onto my back.

Wordlessly, I go to stand in front of his desk and clasp my hands lightly in front of me. He closes the door behind him with a soft click. He goes to lean against the front of his desk before me while my muscles lock in anticipation. I retain my impassive mask and avert my gaze.

He tilts his head to the side, lazily running his eyes up and down my body while clenching the edges of his desk. He huffs out a breath through his nose and stands to his full height before me. I have always hated how he dwarfed me. He isn’t nearly as tall as Damian, but his callousness always made me feel much smaller.

"Within twenty-four hours, you will become a legal adult," he mentions casually as if it were just occurring to him. Disgust envelopes me as his perusal of my body makes my skin crawl. But I refuse to visibly expose my true thoughts and reply, "Yes, sir." I swallow the lump in my throat as he responds with a Hmph, and begins circling me. I can hear him sucking his teeth as he takes slow, deliberate steps.

The longer he circles, the less air I feel I can get into my lungs. The room suddenly feels five degrees too hot as I try to inconspicuously wipe the sweat from my palms onto my uniform. Noticing my discomfort, he graces me with his Cheshire grin. Standing in front of me once more, he raises his hand, making me unintentionally flinch. "Shhhhh," he lulls as the back of his knuckles grazes the skin of my cheek.

Breaking out into a cold sweat, my legs begin to involuntarily shake. I look into his flat, arctic eyes and watch them dilate as he continues touching me. An overwhelming sense of dread takes residence in my stomach, churning the contents of my lunch. With a sharp inhale, as if he had forgotten himself, he steps back. "Now that you will be a legal adult, you will be of more use to me."

I rock back on my heels as his words penetrate my resolve. Blinking rapidly, I start to feel lightheaded. Gulping, I ask, "What do you mean?" A slow, serpentine smirk grows on his face. "Well, you will no longer be considered a child in the eyes of the court system or the media." He circles around his desk and sits heavily in his wingback chair. Thrumming his finger against the leather top, he explains, "With that comes a new level of scrutiny, and I would hate to see you branded as anything other than a poised woman."

With the emphasis on the latter words, his eyes flick to the cane behind me.

Oh god, not tonight.

I inhale a deep breath through my nose, trying to calm my galloping heart. Clearing my throat, I say, "Of course," with a hint of confusion. Did he think I was going to go gallivanting through the park naked? What he does next, surprises me the most. He flashes me a brilliant smile that he usually reserves for young and attractive socialites.

"Excellent," he claps his hands together loudly, "because I would be so disappointed if the media were to give you a disparaged image." As realization strikes me, I fight hard against making any sort of facial movement. If I were to embarrass him in public, it would make him look bad as well, and that would be - you guessed it - disappointing.

"I understand." I keep my rhythmic breathing even as he continues to smile at me. A small twitch in his eye gives him away, though. "Do you?"

"Yes."

"That means no more petulant behavior and no more disobedience." I nod my head slowly, still wary of the true meaning behind all this. "Such petulant behavior that will be forbidden includes disappearing for days on end," he says, his smile faltering slightly, "and no more weekend trips." I can’t help but raise my eyebrows at his last statement.

Amused, he runs his hand over his mouth. "You don’t really think I’m unaware of your location at all times?" The question takes me by surprise as I open and close my mouth in lieu of a proper response. Righteous anger rips through me as I drop my impassive mask and allow the full fury to be seen. His eyes sparkle with delight at my shift in demeanor. "Ah, that right there, little lamb, is precisely what I am talking about." He leans elbows on the desk and rests his chin upon his clasped hands.

"That little display will no longer be tolerated. In public or in private. You must be groomed to be a lady, and your childish tendencies must be stripped away." This time, his smile is genuine. Genuine, like a man who just won.

I clamp my mouth shut hard, making my teeth ache with the impact. Nostrils flaring, I do my best to stomp my anger down, but nothing works. "Oh, and I don’t suppose I have a curfew now?" I snap reply. I immediately regretted my words when he chuckles. "As a matter of fact, that is a splendid idea." His shoulders shake with his deep timber laughter. I clench my fists so tightly that I am certain I’ve broken skin.

"You will be home every day by seven in the evening." He swivels his chair and reaches under his desk for his favorite decanter.

"I-"

"Hush," he bellows. "I am not done speaking," he clips. "You will join me for dinner every night while I reside in this house from this point forward." The tunnel vision I experience nearly makes me stumble. My lungs seize as the iciness grips them and squeezes. "For the days I am away, you will still adhere to these rules. If you do not, I will know."

He gently places the crystal tumbler on the desk and pours himself a generous glass, as usual. I stand there, rage swirling under my skin, while he twirls the liquid in his glass. I watch as the gold liquid coats the inside seamlessly with each twirl. The malty scent wafts into the air, making the back of my throat burn.

I can’t afford a caning tonight.

So instead of arguing and railing against his obscene request, I agree. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as he narrows his eyes. He downs the contents of his glass, never breaking eye contact. As the last drop passes his pale, dry lips, he hisses.

I can only imagine how much it must burn his throat to do so. And then I imagine what it would be like to watch that throat bleed as the life seeps out of his eyes. His nostrils flare, almost as if he can read my mind. He stands abruptly and fiddles with his cufflinks before he addresses me again. "Very well. I have a flight to catch. When I return, those rules will officially be implemented." He watches my face carefully for any sign of "rebellion", but he won’t find any. I smile and nod, which I can tell royally pisses him off because the twitch in his eye becomes more severe.

"You are dismissed," he hisses.

Without any parting words, I turn and walk calmly out of the room. Once the door closes, I run to my room and lock myself in. I release a shuddering breath and take several deep inhales in an effort to calm my grated nerves.

Pulling out my phone, I feel relief flood through me when I notice Sam hasn’t texted me yet. I don’t want her coming over until Bran leaves, so as a safety precaution, I text her to wait until I give the "all clear."

I want badly to pick at my nails, but I just got them done for tonight. Instead, I crack my knuckles and pace my room. I don’t relax until I hear the sound of the front door opening and closing. For good measure, I wait another ten minutes before texting Sam. I smile at her excited reply, which reignites my own. I still can’t wrap my mind around how Bran was able to track me all this time. I’m always careful to make sure my location sharing is disabled.

I’ll worry about that another time.

I can’t allow that delusional man to ruin my night. Nothing can. I allow that resolve to settle deep into my bones. I go through several more deep breathing exercises when I hear my phone chirp.

Sam’s here.

Throwing open my door, I rush down the stairs and let her in. She squeals, several bags in hand, and throws her arms around me. She sways from side to side and tightens her hold for a second before letting go. Her beaming, radiant smile makes the last hour vanish into smoke. She will never know how much that means to me.

Like little girls in a candy shop, we do a little dance before bolting back up to my room. With an unnecessarily, yet endearing grunt, she drops her bags on the floor. Without a glance at me, she rips open my closet doors and starts rummaging through them like a madman. Amused, I sit on the edge of my bed, watching her flurry of madness.

"Ok. So, you have several options that range from Damian whistling in appreciation to full-on cardiac arrest," she says, turning around with several hangers in hand. Chuckling, I move off the bed and stand to the side as she lays out my options. Turning to me, she waits expectantly while I assess the dresses.

She pulled out four dresses, two of which are black minis, but only one of them is strapless. The strapless one is velvet, and the other is a Greek-style chiffon one. "Those two are too safe," I mumble to myself.

"Agreed." Sam whisks them back into my closet.

She is practically vibrating while she peers over my shoulder, constantly casting me expectant glances. Rolling my eyes, I say, "Well, which one do you think?"

She ignores the eye roll and jumps into her justifications. "Right. This one," she points to the formfitting white spaghetti dress that falls just below my knees, "will totally show off your killer curves. With the right heels and makeup, you could look like a bombshell." Her saucy smile nearly convinces me on the spot.

"Hooooowever, this one," she whistles, "This one right here will probably kill him on the spot." Her wicked grin grows as my eyes narrow.

"Wouldn’t that be counterproductive?" I jest.

"No." She says in an octave too high.

I shoot her a dubious look. Refocusing my attention on the dress, I run my hand down the soft satin material. Of all the dresses she pulled, this one is by far the most risque. The silver dress falls mid-calf but has a dangerously high slit. In addition, the cowl neck dips low, and the rear drapes down in layered folds just above the small of my back.

"Hmmm, I don’t know." The dress is splendid, but is it too much?

"This dress, paired with strappy silver heels and a killer red lip, would have the male population dropping like flies. There is nothing to think about," Sam says mischievously.

I give her a droll stare. "I’m not exactly looking to be charged with mass murder." It’s hard to keep the mirth out of my tone when it comes to Sam.

She delivers the cutest pout before saying, "But at least your mug shot will be crazy hot."

"You may just have a point there," I say, wagging my finger at her.

Smiling brightly, she picks up the dress and hangs it on the back of my door. "Great, then it’s decided, there will be a trail of dropping bodies through Gotham tonight."

I put my hand over my heart and mock gasp at her disturbing statement. She just laughs while dragging me into the bathroom by my elbow. "Work your magic," she says, pointing to my makeup bag. Giggling, I obey.

Thirty minutes later, I come out with perfectly polished eyebrows, light shimmery eyeshadow with a baby-winged eyeliner, and bold blood-red lips. Bringing my hands up under my chin, I smile and say, "So. What do you think?" Sam rakes a critical gaze across my face before smiling brightly. "Perfection. As usual."

Swinging her arm behind her, she says in a heavy Italian accent, "Step into Paolo’s office." Looking past her, I see that she transformed my desk into a hair station. Chuckling, I oblige and sit down on the soft velvet chair.

Throughout the process, she remains serious, unwilling to break character. She divides and curls my hair before pinning it up in rollers. An hour later, I watch in quiet amazement as she deftly removes the rollers, brushes out the curls gently, and shapes them into an old Hollywood glamor style. Once complete, she releases a breath and dramatically says, "Only Paulo can take this and this and give you a princess."

Laughing, I look at her through the mirror and feel my eyes getting misty. "Thank you, Sa-"

"It’s Paolo," cuts me off.

Chuckling I continue, "Thank you, Paolo; you are a master."

"Paolo knows," she says haughtily.

Standing, I envelop her in a prolonged, tight hug, carefully avoiding messing up my hair. She smiles brightly, her eyes a little glassy, and hoarsely whispers, "You’re a vision."

I look upward, blinking rapidly to avoid messing up my makeup from the happy tears threatening to spill over.

"Now. For the big reveal." Sam jumps up and down while clapping.

Beaming, I pluck the hanger off the back of my door and begin stripping out of my uniform. Sam and I have seen each other naked plenty of times, so neither of us is shy about changing in front of one another.

I slip into the cool satin dress and revel in the way it slides up my body, perfectly contouring to its natural curves. Sam walks behind me to help secure the train of buttons that run from the small of the back to the hem.

I turn to her once I'm done and do a little twirl. She nods appreciatively before pursing her lips in consideration. "Jewelry," she states.

"Right." I turn around and pull out a Charwood jewelry box with antique, golden handles that once belonged to my mother. It is one of the only remaining items I have to remember her by.

I always found it odd that this was spared from the robbery all those years ago. I would think that the home invaders would have grabbed the whole thing and run, but they left it with only some of the contents within.

What remained were a small pendant necklace, a tennis bracelet, and opal teardrop earrings.

I guess the robbers were picky.

It never made much sense to me, but I was grateful to have these few pieces. The rest of the contents are those "gifted" to me by Bran for fancy events and items I found while thrifting. The stark difference between what I gravitated toward and what he found acceptable is obvious. I prefer dainty, gold, and animal-inspired pieces, while he prefers gem-centered, heavy ones. I did appreciate the beauty of the exquisite pieces he picked out, but I never felt quite comfortable wearing them outside of the required events.

That is why, tonight, I have decided to go with my favorite gold-plated hummingbird skull drop earrings. My fingers dance across ring options, opening and closing secret compartments as I take stock of my options. I land on my gold-coiled snake ring, a simple-faced watch with crystals, and a black wristband.

After I put on my jewelry, I put on the strappy silver heels that Sam picked out for me. The pitch of these heels will no doubt have me regretting putting them on, but I’m hoping the cold night air will numb my feet.

Standing in front of the mirror, I do a once-over, appreciating the complete look.

Damn. Sam is good.

"Damn. I’m good," Sam says, echoing my thoughts. Grinning at her, I agree.

With less than thirty minutes before Damian arrives, I feel a nervous energy bloom in my stomach. "You have to give me something," I say over my shoulder. "Anything. Even the most uninteresting detail."

"Nope," she replies, popping the "p."

Grumbling, I give her my best sour look. Laughing, she crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head. "C’mon," I plead desperately. I’m certainly not proud of it, but my curiosity is killing me.

"Not a chance," she says sternly. She begins packing up her equipment while I sit on the edge of my bed. I’m counting down the minutes while she organizes her bags.

"I have to get home for family game night," she explains. I nod my head in understanding. I feel a slight twinge of jealousy, but I immediately sweep it away as I stand to give her a final hug.

We hold on to each other for a moment before pulling away. I watch as she leaves through the door. She cranes her neck and shouts, "You better text me every dirty detail," through the halls.

Chuckling I holler back, "No promises."

She quips, "Or else," before slipping out undetected through the side entrance. I shake my head, smiling to myself. Now that the house is empty, a deafening silence rings in my ears. A cold breeze whistles into my room, making my chiffon curtains whip around delicately. The crystals of my chandelier tinkle together melodically as the scents and sounds of the city stream in.

I close my eyes and enjoy the symphony of sounds before I check my phone. A slight frown tugs at my lips when I see that Damian hasn’t texted me yet. Sighing, I grab my matching silver-satin clutch and tuck my phone away. I throw in my lipstick, my ID, and some cash.

As much as I am dying to know what the surprise is, I try my best to refrain from guessing in an effort to thwart potentially guessing correctly and being disappointed. After double-checking that I have everything I need, I leave my room and start heading downstairs.

Just as I reach the landing, a searing, hot pain slices through my side, stealing the air from my lungs. Unable to catch my breath, my knees connect with the floor as my head begins to swim from the panic fisting my heart. With short, shallow breaths, I try to breathe through the burning agony under the left side of my ribs. I clutch my hand against my side as I stand. I move and lean my shoulder heavily against the paneled wall.

What the f*ck is happening?

I grind my molars as the pain shoots down my leg, nearly making me collapse again. Black dots begin to swim in my vision, further disorienting me. My hands begin to tingle, feeling colder than normal. I stare at them, half expecting to see blood.

Nothing.

I race back to my bedroom, using my hand to trace the walls for balance. I throw open the door with such a loud thud that I would normally flinch. Staggering, I stand before my mirror. I scrutinize every inch of my body, looking for evidence of bleeding.

Nothing.

Unable to stand any longer, I sit heavily against my bed as another excruciating wave rips through my body. An icy numbness grips my extremities, making me double over in pain again.

I can’t think.

I try to focus on breathing, but with each shallow breath, the pain crackles throughout me, eliciting a groan.

Nauseous, I swallow down the bile in the back of my throat. I break out into a cold sweat as my head becomes heavy. This goes on for several more minutes until the stabbing pain abates into a dull throb.

Still, I don’t dare move a muscle.

After what seems like forever, I gingerly stand, waiting a moment for a dreaded shot of pain to seize me again. But it never comes. Still lightheaded, I go to the bathroom and catch my reflection. I’m paler than normal, with an unflattering sheen of sweat across my face. I turn the cold water on and run my wrists under its soothing stream.

Deep breathes. In, out, in, out.

Once I’m confident I’m no longer going to keel over and die, I return to my room and begin furiously looking up my symptoms on Google.

Yes. I know the only two options are either "you’re dying or you’re pregnant." But right now I’m too freaked out to give a sh*t.

After some very unhelpful articles, one catches my eye.

Appendicitis? Could it be? Wouldn’t the pain last far longer?

I feel more hopeless as I continue reading articles of various useless information when a memory tickles the back of my mind.

"Some say that those who have a particularly strong bond can feel when the other is in pain or in trouble."

"Oh f*ck," I groan.

Damian.

Chapter 23: A Soulmate's Sacrifice

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

My stomach drops and my blood runs cold at the thought of this only being a semblance of Damian’s pain.

If it hurts ME that bad….

Unwilling to finish that thought, I stumble over to my phone, still disoriented, and call Damian. I send a silent prayer to whatever is up there for him to pick up. My heart clenches tighter with each ring that he doesn’t answer.

"C’mon, damn it, answer the f*cking phone," I groan between clenched teeth.

My panic begins to spiral as my breaths become more rushed, trying to get enough oxygen to my brain. I call him two more times, gripping the cell phone harder each time I get his voicemail. At this point, I’m about to start ripping the hair out of my head.

I jump at the sound of my curtains rustling from another gust of wind as the chill hits my face.

Breath dammit. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Again.

I close my eyes and inhale. Each breath is longer than the last until my racing heart is reduced to a steady thump. Kicking off my heels, I wince as the cold wood floors beneath my feet seep into my bones. I spit profanities as my hands begin to shake violently, making me mistype.

Again, I curse my stupid body for betraying me when I need speed and dexterity. I pick through my contacts and begin calling each one of his brothers.

None of them answer.

I call his father.

No answer.

I call Alfred.

No answer.

I call Damian again.

No answer.

"f*ck. f*ckity f*ck f*ck," my voice cracks as I shriek between clenched teeth while holding back the tears welling in my eyes. I sniff harshly and survey the room for my coat as an idea forms in my mind.

Hastily grabbing it, I slip back into my impractical heels, not thinking twice of the repercussions, and stomp through my house. Even if Bran were home right now, I wouldn’t care about being disruptive.

I begin calling hospitals. I feel more and more hopeless as both Gotham General and Wayne Hospital confirm that no patient matching Damian’s description has been admitted.

Releasing more unladylike curses, I begin pacing in the foyer as the carpet beneath my heels struggles to muffle the pounding of my steps. At this late hour, the staff has gone home for the day. I am utterly alone with my thoughts and the annoying sconces that flicker with every step I take.

It’s fitting how the eerie, haunted weight of silence encases me while the reality of how powerless I am invades my mind. The lack of control has me fighting back a sob of frustration. All of my ideas have resulted in nothing.

Should I call the police?

How would I even begin to explain how I know he’s hurt?

What if he was in a car accident?

But why wouldn't anyone answer their phone?

As one thought chases the next, they come to a crashing halt when my eyes land on the key rack next to the back door.

The balm of determination soothes my hysteria. I race to grab the keys and fly toward Bran's barely used and strictly forbidden Mercedes. Not wasting a moment, I back out of the slim driveway at an unreasonably dangerous speed. I whip the car into sport mode as I floor it down the street with screeching wheels. The smoke from the tires clouds my rear view. I send up a silent prayer that the paparazzi don’t follow.

f*ck. I don’t know his address by heart.

But I’ve memorized the route from school.

I whip around corners and fly down the roads like I’m Dominic Toretto from Fast and Furious. Anxiously, I watch my rearview mirror for signs of police lights or paparazzi vans. I make several wrong turns, howling curses at myself, before finally turning onto a street I recognize.

I release a shuddering breath as I reach the gates of Wayne Manor and begin reaching out the driver-side window to feverishly pound the security code into the keypad. With the most beautiful, satisfying whine, the gates swing open, and I gun it once again. I don't wait for the gate to fully open before speeding through, hoping my spatial awareness skills don't fail me today.

Who the hell needs a driveway this long?

Finally, the wheels come to a smoking halt as I stomp on the brake in front of the intimidating estate. I hurl my shoulder into the door as a gust of wind fights against it. I can barely feel the frigid temperature biting my skin as I dash out of the vehicle. I sprint as well as any girl can in stilettos to the mammoth front door. Furiously, I begin hammering the brass knocker on the imposing front door.

"C’mon, c’mon, c’mon," my voice cracks as I plead with the inanimate object.

I slam my fist against the hardwood. "Open the door!" I screech out. "Please, anyone?" My voice breaks as the cold air tears through my throat. Shivering, I keep pounding, ready to cry as hope begins to seep out of my body. My limbs feel heavier than usual as my mind begins to shut down.

My throat feels like sandpaper while I watch my own breath curl before me. I continue to desperately scream for someone to open the door. But nobody comes. Taking several steps back, I ignore the wind whipping my coat open, exposing my skin to the sharp prickle of this fall night. I stare into the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of movement or a flickering light.

There are no lights and no movement.

f*ck.

Where are they?

I stand there, defeated. The slight throb of pain returns as the adrenaline courses out of my body. I am left shaking in the bitter cold, my warm tears burning my frozen cheeks. Their saltiness pours down to the hollows of my neck.

Rushing back to the door, I hammer my knuckles against the wood until I tear skin. I leave drops of blood on the pristine surface each time I make contact.

My face slackens in surprise as the behemoth door begins to slowly crack open. A grim-faced Alfred greets me from the other side. Stepping closer, I catch his eye, and my heart stops beating for a moment. I catalog the twisted grief marring his features as he silently watches the realization dawn on me.

"Please," I beg, "please don’t tell me what I think you’re going to tell me." Unable to hold back the floodgates of emotion, my eyes blur as new tears brim - making it hard to read Alfred’s features. But I don’t need to because his voice carries all the information I need as he says, "I’m so sorry (Y/N)."

I shatter.

A guttural sob passes through my lips, but I can barely hear it past the ringing in my ears. The frigid temperature has nothing to do with the shivers that wrack my body this time. My mouth fills with excess saliva as bile surges and burns the back of my throat.

"Alfred. Please, I have to see him," I croak desperately. His eyes soften, pity contorting his face.

Gently, he says, "Little miss, Master Damian is not well enough for visitors at the moment." His voice wobbles ever so slightly, despite there being an undercurrent of finality. My hysterics come to a halt as bewildered dismay shoots a new wave of adrenaline through me.

"I am not a visitor, Alfred," I say with more iciness than I thought capable of. "Let me see him." My limbs are locked as the wind howls sorrowfully behind me. My shoulders tense as resolution solidifies deep within my chest.

"Please. You cannot see him at the moment." He steps closer, barring my entry.

My eyes dash behind him, looking for something - what? I don’t know.

I level him with what I hope is a scathing look and state, "I will get into this house. And I will see Damian." Stepping closer, I angle my body, ready to barge past him if necessary. He stiffens, his expression growing wary at the tone of my voice.

"He is not here," he concludes.

Bullsh*t.

My eyes narrow as I bare my teeth and push past the older man. He reluctantly allows me to step inside the manor, silently watching as I scan the foyer for signs of life. I strain my ears, listening for an indication that someone is home. The shadows from the dim lights dance along the ceiling with the force of the door slamming shut.

"Where are they?" I forgo looking at him, knowing that I’ll see misplaced compassion etched into his weathered face. Before he can respond, I stride past the foyer and begin my hunt. I grunt as the dull pain reintroduces itself. I pause and use my hand to steady myself against a wall.

Alfred finds me hunched over and breathing heavily. Pushing off, I continue. He trails behind me silently as I relentlessly scour their home. With each empty room that I discover, my rage grows exponentially. I swear and slam each door closed behind me. After the thirty-first room, I whip behind me and bellow, "Where is he?"

He solemnly shakes his head and quietly mutters, "I’m sorry, but I cannot divulge that information." His British accent is usually comforting, but right now it grates against my nerves. I stare at him unblinkingly and step closer. In a deep, rumbled voice, I demand, "Take me to him."

He doesn’t flinch.

I search his eyes, pleading silently with him. "Please," I whimper. "I can help him. I know I can." We stay there for a few moments, just staring at one another.

"I cannot do th-" he begins.

"Oh, for f*ck sake, Alfred, I KNOW!" I yell, cutting him off.

His eyes go wide as a saucer, stunned at my admission. "I already know who he and everyone else are." His face turns grim again.

For the first time, I see his eyes become glassy as he clears his throat. "Follow me," he says softly, not waiting for my response. He walks past me, and I follow. Our steps are synchronized as we walk through the maze of corridors. Finally, he stops before an armoire in a room I have never been in. I raise a skeptical brow while he fiddles with something I can’t see.

Rage thrums in my chest while he continues.

Is he trying to pull some sneaky sh*t right now? Seriously?

Just when I’m about to voice my concern, there’s a hissing sound as the ornate wooden furniture shifts to the side. My jaw drops as a spiraling staircase that descends comes into view.

No f*cking way.

He shoots me a nervous glance before entering. I stand there for a millisecond, not believing my eyes, but quickly snap myself out of my stupor. I eye the armoire suspiciously before I step over the threshold.

This sh*t better not lock behind me.

I hold onto the cool stone wall for balance as I descend. The only sounds that can be heard are my labored breaths and the clicking of my heels.

We walk down for what feels like hours before we’re spit out into a gargantuan underground cave. I blink a few times to make sure my eyes are not deceiving me. I crane my neck back to find stalactites reaching down toward us menacingly. I squint in the darkened room and scan my surroundings when I hear something flutter.

"Don’t mind the bats (Y/N), they won’t harm you," he says, resuming his brisk pace.

"The what?" I'm dumbfounded.

"They prefer to keep to themselves and rarely swoop down. Despite the fact we have invaded their home, they are quite docile," he says, like that explains everything.

My head spins as my eyes try to devour everything. The dripping sounds of water falling from the imposing mineral deposits snap me back to reality. Although it is not nearly as cold down here as it is outside, the air is thicker and more damp.

I do my best to keep up with Alfred’s long strides. We make several turns before I register the different sound my heels make against the floor. Peering down, I notice that I am now standing on a metal surface. I gasp as I look up again, and my eyes go wide.

Holy sh*t.

Now we’re presumably in the heart of the cave, but that is the least important detail. Everywhere I turn, there are different pieces of technology that I didn’t even know existed. To my left is what I assume is the world’s largest computer, and to my right is a sleek black vehicle on a circular platform. I furrow my brows and tilt my head, trying to figure out how the door opens.

"Watch your step. There are grates," Alfred says in a smooth and even tone. Even though he isn’t looking at me, I nod.

"Sure thing," I mumble.

We pass more and more equipment that I can barely comprehend, never mind know the name of. Alfred takes a sharp left down another corridor. Following behind, I feel my brain go numb from all the new information I still need to process.

And then it hits me.

I am in the Batcave.

Bruce Wayne is Batman.

That means Damian is Robin. And the others…

I suck in a sharp breath, which catches his attention. He stops and turns to look at me.

"It was only a matter of time before you discovered our little secret," his voice echoes.

Little?

"When I said I knew...," I say before the rest of my words fall off pathetically. The astonishment must be clearly written all over my face because he chuckles.

"I know, and when you said you could help, it reminded me of a book that I read that claims Soulmates may be able to take pain away from each other," he says nonchalantly, like he didn’t just drop a bombshell on me.

I gasp and blink several times, trying to wrap my mind around that idea, when I ask him, "How?" I can’t bring myself to feel ashamed of the obvious desperation in my voice.

"I’m afraid we don’t have time for me to explain." He ushers me past a new set of doors.

We enter a vastly different room than I expected. Looking around, I notice the stark white walls, various pieces of equipment, bright fluorescent lights, and...gurneys? I scrunch my nose when the intense wall of chemicals assaults my senses. Not only does it sting my nose, but it’s making my eyes water.

We must be in the medical wing?

Aldfred comes to stand behind me after quietly closing the door behind us. I’m about to ask him a question when I hear a muffled moan and hushed voices through the double doors to our right.

Damian.

My heart rate kicks into high gear as everything else fades away. My steps hasten, with Alfred on my heel, as I push open the doors. Four sets of stunned eyes meet mine.

"What is she doing here?" Bruce grumbles uncharacteristically firmly. I ignore his words and walk toward the writhing body on the table. As I approach, his brothers move to stand in my way. The vortex of fury that was churning below the surface rips free.

"You dare stand between me and my Soulmate?" I demand with a dark undertone lacing my words. I stare into each of their eyes, cataloging their reactions. Tim and Dick sport astonished and wary expressions, while Jason’s eyes gleam with appreciation. But Bruce doesn’t crack.

His stoic expression remains as he steps forward. "You need to leave." I cross my arms over my chest, waiting for an explanation. But he doesn’t elaborate.

"No," I say firmly. My eyes narrow, partially due to the harsh lighting but mostly to send the message home.

"If I may," Alfred begins, "little Miss may be able to help with the healing process." He concludes just as Damian releases another groan. Our attention shifts to him. As I look at his mangled form, my face crumples. The first thing I notice is how his normally olive skin tone has turned to a sickly, pale green. His eyes are closed, and the area around them looks bruised. He takes short, shallow breaths while his face contorts in agony.

The thrumming pain now turns to a sharp stabbing, making me falter a step. Luckily, Bruce - or, should I say, Batman - catches my arm and steadies me. Once I regain my balance, he lets go and says, "We don’t have time to argue," while circling to the side where his wound is. Now that my view is unobstructed, I can see the area where his uniform has darkened to near black.

The gruesome injury is in the exact location where my pain radiates. From this angle, I can see part of his flesh is torn with jagged edges of flesh. Beyond the torn skin and muscle, there is a bone from his rib exposed. I forcibly swallow the bile back down as the others surround Damian as well. Batman seemingly produces cloth scissors from thin air while he rattles off instructions.

"Alfred, get me a basin of warm water and a cloth." He begins cutting away at the dense material. "Jason, find me the novocaine; I need to numb the area so that he won’t move when we sterilize the area and stitch him up." Jason obeys, immediately disappearing into a different room. "Dick, I’m going to need you to hold him in place when I administer it." He looks up just in time to see him nod. "And Tim, I need you to get the sutures ready."

"On it," he says with determination.

They’re still in their uniforms, all of them looking haggard and exhausted.

They deftly move around the room, working together like a well-oiled machine. Within mere moments, Batman is loading up the syringe. "" Dick, hold his shoulders. Jason, get his legs." I stand a few feet away as he inserts the needle. Damian cries out miserably.

"Hold him steady," he growls.

Damian tries his best to break out of the vice grip his brothers have him in as they struggle to hold him in place. With each scream that bounces off the sterile walls, my heart rips into pieces. The novocain doesn't seem to be working fast enough because Damian continues to cry out. My head begins to feel airy as a hot flash ripples through my body.

"Let me help," I plead. They spare me a quick glance before sharing uncertain glances.

Alfred gently places a hand on the small of my back and pushes me forward. "From what I’ve read, you’ll need to have skin-on-skin contact to absorb part of his pain," he instructs. The second the words spill out of his mouth, I grab Damian’s hand tightly and hold his arm down. It takes my entire body weight to keep it in place. He’s still writhing in pain.

"Now what?" I look at him. The others return to their tasks, focusing intently.

"Try to visualize the pain traveling from his body into yours."

I close my eyes and imagine his pain blazing through his veins into our conjoined hands.

"Be careful; do not overload yourself. It can be extremely dangerous if you absorb too much," he says softly.

What feels like an eternity passes, and I’m about to scream in frustration when my hand starts to tingle painfully. Snapping my eyes open, I see his veins literally darken and pulse as the tingles evolve into throbbing.

"It’s working," Dick whispers in astonishment.

It’s not enough.

He’s still crying out. Closing my eyes again, I focus and imagine drawing more pain from him. This time, the pain comes swiftly, making my jaw clench. The throbbing turns into a stabbing and begins to climb up my arm and into my shoulder. My legs grow weak, but Alfred keeps me upright as I siphon more and more of his pain into me.

It’s working.

Damian’s face relaxes a fraction, and his screams devolve into light moans. Dick releases his shoulders, and Jason releases his legs. They watch me in amazement. Tim and Batman remain focused on getting him stitched up.

"You can release him now (Y/N). You’ve done plenty to ease his pain," Alfred gently says, trying to pry my hand from his.

"No," I grit out between clenched teeth. "I can take it."

None of them argue with me. The pain spreads into my chest and down my torso as I fight hard against the scream that wants to be released. My stomach churns angrily, making me queasy.

"You need to stop," Jason pleads with me. I don’t have the energy to speak, so I just shake my head. I watch as Damian’s breathing grows more even.

Good.

Black dots dance in my vision while I continue to clutch his calloused hand tightly. My palms sweat, and my body begins to shake violently. I grip him tighter, not willing to let go until I know he feels no pain. My head becomes fuzzy, and my vision begins to fail me. A deafening ringing makes it hard to hear anything, but I press into Damian harder.

"(Y/N)," someone barks. I can’t tell where it came from. An arm moves from my shoulders to my waist, now supporting most of my body weight. I hear voices in the background, but they're too garbled for me to understand. All I can think about is saving my Soulmate.

I lick my lips. They taste salty. I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth. My eyes grow heavy, and my chest feels hollow and cold. Ever so slowly, the pain eases. And just in time too, because my grip on Damian loosens and slips away. The second I break contact, someone pulls my back against their chest as my legs give out. We slide to the floor, and I lean back into them as I sit between their legs.

In the background, I hear someone calling for something, but I don’t know what. The next thing I know, my hair is lifted, and a cold compress makes contact with the back of my neck. My head lolls back and rests against something solid.

"I’m gonna throw up." The sound of my voice doesn’t sound right. In my periphery, I see someone run out of my field of view before a garbage pail is shoved in front of me. That’s all my body needs as I lean forward and begin throwing up. My stomach spasms with each heave. I stay there, vomiting, until there is nothing left. But it doesn’t stop. Now, the dry heaving begins. I continuously heave over the pail as the rancid smell makes my eyes water. Finally, it ceases. I breathe heavily and lean back into whoever is holding me.

I close my eyes, drown out the noise, and let the silence soothe me.

No. There is no noise. It is silent.

Furrowing my brow, I look around the room with bleary eyes and watch as Batman tapes gauze over Damian’s wound. I strain my ears, trying to hear what is going on around me, but there is nothing. Alarm shoots through me as I realize why it is so quiet all of a sudden.

I thought that Damian’s anguished cries were the worst sound I’d ever hear, but they don’t compare to his silence.

I cry out softly, assuming the worst.

"He’s just unconscious," Dick says. It takes me a moment to understand what he said because his voice sounds like it’s underwater. I nod my head weakly. I don’t know how much time has passed. I feel the odd sensation of being lifted off the floor. My limbs are too weak for me to wrap my arms around their neck, so I just let them dangle.

Gently, they carry me back into the large cave we came through and delicately place me down in a reclined chair. Someone places a glass of something in my hand. I think they’re telling me to drink it. They’re standing right in front of me, but all I can see is a fuzzy outline.

I twitch a little when they snap next to my ears. I try to whack their hand away, but I miss. Next, a bright light invades each of my eyes. Grumbling, I try to tell them to stop, but I can’t form the words.

Slowly, the ringing in my ears dissipates, and my vision becomes more clear.

"(Y/N), can you hear me?" Nod your head yes if you can hear." My eyes regain their focus a little, and now I’m staring at the concerned face of Jason.

I nod.

"Good," he says, kneeling down in front of me. One side of his mouth curves up as he helps me drink. "You scared me there for a moment." He tilts the glass higher as I chug its contents. I cough at the disgusting taste. The curious part of me wants to ask what it is, but the logical part wins out. Although his voice is light, when I look into his eyes, I can see the depths of his anguish.

Once I’m done, he takes the glass from me, and I give a weak chuckle.

"For a second there, we thought you were a goner," Jason says. His voice is clearer than before.

"Worth it," I murmur weakly. He gazes back toward where we came from before looking at me again.

In a hushed voice, he says, "Yeah. Well, Damian would have slaughtered us all if something happened to you." He remains kneeling in front of me, scrutinizing every movement.

I roll my eyes and respond, "Stop being so dramatic. It wasn’t that bad." He huffs a breath through his nose and stands. "Stay here," he commands.

I let out a humorless laugh and ask, "Where exactly am I going to go with my current spaghetti limbs?" He gives me a genuine smile and replies, "Great. Your sense of humor has returned. That’s a good sign." Before I can come up with a sassy retort, he leaves.

I let my eyes wander around the room, but nothing truly registers. Faster than expected, Jason returns with an IV bag in tow. I quirk a brow, but say nothing as he puts the bag on a rolling pole. He delicately turns my hand to expose the inside of my arm.

"Alfred suggested you might need to resupply your nutrients," he explains.

"Makes sense," I mumble, resting my head against the chair. He feels around for a vein in my arm before uncapping the needle.

"Stay still," he orders softly. The intense concentration on his face is adorable.

I do as he says, watching as he inserts the needle into my skin and hissing lightly at the prick. He looks up at me and shoots me a wry grin. "Oh, c'mon, that can’t be nearly as bad as what you just went through." Once the blood is visible in the tube and the cold liquid begins flowing through my veins, he gingerly places medical tape over it. He only releases my arm when he’s certain the needle won't come out.

Releasing a dramatic sigh, he wipes a nonexistent bead of sweat off his brow. "Whew. I’ve only ever done that once before," he admits. My mouth drops open for a moment before he throws his head back and releases a deep rumble of laughter.

I swat him with my free hand and exclaim, "You dick."

He rubs his arm where I smacked him and says, "Ow. What was that for?" The look on his face tells me he knows exactly what it was for. I shake my head at his stupid idea of a joke. His expression grows serious. "Thank you for what you did for Damian."

I’m taken aback for a moment, and I forget how to speak. Clearing my throat, I look at him earnestly and say, "There’s nothing to thank me for. I would do anything for him." As the words leave my mouth, it fully dawns on me how true they are.

He smiles shyly before a devious glint enters his eyes. "By the way, kudos to you for handling Batman. I’ve never seen anyone go toe to toe with him like that." If I’m not mistaken, there is admiration in his voice.

I wave my free hand and say, "It was nothing," coyly. He snorts in response.

"He’s going to be okay." You saved his life back there."

"Well, I certainly hope so after all that," I jest, flashing a real smile. Despite my easy words, my heart jumps into my throat when I realize how close I was to losing him.

Jason smiles back at me, but I can tell he sees through my cavalier behavior. "Why don’t you rest your eyes for a little bit?" He pats my hand reassuringly.

"That’s definitely not a bad idea," I say, trying to suppress a yawn. He smiles at me before walking away. As I watch his retreating form, I can’t help but think that if given the choice again, I would always choose to save him. Even if it meant it would cost me my life.

I close my eyes and let the darkness take me as my senses fall away one by one.

Chapter 24: The Truth Prevails

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

"(Y/N)?" A distorted voice wobbles through the inky darkness. Something warm touches my arm, slightly shaking me. "Hey," it whispers, now closer and more clear. My eyes flutter behind my lids as I try to find the strength to open them. Slowly, I’m pulled from the pillowy void of my subconscious. My eyes feel like sandpaper as I crack them slowly and inhale deeply.

"There you are," says the disembodied voice from earlier. Turning my head, I blink a few times, trying to clear my vision. Dick is standing next to me, now freshly showered and in mundane clothing. As my hearing returns and my sense of touch awakens, I realize I’m no longer in the chair.

As the memories rush back to me, I frantically bolt upright and try to stand. Only to be weighed down by layers of fabric.

Fabric?

Looking down, I see that I’m in a bed. The soft white sheets are crisply folded over a fluffy navy duvet. Confused, I hastily look around the room. I’m in a bedroom.

How did I get here?

The question must be etched into my face because Dick says, "I carried you up here after Alfred took your IV out." He seats himself near the edge of the massive bed. "We thought you’d be more comfortable here," he admits sheepishly. His cheeks stain lightly as he averts his gaze.

I smile at him reassuringly before speaking. "It’s ok. That was thoughtful," I croak. My voice is still raw. I swallow, but my mouth is too dry to ease the strain. Dick notices, and jumps to his feet to hand me the glass of water on the nightstand that's beside me.

Gratefully, I accept it before taking several small, slow sips. Once my thirst is sufficiently quenched, I twist at the waist and place it on the marble coaster. Stretching my arms above my head, I revel in the way my muscles release their tension. Feeling less groggy, I take stock of my surroundings.

To my left, there is a floor-to-ceiling bay window with a cushioned bench masterfully crafted to its shape. The walls beside the window are lined with floating shelves containing nicknacks. To my right, I spot a little Victorian seating area with a light blue pattern. Behind it are a set of bleached drawers with a matching armoire. I chuckle at it and point. "Does that go somewhere cool?"

Dick’s eyes follow my finger before he releases a nervous laugh. Shaking his head, he looks at me and answers, "Unfortunately, no." He winks at me and stands. " That’s one of the less special ones," he says, the skin next to his eyes crinkling as they brighten.

"Bummer," I mumble.

"I’ll be in the next room over." He points with his thumb to a door behind him. "Take your time getting refreshed if you want. Damian is in there, and he’s starting to wake, so I thought you might want to be there when he does." His face softens when he sees my panic return.

"How is he?" I rush out. I start clambering out of bed and find myself surprised to be standing on an extravagantly thick navy rug. "Hmm," I hum pleasantly to myself before looking back at Dick.

His smile alone relieves most of the tension residing in my shoulders. "He’s healing well. He hasn’t stirred since you took his pain," he reassures. While I get my bearings, testing out my balance, I see him swallow a lump in his throat. His face grows serious, and he begins shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

He opens and closes his mouth several times and starts picking at his nails. My brows furrow as I feel myself growing uneasy. "What?" I ask wearily.

He sighs and reluctantly says, "What you did for him was amazing." He hesitates a moment and says, "But I don’t think you realize how dangerously close you came to dying." I can feel my brows raise to my hairline while I digest his words. I purse my lips in consideration, waiting for him to scold me. But he doesn’t.

Suspicious, I ask, "Are you going to tell me not to do it again?" He rakes both his hands through his hair and blows out a breath.

"No." He doesn’t sound convinced. "I want to, but if you didn't, I don’t think we’d be here right now, if you know what I mean." His ocean blue eyes darken mournfully.

"Good," I clip, "because there is nothing that anyone can say to convince me otherwise." I don’t give him a chance to respond as I walk past him toward the door he mentioned Damian was through.

He follows, leans past me to twist the handle, and pushes the silent door open. I step through and see that everyone else is already there, surrounding the bed. This room is vastly different from the one I just came from.

Two of the four walls are lined to the ceiling with bookshelves housing nothing but old leather spines encased in glass. The walls are dark until the cream wainscoting cuts them off halfway. The only similarity they share is the large bay window with a bench. But this one lacks a cushion and is supporting more books.

His dark ebony furniture is in direct contrast to the ones in the room I woke up in. In addition, there’s an Edwardian-style couch flanked by two matching chairs sitting atop a warm Persian rug. I feel a smile tug on my lips at the realization that I’m in Damian’s bedroom. It is truly the physical manifestation of his personality.

Gingerly, I join his family as they make room for me near the foot of the bed. My heart skips a few beats as I look at my slumbering Soulmate. His normal complexion has returned, and the hollowness around his eyes has diminished greatly. However, there is still a slight sheen of sweat that glistens off of him. Either his father or one of his brothers has changed him out of his uniform and into loose, satin pajamas.

Looking at the other men, I notice that they've all changed. Bruce and Tim are wearing a similar set to Damian's, but his father added a luxurious robe over his. Meanwhile, Dick and Jason are donning simple T-shirts and sweatpants.

Jason, to my right, looks at me and whispers, "How are you feeling?" His genuine curiosity warms my heart. "Good. I feel much better after that nap," I reply in an equally hushed tone.

How long was I asleep?

Peering out the window, I see that it’s still pitch black outside. Jason follows my gaze and predicts the question forming on my lips. "You were out for about four hours. It’s nearly eleven," he explains.

Huh. It felt like I had been asleep far longer.

I nod and smile in thanks before returning my attention to a now-half-conscious Damian. He squirms and groans a little. We take a small step back as his eyes peel open slowly. He grunts something incoherent and blinks rapidly. His head turns to the side as he looks at his father and asks in a gravelly voice, "What happened?"

He tries to sit up, but his father puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down, and softly says, "Don’t move. You were badly injured earlier today."

Damian scrunches his face, still dazed. "Where?" His voice hardens as his eyes frantically scan the room. They snap to me and go wide as a saucer. He struggles against his father's grip but fails.

"What the hell is she doing here?" I suck in a sharp breath at his growling words. The others, now concerned, edge closer to me. He looks at each of them desperately. "She isn’t supposed to be here," he sputters.

Uncertainty and hurt spear me through the chest. Before I can answer, Jason retorts, "She saved your life, dickwad, show some appreciation," defensively. He steps even closer to me. Damian's eyes narrow at the shrinking distance between us, and bares his teeth.

"What the hell are you talking about, Todd?" He grunts his response through his visibly clenched teeth. Alfred, who seemingly appears out of nowhere, tries to console him. "It would seem that your Soulmate felt a remnant of your pain and graciously came to your aid." I turn toward the older gentleman and do my best to silently convey my appreciation. He tilts his chin.

"She shouldn't have done that," he snaps back. My face falls at the venom dripping from his voice. I’ve never heard him speak about me so dismissively before. He doesn’t even have the decency to address me directly and won’t look me in the eye.

My temper boils over into a righteous fury that penetrates deep into my cells. I growl, "Check that f*cking tone." He and his brothers startle at my words as they are rendered silent. "I didn’t go through all that sh*t for your ungrateful ass to admonish my efforts to save your life." The depth of my grief soaks into each word.

Damian tries to interject, but I hold up a hand. "You have no right to be snapping at anyone. Everyone here has worked tirelessly to patch you up again; the least you can do is say thank you."

As my words sink in, I can see his face twist into remorse. He closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath through his nose. He glances around the room for a moment before looking back at me. "I’m sorry (Y/N)," he offers weakly as the weight of exhaustion catches up to him. "You are correct. Allow me to amend my mistake." He looks at each of us and continues, "I beseech you to accept my sincerest apologies for my abhorrent behavior and my unwavering gratitude for your impeccable care."

My anger dissipates as his words ring through us all. Their surprise tells me that he has either rarely or never uttered an apology. They nod their heads and reassure him that his apology and thanks are greatly appreciated.

I look at his brothers again, and for the first time, I notice that they all sport bruises, cuts, and bandages. Even Bruce has some.

It must have been some serio-

"So you know?" Damian’s voice cuts off my train of thought. His eyes squint, but I can see that there is a reluctant insecurity within them.

"I do." I start, "But you have nothing to worry about. I’ll take this secret to the grave. I promise," I conclude. I hope they can hear the sincerity in my voice. Everything I said is true. I would never put them in harm's way.

A mixture of relief and apprehension battles in his emerald eyes as he nods solemnly. He watches pensively for several moments, to the point where I start to feel uncomfortable.

"At first, I thought I had appendicitis," I blurt out, trying to break his spell.

Dick and Jason chuckle at my admission, but Damian’s face grows concerned. "How bad was it?" He asks softly.

Oh.

I clear my throat and fib, "It was manageable. But I realized it wasn’t coming from me when I remembered what the woman who registered us said." His eyes go wide as he too recalls. Before I can assure him that it wasn’t that bad, he requests everyone but me to clear the room. Surprised, I'm about to protest when Alfred says, "They will be nearby while I obtain another bag of fluids for you."

I watch as his father helps him sit up further against the wall of pillows. Once they're certain he's comfortable, they leave. With just us remaining, his gaze softens as he pats the mattress beside him. I circle around the bed and sit beside him, crossing my legs at the ankle. Since I’m still in my silver dress, I can't sit pretzel-style like I want.

His eyes darken, and his face grows heated when he notices my attire. He rakes his eyes down my body and shoots me a wicked grin. "My dear, you look absolutely ravishing," he breathes huskily. I avert my gaze, feeling a deep blush crawl up my neck. He chuckles at my reaction.

"I will regret this, but if you want to change into something more comfortable, my T-shirts and drawstring pants are in the second drawer of the dresser," he hesitantly mentions. I laugh at his genuine reluctance.

"Thank you." I climb off the bed, cross the room, open the second drawer, and begin rifling through his clothes. Pulling out a shirt and pants, I debate whether to change here or in the room I came from. A naughty smile curves my lips as I decide on the former. I turn my back to him as I start to undo the buttons of the dress.

"What are you doing?" He asks nervously.

"Changing," I reply innocently, still facing in the opposite direction. As I work the last few buttons, I hear him audibly groan.

"Habibti, why must you torture me?"

I look over my now bare shoulder and say, "I have no idea what you’re talking about." I make sure to flutter my eyelashes for good measure.

I let the other strap fall off my shoulder as the final button comes undone. Slower than necessary, I let the buttery satin run down my body and pool at my feet. Damian inhales a sharp breath through his teeth when I step out of it. I take my sweet time bending down to pick up the dress, putting my ass on full display.

Due to the thin material, I opted to go with a thin lacy thong that has a cute pink bow on the front that he can’t see. I also opted to go sans bra, knowing the wiring would be visible through it. So now, I stand in Damian’s bedroom naked, save for a nearly see-through pair of underwear.

The sound of his heavy breathing makes my nipples harden. I hear the sheets rumple a bit behind me. I fling the dress over my shoulder and pray that it lands on the bed—better yet, on Damian.

Ishould put him out of his misery.

But then again, I am having way too much fun torturing him.

That’s what he gets for being a grumpy prick.

More dramatically than I need, I step into the pants and intentionally let them get caught on the bottom of my ass as I pull them up. Then, I put my arms and head through the shirt, turning just enough so he can get a glimpse of sideboob before letting it fall over my chest. When I fully turn toward him again, I see his sultry expression as he stares at me through hooded lids. I return to the spot beside him, move the dress to the side, and gleefully sit pretzel style.

"I deserved that," he coos, blinking at me lazily. At this range, I can see how flushed his complexion is. A small dribble of guilt drops into my pool of lust, but it’s quickly washed away when I watch him adjust himself under the sheets.

I give him a wicked smile. "You absolutely did." He chuckles deeply, and rests his hand on the side of my neck. I close my eyes and lean into his warm touch. His thumb draws light circles on the sensitive skin, eliciting a soft moan from my lips.

My eyes open when he pulls his hand back, now sporting a serious expression. My brows furrow as the heat that was just thrumming through my veins grows cold. I place my hand over his. "What’s wrong?"

"I can tell when you’re lying." He interlocks our fingers. "I know that you were in more pain than you alluded to."

I suck in a breath and consider my next words.

He already knows. There is no point in lying.

"That’s true. It was more painful than I admitted." I search his eyes, trying to gauge what he might say next.

"I appreciate your candor." He sighs, his eyes straining. With his free hand, he runs it down his face and adds, "You did something to help me." It’s not a question.

"Yes," I mumble. For some reason, knowing the trajectory of this conversation makes my palms sweat. Rather than asking me directly, he waits patiently for me to elaborate. "Alfred guided me through a series of steps that allowed me to absorb your pain."

His eyes widen for a split second before they squint in scrutiny. "How?"

I carefully comb through the memories to find a suitable answer for him. "I joined our hands and visualized your pain transferring to me," I answer slowly. It’s a simplified truth, but the truth nonetheless.

He nods, understanding. "What happened after that?" I wince at the question, knowing he's going to hate the answer.

"I may have thrown up and been a little delirious," I squeak out. My shoulders hunch in anticipation of his anger. However, he surprises me when he says, "Oh, darling, I’m sorry you had to endure that." Sniffling, I watch him closely for any sign of negative emotion. My eyes begin to well. "Sssshh." He pulls me closer and cups my face. "Please don’t cry," he begs pitifully.

I release a wet chuckle that makes his eyes light up, and an infuriatingly gorgeous smirk graces his face. "I’m okay," I whisper, trying to convince myself more than him. "I was so afraid for you." The admission comes out before I can stop it.

He rests his forehead against mine, wincing from the movement. "I understand better than most what that fear can drive people to do."

"I know that now." I close my eyes as we take this moment to enjoy each other’s presence. I breathe in his alluring scent, letting it engulf my body and calm my nerves. He’s the first to pull away again.

His face contorts into a new expression I can’t read. "Habiti," his voice carries a sense of desperation and urgency, "I need you to be forthright about what I am going to ask," he says. Dread lines my stomach, making it seize painfully. Gulping, I agree reluctantly and wait for him to continue. "The night of the party-"

Oh no.

"I was with my family when I felt a sharp pain radiating from my back. At first, we assumed it was a single anomaly, but later I felt the pain again." He pauses, cautiously searching my face for a reaction. "I had briefly considered that it was derived from you, but when we arrived at the party and I saw you on the staircase, I dismissed it. After the events that occurred today, I am certain that my aforementioned assumption was correct." His verdant eyes bore into mine as they hunt for the truth.

I avert my gaze, looking down as I begin studiously picking at my cuticles. He lifts my chin and makes me look at him. He already knows that he’s right, he just needs to hear me say it.

"What transpired that night to cause you such pain?" His voice adopts an imperious tone, one that can’t be ignored.

No. I can’t tell him. He can’t know.

As apprehension sinks into my muscles, I feel my intestines twist painfully, causing a fresh wave of nausea to arise. I swallow harshly and shake my head before calmly saying, "I can’t explain what happened, Damian."

The disappointment on his face breaks my heart, but it’s for his own good that he never finds out. His eyes narrow, and a tick in his jaw catches my attention. "I’m sorry, Dames, I -

"Don’t. Please," he clips.

I sit back and watch him as his mind races, trying to understand why I won’t open up. I feel guilt gnawing at me for violating our agreement on open communication, but this is just something I am not ready to share.

Something in his face changes, almost as if he has deciphered a difficult riddle. Eyes wide, his stunned expression quickly transforms into a dangerous one. I flinch at the palpable rage permeating the air between us.

"It was Bran," he snarls, a perilous edge cutting through his words. I default into my impassive mask despite feeling like a bucket of cold water was dropped on me. His nostrils flare rapidly as he wears his fury plainly.

"That is why you gave me your passport and social security card," he explains, struggling to keep his temper in check. He fists the bedsheets tightly beside him. I notice a vein in his neck that pulses dangerously quickly.

f*ck.

How did he figure it out?

He’s already made it clear that he can see through my lies. I huff out a defeated breath. Despite my impulse to combat his accusation, I relent and nod my head soberly. He uncharacteristically hisses out a slew of curses. His face changes once more, and this time I have no trouble reading it.

I hold up both hands and choke out, "Don’t. Don’t you dare pity me. I’m not a victim." I allow all the hurt and bitterness to leak into my voice. My eyes well once again, but I refuse to allow the tears to spill over. My face grows hot as shame engulfs me, further igniting my own rage.

"I don’t. You’re not," he says quickly. Then, more gently than I thought he was capable of, he says, "(Y/N), you’re a survivor." My lip quivers, and the tears I so stubbornly tried to hold back come racing down my cheeks. I take a shaky breath. He reaches for me, but I pull back. Misery fills his eyes, but with my emotional bandwidth at its maximum, I can’t bring myself to offer him solace.

"Turn around," he whispers.

"What?" I can’t keep the confusion out of my voice.

"Turn around and show me your scars." His stern expression makes me physically recoil.

Grimacing, I ask, "Why?"

His lips part and his eyes grow misty—a sight I never thought I’d see. "Because I want to know how many times you needed me and I wasn’t there," he admits, swallowing harshly.

My heart skitters to a halt. "Oh Dami-"

"Please," he begs through clenched teeth, briefly closing his eyes. I can’t deny him. So, I turn around on the bed and take off his oversized cotton shirt. I bunch it up in my arms and hold it close to my chest. He releases a guttural sound that I refuse to acknowledge. Burying my nose in his shirt, I devour his scent, letting its familiarity soothe me.

I arch my back in surprise when his fingers brush against the sensitive skin. He mumbles an apology, and I reassure him that it’s okay before he touches me again. He takes his time tracing each scar that mars my back. I fight back the desire to cover up.

The shame of him seeing me like this makes me want to scream and throw up at the same time. I never wanted him to know how mangled I am. Inside and out. I bite my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as I try to internalize the sobs that want to wrack my body.

"You’re exquisite, beloved," he breathes, his voice barely audible.

A mirthless laugh breaks free from my throat. Shaking my head, I whisper, "Please don’t lie to me, Damian. I don’t need disingenuous flattery."

He removes his hand from my back, prompting me to redress. Turning at the waist, I look at him. He shakes his head earnestly and promises, "I would never lie to you about that." I swallow the lump in my throat, nodding but not truly believing.

"Your turn," I say. He doesn’t need clarification. He carefully unbuttons his top and shrugs it off, wincing slightly. I suck in a breath as my eyes race across his skin. I commit each nick and scar to memory.

There are so many.

I can’t even fully enjoy the beautiful display of his tightly corded and tanned muscles. Even sitting, he has abs.

"The scars… How did you get them?" I ask, looking into his glimmering yet rueful eyes.

He releases a dry laugh and replies, "I earned some and deserved the rest." My heart sinks to my stomach when I see that he truly believes his own words.

"Nobody deserves that," I whimper, leaning closer to him.

He slants me with a droll look. "I could say the same to you."

"True," I concede. A knock at the door catches our attention. Damian calls for them to come in as he begins deftly rebuttoning his shirt. Alfred enters first, with the rest following closely behind. I stand to give him room to administer the new bag of fluids and walk over to the foot of the bed again.

While Alfred gets to work, we share a look, conveying our agreement to keep this between us. I offer a small smile, which he returns in kind. After the bag is replaced, Alfred instructs Damian to take off his shirt so that he can change the bandage. He obliges begrudgingly. All the while, the rest of us stand, watching the process intently.

"It looks like your wound is healing nicely," Alfred says cheerily, eliciting a collective breath of relief from all of us. With the new bandage in place, Alfred leaves to dispose of the old dressings and empty bag.

Once he clears the room, Damian buttons up again, pushes the covers off him, and goes to stand. All at once, his brothers and father rush him, releasing a cacophony of objections. Damian scowls and snaps at them, trying to shrug them off. But in his current state, he has no choice but to lie back in bed.

"This is entirely unnecessary," he protests vehemently.

"It hasn’t even been six hours since the assault, Damian; you need bed rest for at least two days," his father explains calmly. Damian’s face scrunches as he tries to argue with him, but once again Bruce shuts it down. I can tell the word "assault" bothers him greatly.

Trying to ease the tension, I walk over to the opposite side of the bed and sit down. I grab his hand and give him a reassuring squeeze. "You know, for the guy who’s most likely to be valedictorian, you can be pretty dumb sometimes," I tease lightheartedly. He chuckles and shakes his head, squeezing my hand back.

From behind me, Dick pipes up and says, "I wouldn’t be too sure about the whole valedictorian thing (Y/N). Your GPAs are pretty close." His words stir something in the back of my mind. "You have sports accolades and way more community service hours. Not to mention all the clubs you’re a part of."

I tilt my head as an odd feeling blossoms in me, but the others don’t notice. Dick is still oblivious to the shift in my mood and adds excitedly, "Ooh. You also have all those crazy research articles you’ve published." He taps his chin pensively for a moment and then asks, "Aren’t you about to win grant money from the scientific paper you’ve recently co-authored?"

It’s his question that makes my muscles turn to concrete. My mind races with explanations for why he’d know any of that, but I come up with none. I slip my hand from Damian’s and stand, turning to face Dick.

"Yes. But how would you know any of that?" I ask, suspicion lacing my voice. His face falls, and he visibly gulps before he answers, "Damian told me."

My eyes narrow. That odd feeling quickly evolves into a sickly weariness, making my stomach feel hollow. The room goes quiet, but I ignore that fact. Instead, I hone my sight on Dick, cataloging the blush creeping up his neck and the way he shifts his weight back and forth.

"You’re lying. There’s no way Damian could have known all that. I haven’t told him," I say evenly. I’m growing accustomed to the sensation of ice coursing through my veins as I slowly walk toward him. "I’ll ask again. This time, you’ll answer truthfully. How. Did. You. Know. That?" I make sure to enunciate each word.

He shoots a nervous glance at Bruce and Tim before his eyes return to me. He releases an anxious chuckle and runs his hand through his hair.

Another of his nervous ticks.

"Well... you see. Like. It’s not..." he stumbles over his words. "I. We-"

"Grayson!" Damian snaps aggressively. I spare him a glance. His mouth is set in a hard line, and his eyes burn furiously. I look at Tim. "How would he know that?" I ask again, my voice raising slightly. He remains silent, looking at me warily. I curl my fists into balls in an effort to conceal my shaking hands.

The thread of my patience is about to snap when Bruce turns toward me and explains, "When we discovered you were Damian’s Soulmate we wanted to learn more about you. We’re a family of detectives; it was only natural for us to run a background check." His sons simultaneously cringe at his father’s admission. Even Alfred, who is now standing in the doorway, seems to pale slightly.

His words finally sink into me as I fully comprehend their meaning. Something in my chest cracks as molten rage burns me from the inside out.

"You. Did. What?" The bite of the tone reverberates throughout the room.

How. f*cking. Dare. They.

Chapter 25: Brittle and Beaten

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

My cheeks flush with burning humiliation as I lock eyes with their guilt-stricken faces. Bruce's expression, however, is laced with confusion, which only adds to my growing frustration. The air around me feels suffocatingly thin, causing my skin to tingle uncomfortably. Seeking a moment of respite, I close my eyes, hoping to find solace in the deafening silence that envelops us, but a bone-chilling cold settles deep within my marrow.

My voice trembles with a mix of anger and disbelief as I begin to address them. "Let me get this straight," I utter, my tone growing louder with each passing word. "Not only have you shamelessly violated my privacy, but now you're trying to justify it?" My voice cracks, betraying the tears that threaten to spill from my eyes. The weight of their betrayal hangs heavy in the air, tightening the knot in my throat.

God, how could they?

Bruce takes hesitant steps toward me, his hands clasped in an attempt to appear conciliatory. "Try to overcome your panic and understand the reasons behind our actions," he says, his voice measured and deliberate. Each step he takes feels like a calculated invasion of my personal space. A surge of indignation courses through me, and I snap at him, my voice dripping with contempt. "Don't patronize me," I hiss, struggling to contain the storm of emotions swirling within me. "I'm not some naïve fool who is oblivious to the harsh realities of this world," I seethe, my gaze shifting to Damian, who now lies silent on the bed, his fists clenched tightly.

Bruce tilts his head, and although his expression remains stoic, his plea for understanding seeps through his façade. "I understand that this is difficult for you to accept, but now that you know our secret, you must understand," he implores, his voice carrying a tinge of desperation.

My nostrils flare with anger, and my eyes narrow in scrutiny as I press him further. "What exactly," I take a controlled step toward him, "do you think I don't understand?" I demand, my voice dripping with simmering resentment. The room seems to hold its breath, waiting for his response.

His gaze meets mine, unwavering and unyielding. His words carry an unspoken truth. "I believe you comprehend perfectly why we did it," he states, his voice low and measured. My jaw clenches, and I cross my arms over my chest, the gesture a shield against the pain that threatens to consume me.

His eyes narrow in contemplation as if peering into the depths of my soul. "The act itself is not what upsets you," he continues, his words hitting uncomfortably close to the mark. I crack my jaw, a controlled exhale escaping through my clenched teeth. "You're right," I admit, my voice a low rumble. "It's the omission—the deceit," I concede, my eyes sweeping over the room, their gazes filled with guilt.

Silence hangs heavy in the air, and I punish them with my disapproving silence, forcing them to confront the gravity of their actions. Finally, I break my silence, my voice cutting through the tense atmosphere. "That is partly true," I utter, my words measured and deliberate. My gaze lands on Tim, whose indifferent expression ignites a flicker of fury within me. "But not entirely," I continue, my voice laced with accusation.

Dick paces nervously, his discomfort offering a small semblance of satisfaction. Good, he should be troubled. They should all be troubled. However, Damian's reaction—or lack thereof—leaves me perplexed. I never expected him to remain so silent.

Against my better judgment, I spare him a glance, and my heart shatters at the sight of his tear-streaked face, filled with remorse and guilt. "Damian?" I call out, my voice shaky with vulnerability. "Were you ever going to tell me?". He purses his lips, his gaze searching for an honest answer. After a moment of contemplation, he replies, "I don't know."

The rift between us, already fragile, breaks open wider, and my face crumples in anguish. Numbness sets in as I stare at him, silently pleading for a different outcome, but he remains resolute, his alarmed gaze locked with mine.

As calmly as my racing heart will allow me to, I articulate, "You illegally pulled up private information," I shoot them all a withering look, "More than Dick is letting on, I'm sure. But I know for a fact that you were never planning to tell me." I let my words resonate. Batman, knowing that being truthful is the only way to placate me, nods his head. Betrayal withers my heart, only to reinvigorate it with obstinate distrust.

"Give me the file," I demand. "Everything you've gathered about me. I want it all." I don a mask of veritable rage. Batman's eyes narrow in consideration before they dart to Alfred. Turning, I watch him nod his head glumly before turning on his heel and disappearing.

Biting my lip, I turn away from them, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. I try to focus on my breathing, but every inhalation feels like shards of glass piercing my lungs. My skin prickles with awareness as they watch me retreat to the seating area. I collapse heavily into one of the chairs, my gaze fixated on the blank wall before me.

It feels as though I'm trapped in a body that is no longer my own. I look at my hands, knowing they belong to me, yet they feel foreign and detached. I feel as though I'm a mere observer, imprisoned within the confines of my own mind. Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my thighs and bury my face in my hands, seeking refuge from the overwhelming torrent of emotions. Time seems to blur as I lose myself in this state, unable to determine how long I remain in that position.

Suddenly, a large, warm hand rests gently on my back, jolting me from my dissociative state. Lifting my head, I meet the gaze of Dick, who kneels beside me. His eyes, rimmed with red, radiate a profound sense of despair as he murmurs, "I'm so sorry." He swallows hard, his voice choked with emotion. "We should have never done that, and I can't begin to express how deeply sorry we are." He glances back at his family, seeking their support and agreement.

"Are you sorry for what you did, or are you sorry for getting caught?" I question, my voice devoid of any pretense. His head snaps back to me, the sorrow etched on his face deepening. "Both," he whispers, his voice barely audible. I exhale through my nose in a huff of frustration, shaking my head in disbelief. Alfred, as if on cue, reappears, his eyes searching the room before finally landing on me. He strides purposefully toward me, holding out a manila folder that is nearly a couple of inches thick. Dick moves aside, allowing me space to sit up and accept the folder.

They wait in hushed silence as I take my time, deliberately examining each page with painstaking care. A sharp intake of breath escapes my lips as I come across the full police report detailing my parents' murder.

Ihad never seen this before.

Tears well up in my eyes as I read through the harrowing account. I run my fingers across pictures of my parents, painstakingly copied and cut from their passports. Mercifully, there are no photographs of their lifeless bodies after the attack.

Gritting my teeth, I continue flipping through the pages. Blueprints of my home, school reports, transcripts, scientific papers, grants, emails, medical documents, prescriptions, recommendation letters, newspaper clippings, photographs, and therapist transcripts—the breadth and depth of their intrusion into my life is staggering.

This goes far beyond anything I could have ever imagined.

The despair weighing on my heart is so profound that I can only scratch its surface. The enormity of their violation is barely comprehensible. I never thought anyone other than Bran could elicit such a response from me, but here I am, surrounded by men I thought I could trust.

How foolish I have been. I am so foolish.

"You all played your part in violating my privacy, invading my life!" The weight of their betrayal presses upon me, threatening to crush my spirit. I turn my gaze towards Dick, who continues his restless pacing, a visible manifestation of his guilt.

"Is this what you all do? Invade the lives of those around you, dig into their secrets?" I question, my voice laced with bitterness. "You call yourselves heroes, but what gives you the right to play god in the lives of others?"

Dick halts his pacing, his eyes meeting mine, filled with regret and self-reproach. "We... We thought we were doing what was necessary," he murmurs, his voice choked with emotion. "But we were wrong. I was wrong."

His admission does little to quell my anger. The wounds they have inflicted run deep, and no amount of remorse can undo the pain they have caused. I take a deep breath, attempting to steady myself, but my hands tremble with unresolved fury.

"I hope you're all proud of yourselves," I say, my voice dripping with venom. "You've shattered any vestiges of trust I had in any of you." My words hang in the air, the silence that follows deafening. Hope, that fickle companion, is mercilessly torn away from me just when I believed that my life could transcend the oscillation of misery and fear. I know they inhabit the same world as Bran, but I had selfishly hoped they would be different.

But they aren't.

I had hoped that after entering college, I could escape the web of lies and treachery. And when Damian entered my life, I genuinely believed I had a chance. The self-loathing that now consumes me for my own naïveté takes root deep within. I have deluded myself into believing that nothing could be worse than what Bran has done to me, only to be proven wrong once again.

I brush away the tears that have escaped my eyes and snap the folder shut. Rising to my feet, I walk toward Damian and fling the file onto the bed, its contents scattering across the sheets. There is no rage, bitterness, or pain left within me—only an overwhelming sense of numbness. I turn to face Batman, now separate from Bruce.

Unyielding as ever, he meets my gaze, his expression an inscrutable mask. "Have you been tracking me?" I inquire, my voice infused with apathy that frightens even me. There is nothing left within me to stir. I purse my lips and nod, awaiting his response. The rustling of sheets reaches my ears, but I refuse to look at Damian. I refuse to witness his struggle to rise. Batman regards me with earnestness and simply utters, "Yes."

Closing my eyes briefly, I let the weight of his admission wash over me, searching for any flicker of emotion in my chest. But there is nothing. There is nothing left to stir. With a resolute nod, I turn away from them and walk toward the door.

"Wait," Damian's voice desperately grates behind me. "You can't leave." My hand rests on the doorknob, frozen for a moment. "Please," he pleads, his voice laced with desperation. But it evokes nothing within me. My soulmate's entreaties fall on deaf ears as I swing the door open. Each step I take echoes through the solemn silence, punctuated by the brassy, rhythmic dinging of the grandfather clock. Still, I do not turn around. As I cross the threshold, I hear Damian's mournful whisper, barely audible, "Happy Birthday, habibti." I ignore him.

My body moves mechanically, but my mind is elsewhere. "She can't go home," I hear him plead to his family. I continue walking, the response from the others muffled by the growing distance between us. None of them attempt to stop me. Perhaps Damian is explaining why, but I cannot bring myself to care. All I can do is keep moving.

______________________________________________________________________________

Damian’s POV:

Damian's body leans heavily against Jason, his strength waning with each step, while his vision becomes a battlefield of black dots, relentless adversaries threatening to overcome his consciousness. Through the haze of pain, he musters a feeble attempt at gruffness, his voice strained as he asks, "Why are you letting her leave?" Every word costs him, his throat constricted with the effort, as sweat drips down his spine, tracing a treacherous path between his shoulder blades. He takes shallow, ragged breaths, desperate to avoid tearing his stitches, the delicate threads of his healing torn flesh.

His father's voice cuts through the air like a surgeon's scalpel, cold and clinical, slicing through the simmering tension. "She needs time to reconcile her tumultuous emotions and the weight of the knowledge she now carries," he states with calculated shrewdness, each word measured and precise.

Damian clenches his jaw, his determination to follow her eclipsing the searing pain coursing through his battered body. Each movement sends sharp jolts radiating from his injured side, like electric tendrils of torment. Yet, he grits his teeth and forces himself to stand tall, unwilling to expose his weakness, his resilience manifesting as a resolute façade. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles turning white, as he battles against the agony threatening to consume him whole.

His family, a constellation of worry etched upon their faces, steps forward, urging him to return to the confines of his bed, where healing should prevail. The room's towering bookshelves, adorned with the weight of knowledge and history, seem to close in, suffocating him in their suffused silence. The worried expressions on their faces sharply contrast with the weight of his unwavering resolve, creating an atmosphere charged with conflicting emotions.

A surge of anger, hot and tempestuous, rises within Damian, directed not only at Dick for inadvertently exposing their clandestine invasion but also at himself, his own insatiable need for answers.

He gazes out of the tall windows, the moon casting a ghostly glow over the sprawling Wayne Manor estate, turning the idyllic landscape into a haunting portrait of shattered tranquility. The sight of moonlight dancing on distant trees and manicured gardens serves as a cruel reminder of the tranquility he yearns to restore, now irrevocably shattered by deceit and the imminent danger lurking in the shadows.

Finally, the heavy silence is broken by Damian's father, his voice both gentle and commanding, a solemn melody that stirs the depths of Damian's conflicted soul. He steps forward, bridging the chasm of understanding between them. "Damian, I understand your unwavering determination to help her, to shield her from the torment that engulfs our lives, but you are injured. You need time to heal, to regain your strength."

Damian's gaze sharpens, his eyes twin blades honed with defiance as he locks eyes with his father. "Time is a luxury we cannot afford, Father," he retorts, his voice edged with a restless impatience.

Grayson, the beacon of empathy and compassion, interjects, a touch of concern seeping into his voice. "Damian, we all want to help, but pushing yourself too hard could exacerbate the situation. You gotta take care of yourself."

Damian's frustration flares like an ignited flame, and he glares at him, his gaze piercing, holding a silent challenge. "I don't need your lectures, Grayson. I am well aware of my limits and more than capable of handling them." His voice, tinged with resentment, echoes with the stubborn pride that has become his shield and his bane.

Dick raises his hands in a placating gesture, his voice a tapestry woven with genuine concern and exasperation. "I'm not lecturing you, Damian. I'm trying to protect you, to shield you from the consequences of your own impulsive nature. We've witnessed the repercussions before when you fractured your ribs and refused to rest. It took longer for you to recover, and you put yourself at even greater risk." His words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of their shared history, their shared pain.

Damian's eyes narrow, his voice seething with anger, a coiled serpent ready to strike. "You are not my keeper, Grayson. I do not require you to dictate what I can or cannot handle, what I can or cannot bear." His words, though laced with venom, carry the undertone of a young warrior fighting to prove himself, to validate his own existence.

Bruce steps forward, his voice a steady current amidst the tempestuous storm of emotions. His words, a blend of tenderness and unwavering authority, wrap around Damian's heart like a warm embrace, a silent plea for understanding. "Damian, we do not question your abilities, your indomitable spirit. We are genuinely concerned for your well-being and for the preservation of your strength. We have witnessed firsthand how your injuries can compromise your performance, and hinder your ability to protect those you hold dear. We want to help, but we need you to be in the best possible condition, both physically and emotionally." His voice, tinged with paternal love and wisdom, resonates with a profound earnestness.

Damian's fists tighten even further, his nails digging deeper into his palms, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. He struggles to contain his anger, the raging tempest within, and the pain that accompanies it. "I cannot idly stand by while she suffers, while the darkness threatens to engulf her. I refuse to let her face this alone." His voice, a blend of defiance and desperation, carries the weight of his unwavering devotion, his unwavering love.

Dick's voice carries a mix of frustration and genuine concern, a plea from an older brother who has seen too much, and who carries the weight of their shared burden. "Damian, we are not asking you to abandon her. We are asking you to consider the consequences of your actions, the consequences that could worsen the situation for both of you." He glares at his elder brother, refusing to dignify his comment with a response, the tension between them palpable, woven into the very fabric of their existence.

Damian fights fiercely to maintain his composure, his features etched with strain as he battles against the overwhelming agony threatening to consume him. Beads of sweat form on his brow, evidence of the tremendous effort it takes to conceal his suffering, to hold himself together.

He stands with a façade of strength, masking the tremors that threaten to betray him, his resolve a fragile armor that shields him from the world's scrutiny.

Yet Damian adamantly refuses to reveal his vulnerability, the raw emotions that lay bare his weaknesses, his longing for connection and acceptance. Their well-intentioned words only serve to stoke the flames of his frustration, fueling the inferno burning within his soul.

"In this moment, giving her the space she desires is the best course of action," his father says gently, breaking the heavy silence with his measured words. Damian huffs out a breath, the air heavy with reluctance, but begrudgingly acquiesces, a small crack in his armor. "Perhaps you are correct," he mumbles, his voice carrying the weight of

his prideful surrender. He glares at his father before demanding, a spark of defiance still flickering in his eyes, "I will only concede under the condition that we thoroughly analyze tonight's events, that we leave no stone unturned." His father's eyes narrow dangerously, a silent acknowledgment of the stakes involved, before he responds with a stiff nod, a silent agreement forged between them.

Without a word, Bruce turns on his heel, the heavy silence following in his wake. He vanishes from the room. Jason, ever the faithful ally, notices his struggle and comes to his aid, wrapping an arm around Damian's waist in a loose embrace. Damian murmurs his thanks, his voice a fragile thread in the vast tapestry of their shared understanding. Todd responds with a knowing grin, a silent affirmation of their unbreakable bond.

The air hangs oppressively, saturated with an aura of ostentatious refinement, like the taste of unspoken truths lingering on the tip of one's tongue. The flickering radiance of ornate sconces casts capricious shadows, taunting Damian's constrained spirit with their graceful mockery, their silent reminder of the grandeur he both cherishes and resents.

As they navigate the opulent passageways, Damian's simmering frustration seethes beneath a veneer of composure, his every step echoing with a restless determination. He yearns to liberate himself, to stride unencumbered by the fetters of injury and expectation. Yet, the shackles of his condition confine him, fueling a bitter resentment that courses through his veins, a torrent of emotions begging for release.

The ancestral portraits adorning the walls become subjects of Damian's silent acrimony, their stern gazes tracking his every move, their silent judgment hanging heavy in the air. They embody the weight of legacy, the expectations that bear down upon him, suffocating him with their unyielding presence. Wayne Manor's opulence becomes a gilded prison, confining him within a life he both owes and reviles, a labyrinth of privilege and duty.

Amidst the opulence, Damian's indomitable determination persists, though laced with a sharp-edged bitterness. He propels himself forward, driven by an unwavering resolve to unearth the truth, to unravel the tangled web of deceit and danger that threatens to consume them all. Even as he begrudges his own vulnerability and reliance on Jason's support, he refuses to be paralyzed by them, his spirit a flame that burns bright in the face of adversity.

Together, they navigate the labyrinthine corridors, each step a battle between exasperation and determination, between the shadows that threaten to engulf them and the flickering light of hope that guides their way.

Wayne Manor transforms into an arena of conflicting emotions, as Damian fights against the encroaching tendrils of resentment, the echoes of his past and the uncertainties of his future colliding in a symphony of discordant emotions. Yet, amidst the tumult, a flicker of unyielding tenacity propels them ever closer to the concealed revelations awaiting them within the depths of the Batcave, their sanctuary, their fortress of truth.

As Damian makes his way down into the depths of the Batcave, the vivid memories of her tear-streaked countenance and the sight of her scars consume his mind, each memory a needle that pricks at his conscience, drawing forth a wellspring of emotions. Her tears, like shimmering crystals of heartache, resound within him, evoking a profound ache of empathy and remorse, a relentless reminder of the pain he has witnessed and inflicted.

Her cries sounded like his failure.

The truth lies shrouded in shadows, waiting to be unveiled. And Damian, his body battered and his spirit tempered in the crucible of conflict, is ready to face it head-on. With each determined step, he moves closer to answers, to the elusive balm that may bring solace to her tormented soul and restore a fragile equilibrium to their tumultuous existence.

As Damian gazes at the monitors flickering with data, a mesmerizing glow casts an ethereal light on their determined faces. Batman, his voice a perfect blend of authority and expertise, addresses the group, delving into the intricate details of the Court of Owls' fighting style. "The Court of Owls has adopted a unique and formidable combat technique," Batman begins, his tone measured and analytical. "Their approach combines elements from various martial arts disciplines, emphasizing agility, precision, and exploiting the slightest of weaknesses."

Tim's analytical mind engages, his voice reflecting his profound understanding. "It appears they have meticulously refined their style to incorporate fragments of Ninjutsu, Kung Fu, and Krav Maga. This amalgamation enables them to be remarkably versatile and adaptable in their strategic combat maneuvers."

Dick, ever the master of levity, attempts to ease the palpable tension. "So, it seems the Court of Owls finally decided to update their combat manual. I suppose they grew tired of relying on antiquated tricks and subterfuge."

Batman's stoic demeanor remains unwavering, his unwavering focus undeterred. "Their unparalleled proficiency in stealth and deception is a notable aspect of their modus operandi. They excel in utilizing the environment to their utmost advantage, skillfully manipulating shadows, laying traps, and launching surprise attacks."

Jason retorts with his customary unhelpful sarcasm. "Ah, the joys of facing an adversary who can seamlessly vanish into thin air. Just what we needed to add some spice to our lives."

As the discussion continues, Damian's frustrations simmer beneath the surface. He feels a growing darkness within him, fueled by his deep concern for her safety. His mind races with countless possibilities, imagining the Court of Owls targeting those closest to him, using them as leverage to strike at him.

Unspoken thoughts flood Damian's mind, swirling like a tempestuous storm.

What if they set their sights on her?

What if they inflict harm upon her because of his own identity?

The weight of responsibility bears down upon him, threatening to consume his every thought. The enigmatic motives of the Court of Owls loom large, casting a shadow of uncertainty. Damian's voice breaks the silence, his frustration, and concern laid bare. "Why would the Court of Owls wish to harm me? We were all there, fighting them. What have I done to draw their relentless attention?"

"We do not yet possess the answers, but we will uncover them," Batman says solemnly, his fingers deftly dancing over the keyboard. He pulls up a video and beckons the group closer.

"Let us scrutinize this replay to gain what insights we can glean." They all move closer, their eyes locked onto the screen, their anticipation palpable.

As the replay of Damian's intense battle with the Court of Owls, assassin unfolds on the Batcomputer screens, they gather around, their collective focus laser-sharp. Batman's analytical mind is already at work, his voice steady and calculated.

As the replay reaches the critical moment when Damian is ruthlessly stabbed by the Court of Owls' assassin, the room descends into a chilling silence. The screen freezes on the haunting image of the blade piercing Damian's side, blood staining his resilient costume.

Batman's voice shatters the stillness, his analysis precise and unwavering. "The assassin capitalized on a momentary lapse in Damian's defense. Their strike was swift, calculated, aimed solely at incapacitating him."

Tim's eyes widen with genuine concern. "It was a targeted assault, a deliberate attempt to neutralize Damian from the fight. They possessed intimate knowledge of precisely where and when to strike."

Dick's jaw clenches as he watches the scene unfold. "But why single out Damian specifically? They had ample opportunity to incapacitate any one of us, yet they chose him."

Batman's voice carries a mixture of concern and unwavering determination. "The Court of Owls set their sights on Damian for a reason. What that reason may be, we remain uncertain."

Jason smirks, his voice laced with crude humor. "Well, well, well, it appears the Court has developed a taste for tender, youthful prey. Unable to resist a nibble at the bloodthirsty sidekick, can they?"

Damian's eyes burn with a volatile blend of pain and fury. He struggles to control the storm brewing within him, his voice now laced with a chillingly calm resolve. "They have gravely underestimated me. They believed a solitary strike would break me, but they shall soon discover that I am far from easily vanquished."

The darkness coiled deep within him awakens with newfound intensity. "I shall make them rue the day they dared to cross my path." His voice resonates with a vow of relentless retribution.

The room is consumed by an unspoken pledge, a shared understanding that the Court of Owls has unleashed a raging fury within Damian that cannot be extinguished. Their meticulous analysis of the assault fuels their determination, propelling them forward to unveil the true motives behind the Court's pursuit of Damian.

His mind races with potential reasons for this strategic onslaught, abruptly halting when he realizes the peril it may pose to her. His thundering heart comes to a grinding halt, blood draining from his face, leaving behind an icy pallor. The only sensation that remains is the searing ache radiating from his side.

Standing amidst his unwavering family, a gnawing pain still lingers within him, emanating from the bruises and wounds that mar his battered body. Every movement sends sharp jolts of discomfort through his system, an unrelenting reminder of the physical toll he has endured. He vocalizes his apprehensions for her safety, enveloping the group in a somber pall. The fear gnawing at his stomach propels him to conjure myriad plans to keep her secure.

As they discuss their strategies to maintain a discreet distance, Damian grits his teeth, desperately attempting to suppress the wince that threatens to escape his lips. His body pulsates with agony at every breath, a symphony of throbbing pain that stubbornly refuses to subside. Nevertheless, he forges ahead, resolute in his determination to show no weakness.

The concern in their voices resonates throughout the cavernous space, each word serving as a poignant reminder of the perils they face. They speak of shielding her, safeguarding her from the treacherous hazards that accompany their lives. Damian's mind is consumed not only by the fear of losing her but also by the persistent agony coursing through his battered form.

Bruce, his voice calm yet burdened with worry, speaks with resolute authority. "Above all else, we must prioritize her safety. Damian, it pains me deeply to witness your suffering, but we cannot allow personal attachments to cloud our judgment. We must shield her from the dangers that permeate our existence."

Damian's jaw clenches, his brows furrowed in pain as he nods in agreement. The intensity of his physical torment threatens to divert his focus from the gravity of their decision. He fights tooth and nail to maintain his resolve, quelling the screams of agony echoing throughout his body.

Dick, the embodiment of reason and empathy, steps forward, his eyes filled with profound understanding. He reaches out a hand, gripping Damian's shoulder with gentle strength. "I know it hurts, Damian. But we are doing this to keep her safe. We will find a way to end this, to protect both you and her."

Damian's eyes shimmer with a mixture of gratitude and anguish. He musters a weak smile, the pain etched upon his features, but his spirit undeterred. "I appreciate your support, Grayson. Together, we shall triumph over these malevolent forces." The storm of uncertainty rages within them, but it is met with a tempestuous resolve that refuses to be quelled.

Chapter 26: Resolution and Restitution

Chapter Text

Chapter 26

(Y/N) POV:

The weekend passed in a blur; I could barely remember what happened. After leaving their home, I returned to my own and stared up at the ceiling, the faint scent of lavender filling the air from the candle I had lit earlier. Unable to cry, I just let the numbness lull me to sleep and slept fitfully, the softness of the sheets offering little comfort.

On Sunday evening, Bran returned home, more surly than ever. The sound of the front door slamming echoed through the house, reverberating in my ears. He was so wrapped up in his own frustrations that he barely noticed my change. That, or he didn't care.

Still, he forced me to have dinner with him. I wanted to rail against his demands and infuriate him with my disobedience, but I didn't have the energy. I couldn't bring myself to care. The numbness still encased me like a thick balm, muffling the clinking of silverware against fine china as we sat at the long mahogany dining table. It was unrelenting and suffocating, but I liked that. I wanted to drown out everything around me.

During dinner, I sat there across the table, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the walls. I mechanically ate my food, the taste of each dish dull and flavorless, leaving an aftertaste of bitterness in my mouth. Despite its artisanal craft, everything tasted like ash, sitting heavily in my stomach. He eyed me curiously but kept conversation to a minimum, the low murmur of his voice barely registering in my ears. He didn't ask about my birthday or Damian, but I could see his eyes swimming with disquieted curiosity. I couldn't tell if he was pleased by my lack of emotion or if he was angry that I wasn't fighting him harder.

I wanted to feel pleased by his disappointment in my lack of outburst, but I couldn't muster it. I just stared blankly ahead throughout dinner, the soft glow of the chandelier reflecting in my vacant eyes, and answered his questions politely. I could feel him grow more agitated throughout the dinner, the tension thickening the air around us, but even that couldn't stir fear like normal. By the end of the five-course meal, I expected him to instruct me upstairs, but he didn't. He simply stood, pushing his chair back with a screech that grated on my ears, and retired to his bedroom, the heavy thud of his footsteps fading away.

I knew that I should have felt relief, but I didn't. I just sat there, the silence of the dining room engulfing me, broken only by the faint ticking of the antique clock on the wall.

By Monday, I steeled myself to see Damian again, resolve digging its claws into me. When Sam texted me Sunday morning, I told her the bare minimum. That Damian and I aren't on speaking terms because he crossed a boundary. Her rage was legendary, palpable even through a phone screen. I elaborated that nothing physical happened, and that it was my privacy he violated.

However, my clarification did not bring her solace, and a small part of me was pleased to see that she was still upset. Blissfully, she did not press for more information, but she did promise to pick me up and drop me off from school. I tried to muster relief, but found my emotions still muffled, as if I were viewing the world through a foggy lens.

When she picked me up this morning, the air was thick with somber silence as we drove to school, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the car. Not even the music blaring in the car could snap me out of it. We remained silent, her worry compounding with each minute. But still, she did not press.

Walking into the school, I readied myself to see Damian, but when I scanned the halls, I felt a flicker of surprise deep within me when I didn't see him. The absence of his presence gnawed at my chest, a hollow ache that refused to be ignored, but I pushed the pesky emotion down.

I'm glad he's not here, I tell myself, the sterile scent of cleaning products wafting through the hallways. At least that's what I tell myself as my body navigates the halls, the sound of lockers slamming shut echoing in my ears. From the corner of my eyes, I can still see Sam eyeing me, her worried gaze following my every move. Even the sounds of squeaky shoes against the linoleum seem far away, the acrid smell of disinfectant lingering in the air. Just as we're about to enter Mr. Reiner's class, she pulls me aside by the elbow, her touch grounding me in reality.

Biting her lip, her eyes flicker around the hall nervously before she leans in to whisper. "What really happened?" she asks, the concern staining her voice. I blow out an exhausted breath, the scent of her minty breath mingling with the stale air, not wanting to or having the energy to explain it all.

"It's a long story, and honestly, I'm still trying to wrap my head around what happened," I answer honestly, the taste of uncertainty lingering on my tongue.

She watches me warily, her eyes searching for answers, but nods her head after a moment. "You know I'm here when you're ready to talk about it." Her kindness and patience send a slivering crack through my armor, making me swallow a lump in my throat. I smile at her gratefully, hoping that my eyes can convey the words I'm too weak to speak.

As she reads my expression, her gaze grows dark, and she whispers in a low, dark tone, her words carrying a hint of metallic bitterness, "If you want, I can sneak into his house and cut off his balls." Her offer, although violent and unrealistic, sends warmth through my barren chest, the adrenaline rush of revenge briefly overpowering the numbness. I barely manage a wry chuckle, that has her face lighting up.

"Honestly, I'm considering it," I reply pensively, a mix of determination and uncertainty in my voice. "I suggest using a dull knife to inflict the most amount of pain," I quip, the image of retaliation playing in my mind. She chuckles genuinely, her crystalline eyes alight with mischief, and replies, "Oh, no question about it." Her familiar lopsided grin worms its way into the crack in my armor, a flicker of hope igniting within me. Knowing that at least I still have Sam, a constant support in my life, I release a tense breath, the air around us thick with the sounds of tired students.

I flash her an earnest smile, my heart fluttering with a mix of anticipation and worry, before we both head into class just as the shrilling bell rings. The scent of freshly sharpened pencils fills the air, mixing with the faint aroma of chalk and musty textbooks. Sitting in my usual seat, I keep glancing at the doorway, my eyes searching for Damian's familiar figure to stroll through. The room feels colder, devoid of his warmth and presence. The sound of my classmates' murmurs and the rustling of papers become distant echoes as my traitorous heart squeezes with worry, a knot forming in the pit of my stomach.

No. Stop.

I remind myself forcefully. He's the one who betrayed me. I shouldn't be feeling anything other than contempt. But try as I might, I can't stop my stupid brain from conjuring worst-case scenarios. I groan internally and rub my eyes roughly enough to see flashes of color behind my lids. By the time the final bell rings, dismissing us from class, my heart is a flurry, its rhythm uneven and discordant.

I dedicate the rest of the day to focusing on school, forcing myself to push aside any thoughts of my Soulmate when they arise. It's harder than I'd like to admit, but I won't allow myself to entertain any thoughts of him. I bury myself in the textbooks and assignments, the words blurring together as my mind remains preoccupied.

The day flies by in a blur, and I notice that without my usual shadow, students stare and whisper more openly. Their voices buzz in my ears like an annoying fly, but I roll my eyes at the cowards who feel emboldened by his absence. Their whispers are a constant background noise, mingling with the soft shuffling of feet and the occasional screech of a chair being dragged across the floor. However, amidst the crowd, Jackson's searing glares make my scalp prickle with apprehension. His face is paler than usual, and his eyes, usually kind and warm, now hold a sharpness that cuts through me. They are glassy, reflecting his hidden anger and resentment.

In art class, the scent of paint and clay hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of solvents. I can see Jackson from across the room, curling his lip in disdain as he ogles me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I fight against the unsettling sensation of spiders crawling under my skin. But it's too potent to ignore. I can't help but shake the feeling that his harbored resentment toward me runs far deeper than I can comprehend. Each stroke of my pencil against the paper feels heavy, as if the weight of his gaze lingers in the room, suffocating my creativity.

His once kind amber eyes have now turned to sharp, contemptuous rust. Their intensity sears into my skin, but I don't have the bandwidth to deal with him and Damian. So instead, I block it out, letting my simmering anger anchor me in my resolve.

The only positive thing to come from all this is my new record-breaking speed in track practice. Here, on the dusty track under the open sky, I can let all my frustrations and anguish propel me forward. The earthy smell of freshly cut grass and the crispness of the air fill my senses.

Each step, each stride becomes a cathartic release, igniting my pumping legs into a frenzy. The sound of my quickened breaths fills my ears, drowning out the cacophony of thoughts and doubts. With each accelerated heartbeat, my mind goes blank, focusing solely on the rhythmic thumping of my feet against the ground.

By the end of practice, I am thoroughly exhausted, my muscles burning and my lungs craving oxygen. The taste of salt lingers on my lips as I gulp down water, quenching my thirst. Physical exhaustion leaves us both silent during the car ride home. The hum of the engine becomes a comforting background noise, accompanying the rhythm of the tires rolling over the asphalt. Sam drops me off a few blocks away from my house, and as I step out, the cold wind bites at my cheeks, reminding me of the approaching winter.

I don't need to be quiet when entering the house today. Bran is still in the office, so I enter, letting my feet slap against the floor with each step as I walk to my room. The familiar creak of the stairs and the soft sigh of the wind through the windows greet me. Once securely locked in my room, I shed my clothes, feeling the soft fabric slide off my skin. The warmth of the shower envelops me as I step under the cascading water, steam billowing oppressively around me. It soothes my tired muscles and washes away the weight of the day.

After finishing my homework, he returns, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hallway. Bran ushers me down for dinner, and the clinking of silverware against plates breaks the silence. The food tastes bland, turning to ash in my mouth as he eyes me inquisitively. His scrutinizing gaze feels like an unwelcome touch, leaving me uncomfortable and exposed. By the time the meal is done, he huffs out a breath, his frustration palpable, and retreats to his room, leaving me alone with the lingering tension in the air.

The next few days pass by in a numbing blur. Damian is still absent, and the ache in my heart refuses to subside. Bran's brooding presence casts a heavy shadow over our interactions. Life moves forward, but a corrosive dread seeps into every corner of my being, threatening to consume me. By Thursday, my numbness has thawed, and in its place, a raw, pulsating emotion takes hold. The weight of longing settles heavily on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I can't stop myself from thinking about Damian, no matter how much my heart aches every time I do.

I want to text him back, ask him how he's feeling, tell him how much I miss him. But I will myself not to. He has messaged me every day, apologizing profusely and begging for a response, but I've ignored all of them. I want more than ever to be close to him, to hold him, kiss him, and touch him. But I can't. I won't. They need to feel the repercussions of their actions.

Another weekend comes and goes, with me locked in my room, seeking solace in its familiar walls. The outside world feels distant, the windows framing a view of the barren landscape. The leaves have fallen off the trees, exposing the wiry limbs beneath. Fall has officially changed to winter, and the wind howls with a devastating cold as it lashes against my windowpane. The nights grow longer, as if the darkness hungers for absolute control.

In the solitude of my room, doubts and fears creep in. Has anyone else been hurt? Have they been watching me? The thought lingers, an unsettling presence that should enrage me, but it doesn't. Because deep down, I understand. I know that their intentions weren't malicious. I know that in their own convoluted way, they were just trying to protect me. And they still are. Despite the creeping sensation of eyes on me, it becomes clear to me that they're protecting me in the only way they know how.

I hate the fact that I understand. I hate that they are right. Being associated with the Wayne family comes at a price, and that price is privacy. It's almost comical how little is known about them, and yet they know everything about me. Knowledge truly is power, and they didn't claw their way up to the top without being ruthless and informed.

I hate the fact that I understand. They are right, and I hate it. Being associated with the Wayne family comes at a price—a price that steals away my privacy. It's almost comical how little is known about them, yet they seem to know everything about me. Knowledge truly is power, and they didn't ascend to the top without being ruthless and well-informed.

But I'm not ready to forgive them for what they've done. They may wield their power and privilege to stay ahead, but they had no right to do it to me. I refuse to be some pawn in their game. Despite my seething indignation, my worry for Damian's well-being persists. Women are not the binary beings they're often portrayed as. And so, I make up my mind that if I don't see him tomorrow at school, I'll call Alfred. With that solidified plan, I find solace in sleep that night.

The next morning, as Sam and I drive to school, music blares from the speakers, drowning out our worries. We sing along, straining our voices, as anxiety curls tightly around my stomach. Sam senses it, but she's an amazing friend who understands without needing words. She silently supports me, her constant presence preventing me from falling apart completely.

Upon entering the school doors, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension fills my lungs. It's a breath that releases only when I catch sight of Damian's tall frame leaning against the wall, his usual spot. My traitorous limbs immediately relax. He looks the same, albeit paler and gloomier than usual. I never thought he could brood any harder, but clearly, I was wrong.

Tentatively, I approach him, my heart galloping in my chest as our eyes lock and hold. There's an unspoken conversation passing between us, conveying more than words ever could. I blink and quickly avert my gaze, refusing to read his eyes. Sam, still by my side, has no such restraint. Her face scrunches into righteous fury as she shoots him a hostile glare.

“You're a real piece of sh*t,” she seethes, lopping her arm through mine and hauling me away. Damian doesn't reply, simply falling into step behind us. A small smile of appreciation tugs at my lips, visible only to Sam. Her eyes gleam with understanding as we wordlessly enter the classroom and settle into our usual seats.

Throughout the day, I expend nearly all my mental energy avoiding his incessant glances. The palpable tension between us quickly becomes the talk of the students and faculty. Whispers and exchanged glances follow our every move. Damian's deteriorating glares at them do nothing to deter their curiosity. It seems they've grown immune to his sour expression.

When the final bell rings, I shoot up from my seat, hastily packing my bag to avoid being caught alone with him. He attempts to start a conversation, but I ignore him, going through the motions of the day. By the time we leave our last shared class, his demeanor has visibly deflated, resignation adorning his perfect features. But I won't relent. I'm not ready to.

Weeks pass, and I remain steadfast in my resolution to give him the cold shoulder. Initially, he remains glowering and silent. But as days turn into weeks, he tries his best to coax me out of our stalemate.

His first attempt comes in the form of a small homemade blueberry lemon cake, complete with a candle. Neatly frosted and adorned with the words "happy birthday." I throw it out. Then, he brings me a bundle of handpicked flowers from his garden daily for about a week. When that fails to thaw my icy demeanor, he stops. Next, I find neatly wrapped gifts of jewelry, books, and chocolates in my locker. Still, I do not speak or acknowledge him.

I studiously stare at the floor whenever we are alone, speaking infrequently to the point where I'm starting to forget what my own voice sounds like. But I won't give him the satisfaction. My stubborn heart won't allow it, even as my mind screams to end our shared suffering.

I assumed he would have cracked and exploded by now, knowing his impatience. But he surprises me. He dutifully shadows me, resuming his glowering position behind me. He even stays after school during my track practice, despite having no reason to be there. He greets me at the door and bids me farewell when I leave with Sam. Day in and day out, he is there, patiently waiting for me to break first. Part of me is infuriated by his unwavering tolerance of my clear dismissal, while another part finds it endearing. Stupid brain.

As much as I vowed to make him suffer for what he did, I realize how much it is taking a toll on me too. My once-ravenous appetite has vanished, replaced by fitful nightmares and a lack of focus.

Three weeks have passed, and I find myself wondering how much longer I can sustain this before I implode. The growing bags under his eyes indicate that my efforts have not gone unnoticed by him. His weary disposition and my refusal to communicate verbally have become fodder for gossip at school and in the tabloids. Headlines range from "Trouble in paradise?" to "The fall of the Wayne empire: brought down by another failed relationship." I ignore it all, just as I have ignored everything else. I'm not sure when my intention to punish Damian turned into burying my head in the sand, avoiding my own emotional turmoil.

On another Sunday evening, I sit on my bed, engrossed in yet another book. The pile of literature next to me grows, a tangible manifestation of my escapism. Countless stories transport me to worlds far from my own. Through the cracked window, the sounds of the quieting city and the knocking limbs of hibernating trees seep into my consciousness.

But I can no longer avoid the truth. I must call a truce. This situation is no longer sustainable.

The thought weighs heavily on my mind, and a faint smile curves on my lips for the first time in a month. An idea takes shape, and I quickly retrieve my phone, whipping out a text to Damian.

Meet me at the library after track practice tomorrow.

Without waiting for his reply, I place my phone face down on the nightstand and return to my romantic fantasy book, immersing myself in the familiar tropes of enemies turned lovers, dragons, and perilous trials.

I wake up early in the morning, and the golden rays of sunlight fight their way through my billowing curtains, casting warm patterns on the walls. I turn my head, gaze out the window, and inhale a deep, crisp breath, savoring the fresh winter air that carries a faint scent of pine. The sun is slowly creeping over the horizon, battling against the darkness that clings to the western sky.

No point in trying to go back to sleep; I'll just end up waking up in an hour anyway. Letting out a sigh, I start getting ready for school, the cool touch of the bathroom tiles under my bare feet waking me up further. My stomach churns at the thought of talking to Damian, a mix of excitement and nervousness swirling within me. I've been thinking about what I want to say all night, and each time I run through the scenario in my head, I feel a little more confident. But damn, my anxiety just won't let up.

After I'm finally done with my morning routine, I rub my tired eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion lingering. I wait for Sam's text, and when it arrives, I step out into the freezing cold and hop into her toasty car. As we drive, I fill her in on my plan, the sound of our voices blending with the low hum of the engine.

Sam sneaks a glance at me, not daring to take her eyes off the chaotic Gotham streets, and grins mischievously. "Give him hell for me," she says, her words laced with playful determination. I chuckle and agree, shifting my gaze back to the blur of the city passing by. The winter air nips at my cheeks, and the blinding sun makes everything seem brighter, forcing me to squint my eyes against its brilliance.

We park in Sam's usual spot at school and join the stream of students entering the building, the sound of their chatter filling the hallway. It's another Monday, so everyone's either hungover, exhausted, or a mix of both. The aroma of coffee wafts through the air, mingling with the scent of paper and lingering traces of morning frost.

As I step through the doors, I can feel Damian's eyes on me, a tingling sensation that prickles my skin. I glance his way and give him a nod of acknowledgement, the movement accompanied by the soft rustle of my jacket. That's more than I've given him in the past month. His eyes widen a bit, revealing those beautiful green irises speckled with gold. Man, I missed those eyes, their captivating gaze pulling me in.

He follows behind me like always, but now there's a new confidence in his stride, the sound of his footsteps more assured against the tiled floor. The day zooms by, the distant hum of the heating system providing a constant background noise. That heavy feeling in my chest that I've gotten used to is finally gone, replaced by a lightness that allows me to breathe more freely. Almost forgot what it feels like to breathe without a struggle. But my focus is still all over the place, torn between Damian and the lessons, the classroom sounds and the rustle of turning pages blending together.

The rest of the day drags on, my nerves growing with each passing class. Finally, the last bell rings, its shrill sound reverberating through the hallways, signaling the end of the school day. I take my sweet time packing up my stuff, the sound of zippers and the rustle of papers echoing in the classroom. Part of me wants to drag my feet and avoid the whole situation, but I know I can't avoid it any longer.

Taking a deep breath, I sling my bag over my shoulder, walk out of the classroom, and head towards the girls' locker room, the wintry whispers of the hallways accompanying me, mingling with the distant laughter and the faint scent of anticipation.

The heavy door strains my arms as I pull it open. Inside, the scent of sweat mingles with the fragrance of flowery deodorant. I change quickly, avoiding the curious glances of my peers, and head towards the clay track.

Coach's voice resonates through the air, urging us to begin our warm-ups. Sam and I comply with enthusiasm, starting off at a slow, steady pace. Our breaths synchronize, curling before us. Gradually, our speed increases, transitioning into a brisk jog. We push ourselves to our physical limits, causing my lungs to scream in protest. Each frigid breath feels like a knife slashing down my throat, but the pain is a welcomed sensation after weeks of numbing emptiness.

Soon enough, we finish our run. Back in the locker room, I take a quick shower, preparing myself for the conversation that awaits. I know he'll be waiting just outside the door, so I roll my shoulders back and give myself a brief pep talk. I won't falter in my demands.

As I step out, my suspicions are confirmed. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed, emphasizing his already muscular physique. I nod, and without exchanging words, I lead the way to the library. We avoid speaking in the halls, wary of potential eavesdroppers. What I have to say is meant for his ears alone.

He follows closely behind as I push open the weighty double doors, their ominous creak filling the air. We navigate through the towering bookshelves, making our way to a secluded corner I know well. When we reach our destination, I turn to face him, observing his rigid movements and posture.

I take a step closer to Damian, the space between us shrinking as the gravity of our shared vulnerability pulls us together. My voice trembles with unspoken emotions, a testament to the depth of my feelings. "Damian," I whisper, the longing in my voice intertwining with a hint of fear. Every fiber of my being yearns for his understanding, for him to reciprocate the intensity of my emotions.

His eyes, filled with a mixture of anguish and affection, hold mine in a steady gaze. It feels as though he can see into the very depths of my soul, unraveling the layers of my pain and desires. There is a profound silence between us, pregnant with unspoken words and the weight of our past.

In that moment, I realize the fragility of our connection, the delicate thread that holds us together. It is a thread that could easily fray and break under the strain of our shared burdens. But I am determined to strengthen it, to weave something stronger and enduring.

"I can't do this anymore," I repeat, my voice quivering with the raw honesty of my confession. The words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of my vulnerability. Fear lingers beneath the surface, the fear of losing him, of being consumed by the shadows of our past. My heart clenches, fearing his rejection.

But Damian's expression shifts, his features contorting into a mix of anguish and desperation. "Please, don't say that," he pleads, his voice cracking with the weight of his own emotions. The vulnerability in his tone resonates within me, erasing the doubt that had begun to creep in. He fears losing me as much as I fear losing him.

"No, that's not what I mean," I clarify, my voice softening as I reach out to touch his trembling hand, offering a lifeline of reassurance. "I can't bear the distance between us any longer," I confess, my voice imbued with a tenderness that lays bare the depth of my longing. In that moment, I see a glimmer of hope flicker in his eyes, a flame rekindled.

His shoulders relax, and a breath he didn't realize he was holding escapes him. The relief in his expression mirrors my own, an unspoken acknowledgment that we are still tethered together, even in the face of adversity.

"But," I continue, my voice steady yet infused with a solemnity that reflects the gravity of our situation, "we cannot return to what we were before." The words hang in the air, pregnant with the weight of necessary change. It is a proclamation that we can no longer ignore the flaws and mistakes that brought us here.

Damian's gaze lingers on me, his eyes searching mine for the unspoken truths hidden behind my words. His silence speaks volumes, a silent agreement that we must forge a new path if we are to salvage what remains of our shattered bond.

As the sun begins its descent, casting a warm glow upon him, I gather the courage to share the depths of my thoughts and contemplation. "I've spent countless nights replaying every moment, every decision," I confess, my voice trembling with a mixture of vulnerability and determination. "And every time, I come to the same conclusion."

His gaze intensifies, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. The air becomes charged with a potent energy, a threshold waiting to be crossed.

"Neither you nor your family acted out of malice," I declare, my voice carrying the weight of truth and forgiveness. It is a revelation that hangs between us, the culmination of my introspection and the understanding that forgiveness is the first step toward healing.

A myriad of emotions dance across Damian's face—a blend of gratitude, regret, and relief. His voice, barely above a whisper, carries the weight of his gratitude as he acknowledges my understanding. "You are right, once again," he responds softly, his voice laced with a mix of gratitude and self-admonishment.

We stand there, enveloped in a shared silence, our eyes locked in a profound connection that surpasses mere words. The heaviness of the moment settles upon us, and the depth of our emotions becomes palpable.

It is then that I find my voice again, fueled by a growing determination to reshape our future. "The information you've gathered on me," I begin, my voice steadying itself, "I want it destroyed." Each word resonates with a quiet strength, a demand for a clean slate, and a reclaiming of my privacy.

Damian's eyebrows raise in surprise, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It is a subtle acknowledgment of my agency and a testament to the changes he is willing to make. He nods, his expression a blend of respect and understanding. "Consider it done."

Encouraged by his acquiescence, I press forward, recognizing the need for equality and transparency. "In addition," I assert, my voice resolute, "I deem it only fair that since you delved into every aspect of my life, I should have the same privilege of knowing yours." The words hang in the air, daring to challenge the boundaries of his guarded nature.

Damian's guarded expression softens, a flicker of vulnerability slipping through his defenses. His eyes search mine, silently pleading for me to reconsider. But I cannot relent, for the desire to truly understand and connect with him burns within me.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he grits out, his voice strained with the weight of his past. There is a mix of warning and regret in his words, a cautionary tale hidden within his reluctance.

My gaze narrows, my determination unyielding. "Oh, I most certainly do," I assert, my voice steady and unyielding. I refuse to let the shadows of his past remain a mystery, for I know that only through mutual understanding can we forge a future together.

He hesitates, his guarded expression warring with a desire to comply. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he concedes, "My past is not something I am proud of." His voice is heavy with trepidation and regret, as if each word dredges up painful memories. "I have committed unspeakable acts in my youth, things that would haunt even the most tormented soul." His admission carries the weight of his remorse, a glimpse into the darkness he has faced.

My heart aches for him, and I reach out to him, my touch light but filled with compassion. "Damian," I begin softly, my eyes brimming with understanding and empathy. "We all carry scars and memories we're not proud of. But I don't care about all that. I care about the man you are today, the one who has the power to make a difference." My voice quivers with a mixture of tenderness and conviction, hoping to offer him solace in my unwavering support.

He shakes his head slightly, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, a war raging within him. "Trust me, beloved, the weight of being needed is not all it's cracked up to be," he admits, his voice filled with sorrow. It is a confession that pierces my heart, a reminder of the burdens he carries. "But I acquiesce," he finally says, his voice laden with resignation. "Everything that your folder contained will be matched in my own. But nothing more."

"Okay," I whisper, my voice barely audible, the weight of my emotions threatening to choke me. I shoot Damian a shaky smile, hoping he can sense the mixture of relief and vulnerability that swirls within me.

"That's fair. Then we'll be on even footing." After all the years of torment I've endured, making amends feels like trying to mend a shattered mirror, piece by jagged piece. But I can't allow the past to dictate my future. I won't let the scars define me or ruin my chance at happiness with my soulmate. It will take time to rebuild the trust that was shattered, and I know he can see that in the depths of my gaze. But we will get there. I refuse to let fear control me any longer.

He breaks the tension with a lopsided smile, but his eyes betray a mixture of relief and lingering doubt. His voice is tinged with a hint of resignation as he asks, "Any more demands?" I chuckle darkly, a bittersweet sound that dances on the edge of my lips before escaping into the air. "As a matter of fact, yes," I reply, my voice carrying a hint of mischief. I flutter my eyelashes, a playful act that masks the raw vulnerability that pulses beneath the surface.

Damian's face scrunches suspiciously, sensing that there's more to come. "If you get to track me, then I get to track you," I state innocently, my voice laced with determination. I watch as his expression shifts, a mix of surprise and apprehension. He's about to object, but I put my hands on my hips and look up at him with a seriousness that matches the weight of my request.

He closes his eyes briefly, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he releases a resigned breath. "If you wish," he concedes, his voice carrying a touch of defeat. But there's also a flicker of understanding in his eyes, a glimmer of acceptance that we are in this together. "But we will have to develop the technology first. As it stands, your phone can be hacked or taken, which could compromise us," he explains firmly, his voice laced with a sense of protectiveness. "We will need to get you a secure device that cannot be reverse-engineered or traced back to us if your phone were to be taken or misplaced."

My heart thuds in my chest at the reminder of the daily danger he willingly faces. I feel a mix of gratitude and concern wash over me, fueling my determination to keep him safe. I give him a small, understanding smile, my voice filled with appreciation. "Of course," I rush out, my words punctuated with sincerity. "That's obviously acceptable." The weight of his sacrifice and the risks he takes for our relationship settle heavily on my shoulders, reminding me of the depth of his love. I can't help but feel a surge of admiration and affection for him.

He gives me a small, tender smile and raises the back of my hand to his lips, his warm breath caressing my skin as he gently kisses it. He watches me expectantly, the unspoken question swimming in his eyes. I laugh, a sound that bubbles up from deep within me, breaking through the walls I've erected around my heart. It's the first genuine laugh in a long time, a release of tension and a glimmer of joy. "No, there is nothing else," I say, my voice carrying a newfound lightness.

The mirth dances in my voice, refreshing to hear after the heaviness that has consumed us. His face changes, a playful mock disappointment replacing his initial apprehension as he steps closer, closing the physical gap between us. "That's a shame. I would give you the stars if you asked," he says breathlessly, his voice filled with a mix of longing and tenderness. Little does he know how deeply his words affect me, how they ignite a spark of hope within my soul.

______________________________________________________________________________

Jackson Ander’s POV:

Jackson's eyes, burning with a deranged intensity, fixated on her every move. With each laugh, smile, or witty joke, his mind spun further into madness. How f*cking dare she! The very sight of her existence sent his blood pulsating with a sickening thrill. She was the catalyst, the wretched soul responsible for his descent into the abyss. Her rejection of his advances had set his life on a collision course with chaos. And now, he reveled in the twisted pleasure of seeing her suffer.

The trial's conclusion and his subsequent suspension were mere catalysts for the horrors that followed. His father, a vessel of wrath, unleashed a savage storm of physical and verbal punishment upon him. Bones ached, wounds bled, as his father's rage tore through him, leaving scars both seen and unseen. Pleas for mercy were met with sad*stic laughter, his pleas drowned in a chorus of cruelty.

The stain on his permanent record, a grotesque reminder of their venomous lies, severed the lifeline to his cherished football scholarship. The wreckage of his dreams lay scattered, a fragmented reflection of his shattered self. But what of her? What consequences befell the architect of his misery? None. She danced, untouched by the inferno consuming his world.

No punishment had befallen her, but he would rectify that injustice. Oh, yes, he would. In the depths of his mind, twisted fantasies blossomed. He would make her pay, make her writhe in agony until the weight of her transgressions crushed her soul. There was no escape from his relentless pursuit.

Day after day, he followed her, a shadow blending into the darkness, feeding off the fragments of her life. Every laugh, every interaction only fueled his fury. He craved the moment of vulnerability, the opportunity to plunge his vindictive knife into her heart. She needed to understand the magnitude of her sins, to feel the terror that plagued his every waking moment. The anticipation twisted his mind, gnawing at the fragile threads of sanity that remained.

But she eluded him, slipping away after practice, seeking solace in the safety of her friend's car. She was a ghost, forever out of reach, mocking his delusions of control. His feeble attempts to lure her out, like a spider's web woven with deceit, proved fruitless. She never f*cking left. The frustration swelled, transforming his rage into a ravenous beast tearing at his insides. A month crawled by, an eternity of torment, as his obsession devoured him.

A week of respite emerged when her loathsome Soulmate vanished, leaving her vulnerable. Hope flickered in his mind, a wicked flame dancing upon his sinister desires. But fate mocked him, sheathed in a cruel veil. She remained shielded, surrounded by protectors, always beyond his grasp. The universe conspired against him, the walls closing in, suffocating his pursuit.

His mind, a cauldron of malevolence, entertained the idea of knocking on her door, of forcing his way into her sanctum of false innocence. Yet, the lurking paparazzi, vultures of intrusion, stood guard, threatening to expose his savagery to the world. He craved her suffering, but he also craved secrecy, the sweet satisfaction of tearing her apart without prying eyes. The frustration ignited his rage, a symphony echoing through his fractured soul.

f*ck!

Days turned to weeks, and his rage morphed into a grotesque obsession. It consumed him, its flames licking at the frayed edges of his sanity. Patience, a festering wound, was his only ally. He would stop at nothing. With every passing moment, his madness deepened, festering like a plague.

She'll slip up one day, and when she does, he will be there.

Chapter 27: Merciless

Chapter Text

Damian’s POV:

Now, mere inches apart, Damian feels the warmth of her breath on his skin as the distance between them shrinks. The soft brush of her exhale caresses his cheek, igniting a cascade of sensations. The ethereal scent of her delicate perfume permeates the air, an alluring fragrance that envelops him. It triggers a surge of desire, his heart pounding in his chest like a tempest, coursing through his veins with an electric fervor. How did he maintain his sanity during this last month? Just the flutter of her gaze sends waves of longing crashing through him, every fiber of his being ardently responding to her.

The strain in his pants is disconcerting, a tangible reminder of how effortlessly she can elicit a visceral reaction from his body. It's a physical manifestation of his yearning, a fervent desire that twists and knots within him. He yearns to bury his hands in her luxuriant hair, to revel in its silky tendrils and savor the subtle fragrance that emanates from it. But their relationship's fragility restrains him.

As his desire rages, he grapples with the reality that she will now see him as he truly is, unmasked and vulnerable, stripped of the facade he presents for her. Memories of his tumultuous past resurface, akin to watching the poignant journey of another soul unfold. He longs to shield her from the harshness of their world, the unforgiving pressures and expectations that loom beyond the library's sanctuary. But he understands that doing so would stifle her growth, impede her journey of self-discovery. He wants her to be ensconced in safety, but he also yearns for her to ascend to new heights.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Damian clenches his molars, refusing to unveil his genuine trepidation. Instead, he fixates on her luscious lips, their enticing contours kindling an inferno of heat within him. His gaze lingers on her countenance, unabashedly capturing every delicate curve and contour of her face. The sun's rays, filtering through the library's large windows, bestow a soft glow upon her, accentuating her beauty.

She must discern the poignant yearning in his eyes because she deftly shifts the conversation to a subject that quells the fervent ardor pulsating within his veins. "So…out of the universities you’ve applied to, which one is your favorite?" There's an enigmatic undertone in her question that eludes his deciphering, a subtext that tugs at his thoughts.

"My favorite is wherever you go," Damian responds, his voice descending to a low, intimate timbre. It's a vow, a declaration of his unwavering devotion. The words linger in the air, saturated with sincerity. Her surprise begets a grin, his audacious words a deliberate choice. Since the day they betrayed her, he resolved to be unequivocal, to lay bare his emotions. As his candidness seeps into her being, she wrestles to suppress a smile, fighting against the swell of amusem*nt.

"Smooth, but not very subtle," she playfully teases, her eyes ablaze with mirth, her cheeks aglow with an enchanting smile. Casually intertwining her fingers behind her back, she idly traces the well-worn patterns of the tawny carpet beneath her, an intimate connection to the library's history. Her lips graze her bottom lip in contemplation, bestowing an aura of anticipation. Then, with a chuckle, she meets his gaze, her eyes alight with mischief.

"Well, for me, Gotham University is my top choice," she shares, her excitement palpable. The sun's rays dance upon her face, highlighting her passion. However, a shadow of doubt intrudes, blemishing her expression. "They have one of the best biochemistry programs, as you are well aware," she elucidates, a tinge of melancholy lacing her words."But it's fiercely competitive, so my chances are slim." Damian's heart clenches, an irrational desire to protect her surging within him. He yearns to silence those who doubt her capabilities.

He yearns to offer solace, to envelop her in his embrace, but he refrains. He cannot risk overwhelming her. Instead, he reassures her, his voice resonant with unwavering certainty. "Habibti, among the applicants, you indisputably stand as the most exceptional candidate," he affirms, his conviction unswerving. She shakes her head, her laughter carrying a flicker of disbelief. How can she not discern her own brilliance, her prodigious talent?

"What did I say about disingenuous flattery?" she mockingly chides. Damian raises an eyebrow, tilting his head, a blend of affection and exasperation coloring his expression. How can she remain oblivious to her own brilliance? "And what have I told you?" he counters, a modicum of frustration edging his voice.

Crossing her arms, she rolls her eyes, her tone tinged with impatience. "Well, I guess we'll see about that in a couple of weeks when the decision arrives," she states, her anticipation for the future palpable. Sensing her readiness to transition from the topic, Damian redirects the conversation toward a more delicate matter, aware it may incite resistance.

"We must discuss Bran," Damian begins, his voice meticulously measured. Her eyes snap towards him, a simmering anger barely restrained. Raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture, he persists, his voice poised yet infused with concern. "You cannot live with him any longer. It poses too great a risk."

The transformation on her face is akin to a storm brewing, but Damian stands resolute, driven by his unwavering determination to safeguard her. "You can live with us until the beginning of university." He had contemplated this solution, convinced it represented the most prudent course of action. However, as he observes her tapping foot and folded arms, a sliver of doubt starts to gnaw at him.

"Is that so?" Her voice resonates at a higher octave than he would prefer, her challenge hanging palpably in the air. Damian knows he must navigate this delicate terrain with utmost care. He nods slowly, awaiting her response. "And why should I do that?" Her tone demands a compelling reason.

Damian's jaw tautens, his gaze narrowing as he speaks through clenched teeth, "You know why." Elaborating would be a futile endeavor, merely resurrecting agonizing memories for her. His chest constricts with the realization that he failed to shield her from Bran's deranged fury over the years. The last thing he desires is to inflict more pain upon her by reopening those wounds.

She scoffs out a breath, a nervous tic causing her to bite her lip anxiously. He observes the unease seeping from her, as she begins to shift uncomfortably. When her eyes meet his with uncertainty upon looking back at him, she freezes in place. "No," she finally utters.

He waits for a beat, hoping she would expound, but she remains silent. His brows arch dubiously. "No?" His frustration permeates his voice. Between gritted teeth, he seethes, "What do you mean, No?" The simmering anger within him begins to shift, his fists coiling and his nails incising harshly into the flesh of his palms.

She has the audacity to appear perplexed by his words. He witnesses the fury ignite in her eyes at his tone. "You actually think that will solve anything?" she retorts, her question rhetorical, inciting a magma of resentment within him. She regards him with a dubious yet enraged gaze, purposefully taking a deliberate step toward him.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Damian refuses to be bated, observing her through narrowed eyes. They stand there, ensconced in heated tension-filled silence, the atmosphere laden with unspoken words. Her scrutiny causes his skin to tighten, her accusatory tone painfully stretching across it. "(Y/N), I..." he begins, his voice trailing off.

"You don't understand," she interrupts, her voice harboring an aching fear that claws at his heart. She commences pacing back and forth, her steps almost scorching through the worn, stained carpet of the library. "Bran will always find a way to punish me," she adamantly declares. "He is powerful, resourceful, and cunning. He knows who I’m with and what I’m doing at all times. If I moved in with you, he would exploit them to hurt me," she elucidates, her voice beseeching him to comprehend.

A maelstrom of emotions rages through Damian as her words pierce through his chest, leaving behind a cavern of bleeding anger. "I cannot fathom the thought of you living under the same roof as him," he says bitterly. His nails dig deeper into his palms, puncturing the skin slightly. Her eyes shimmer with regret and somber resignation.

"He’s tied up my inheritance as well," she whispers, as if it is an afterthought. Hope flutters in Damian's chest, akin to a delicate butterfly, assuaging the sore tension. "You need not fret over that, Habibti," he says in a desperately soft voice.

Her eyes snap to his, hardening into a steely resolve. "Absolutely not," she states, vehemently shaking her head. "I will not depend on you financially. I cannot and will not accept that." Confusion etches Damian's face. Why on earth not?

"Why are you being so obstinate?" he practically barks out. "There is no rationale for you to oppose this. My suggestion is perfectly acceptable." Confusion, frustration, anger, and resentment amalgamate within him, concocting a volatile co*cktail that weighs heavily in his gut.

Exasperated, she throws her hands out and retorts, "You STILL don’t understand." His patience begins to fray as he retorts, "Then explain it to me." The desperation in his voice crackles between them, akin to the charged air preceding a lightning strike.

Her eyes widen with fury as she confronts him, pointing firmly at his chest. "Because, Damian," she spits his name like venom, "I will not allow him to harm anyone I care about for the selfish reason of sparing myself some physical pain." Her admission feels like a stinging slap to his face. Their breaths grow labored as the words hang heavily in the air, weighing on their shoulders.

The volatile elixir within Damian's gut turns rancid as the tension in his muscles dissipates. All that remains is sorrow and shame. "Habibti, you..." he begins, but she cuts him off sternly.

"I can’t have you fight my battles for me," she says, her voice weakening as exhaustion creeps in.

"But you are no longer alone," he says gently, "you have me."

She runs her hands down her face before letting them fall to her sides. She gazes up at him, the depth of her despair evident in her eyes. "I know," she whispers. "But I can’t live with you. I must maintain some semblance of control over my life. I must retain my independence." She swallows a lump in her throat and studies the floor. "I do not know how to rely on someone, how to accept help." He can see how difficult it was for her to speak those words.

His anger dissipates entirely, leaving behind gnawing concern. Lifting her chin, he surveys her countenance. "I cannot stand idly by when I know he hurts you. I need to know that you are safe, or else I will be tormented by thoughts of your well-being." She huffs a breath through her nose and places her hand atop his.

With a sad smile, she nods and says, "I know, Dami. But this is a matter I need to handle on my own." He despises the truth embedded within her words. Yet, despite it, a surge of pride burgeons within his chest.

"I can respect that, but I need you to be aware that the moment you desire my assistance, in any form, I shall be there to provide it." His sincere words envelop her, loosening the tension in her shoulders. He grazes his fingers across her supple skin, resting his hand on the side of her neck. His thumb moves instinctively, gently massaging the taut ligaments between her shoulder and jaw. Her eyes flutter closed, her parted lips emitting a soft moan as she leans into his touch.

Unable to resist any longer, an electric current surges through him as he draws her into his embrace, their bodies fitting together with an undeniable magnetism. The heat of her proximity sends a shiver of anticipation down his spine, igniting a primal desire that simmers beneath their skin. The soft graze of her fingertips against his back sends a jolt of electricity through his veins, a tantalizing tease that stirs the embers of longing within him.

As she molds herself against him, a gentle sigh escapes her lips, the sound an intoxicating melody that resonates deep within him. The subtle brush of her lips against his chest sets his pulse racing, a whisper-soft invitation that dances on the edge of desire. Time slows, the world fading away as their bodies speak a language of their own, a symphony of shared yearning and unspoken passion.

Resting his chin atop her head, his breath quickens, mingling with the sweet fragrance of her hair. The caress of her curves against him becomes an exquisite torture, each point of contact a burning ember that fuels the fire within. The weight of their unfulfilled desires hangs heavy in the air, an invisible thread that tugs at their souls, teasing them with the promise of what could be.

Reluctantly pulling away, he takes her hand and says, “Allow me to take you home." The touch of her hand in his is akin to a lifeline, grounding him in the reality of their connection.

She nods in agreement, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. Her hair is slightly disheveled, and her eyes burn with restrained desire.

Together, they venture forth, the symphony of their footsteps resonates through the halls and out the doors.

Alfred, as always, stands patiently by the car door, holding it open with his customary grace. They slip into the backseat, sinking into the embrace of the supple, buttery leather seats. The car's interior exudes an air of opulence, with sleek lines and polished surfaces that catch the ambient light.

Damian luxuriates in the plushness of the seats, the soft leather yielding beneath his weight. As he settles in, a gentle sigh escapes his lips, the warmth of the seat enveloping him in comfort.

The engine purrs to life, filling the space with a low, melodic hum. The sound reverberates through the car, harmonizing with the rhythmic vibrations that course through Damian's body. He can feel the gentle thrum of the engine resonating in his chest, a soothing cadence that eases his tense muscles and lulls him into a state of relaxation.

As they embark on their journey, the car glides through the bustling streets of Gotham, navigating the winding roads with Alfred's expert precision. Through the tinted windows, the cityscape unfolds like a mesmerizing tapestry. The towering skyscrapers stand as sentinels, their glimmering lights painting the night sky with a kaleidoscope of colors. The rhythmic flicker of streetlights and the distant sounds of the city's pulse create a symphony of urban life.

Within the confines of the car, Damian's attention is drawn to [Y/N] as she speaks, her voice resonating with a captivating allure. Her words, like a delicate melody, fill the space with a sense of curiosity and intrigue. The dim lighting of the car casts a soft glow upon her face, accentuating the playful glint in her eyes and the subtle curve of her lips.

"Do you ever get to drive yourself?" she inquires, her voice a whisper that hangs in the air, laden with a mixture of curiosity and a hint of flirtation.

A smug smirk dances on Damian's lips as he leans closer to her, the air between them thickening with anticipation. "As a matter of fact, I do," he responds, his voice dripping with confidence.

Her eyebrow quirks playfully, her gaze fixated on him. "As Damian Wayne?" she probes, her voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and a growing sense of excitement.

"Certainly," he confirms, his voice a low murmur. "But as Damian Wayne, I am bound by the law," he adds, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Leaning even closer, he whispers conspiratorially, "However, when I'm working, I tend to disregard such restrictions."

A husky chuckle escapes her lips, sending a shiver down his spine. "Oh, I'm sure," she murmurs, her voice now laced with desire.

He watches as she leans in, her proximity electrifying the air around them. "I have always wanted to experience that adrenaline rush," she confesses, her words carrying a silent invitation.

The corners of his mouth curl into a devilish grin, his voice dripping with suggestion. "That's a dangerous proposition, darling."

A coy smile plays on her lips as she leans even closer, her warm breath brushing against his skin. "I'm not one to shy away from a little thrill," she whispers seductively, her words igniting a fire within him.

The car seems to shrink around them as the tension escalates. The sweet scent of her perfume fills his nostrils, mingling with the heady anticipation in the air. Their eyes lock, and for a fleeting moment, time stands still.

Smirking, he is nearly overwhelmed by the heat that rushes through his veins. God, he would love to be slathered in the honey of her voice. “I have no doubt darling, but I hope you can handle some unlawful practices.”

She chuckles, her voice dripping with amusem*nt. "Oh, I'm all for breaking a few rules,” she muses.

“My driving skills are not to be experienced by the faint of heart Habibti. But I can see that you appreciate the thrill and excitement of recklessness.” He curves his mouth into a lopsided grin, knowing the heated reaction it will elicit from her. Her face flushes slightly, creeping down the elegant neck he has so recently messaged.

She leans even closer to Damian, her voice low and seductive. "Oh, I do, do I? Well, then, I can't wait to experience the rush of your driving firsthand."

He leans back, crossing his arms with a flirtatious smirk. "Darling, I promise you, it'll be a ride you won't soon forget." The bold insinuation in his voice makes her eyes go wide before she blinks lazily and stares at him through hooded lids.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she proclaims softly before leaning back in her own seat. The air between them is charged with unfulfilled promise and calamitous desire. The scolding tension makes a bead of sweat drip down his temple as he struggles to retain his composure.

God what is she doing to him.

The rest of the ride becomes a tantalizing dance of heated sidelong glances, each exchange causing their hearts to race in sync. The subtle brush of their fingertips against the armrest sends a surge of electricity through their veins, the unspoken promise of what could be hanging thickly in the air.

As she steps out of the car, Damian is left in a state of simultaneous relief and longing. He can't help but emit a low groan, a physical manifestation of the intensity that courses through his veins. His head falls back against the plush leather seat, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths.

She is a force of nature, an irresistible whirlwind that has stirred something deep within him. The fire she ignites is both exhilarating and overwhelming, leaving him yearning for more. In her presence, he feels the boundaries of his self-control wavering, as if she possesses the power to consume him entirely.

______________________________________________________________________________

In the Batcave:

Entering the expansive cavern of the Batcave, Damian's footsteps reverberate faintly against the cool, clammy stone walls. The cavern stretches out before him, its vast expanse illuminated by the soft glow of concealed lighting. Stalactites hang from the ceiling like ancient sentinels, their pointed tips glistening with moisture, while stalagmites rise from the floor, adding to the subterranean grandeur of the place.

Within this cavernous realm, his family members stand engrossed in their own discourse, their voices melding with the low hum of machinery. The Batcomputer's holographic displays cast an ethereal glow upon their faces, highlighting their focused expressions. The atmosphere crackles with an electric blend of purpose and anticipation, as if the very air is charged with the weight of their responsibilities.

His annoyance grows with each passing moment, fueled by the realization that he is the final arrival to this gathering. The silence surrounding his entrance is broken only by the distant drip of water, echoing through the cavern like a haunting melody. The ambient sound of his footsteps becomes a cadence, a rhythmic reminder of his presence within this hidden sanctuary.

It is Jason who finally redirects his attention toward Damian, a sly grin adorning his lips. Crossing his arms firmly across his chest, he greets him with a hint of playful mockery. "Well, well, well, if it isn't the baby bat, fashionably late." Jason's tone carries a lightheartedness, yet Damian detects the underlying taunt.

The scowl etched upon Damian's face deepens, and he shoots a disapproving glare at Jason. "I was tending to an urgent matter that required my undivided attention," he retorts curtly, his voice tinged with vexation.

Jason's grin broadens, undeterred by Damian's response. "Ah, yes, the mysterious urgent matter. Do tell, did she finally take you back? What was the punishment this time?" Jason's voice drips with playful curiosity, fully aware of how to penetrate Damian's defenses.

Damian's annoyance escalates, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He grits his teeth, grappling to maintain his composure in the face of Jason's ceaseless needling. "Your incessant prying into my personal affairs has grown tiresome, Todd," he retorts sharply, his voice laced with impatience.

Jason's laughter reverberates throughout the cave, bouncing off the walls and captivating the attention of the rest of the family. Their heads turn, curious gazes now fixed upon Damian, awaiting his response. The weight of their expectant stares intensifies his irritation, but he knows that withholding the details will only prolong their inquisitiveness.

Sighing with reluctant resignation, Damian elects to divulge the pertinent information, his words delivered with measured brevity. "We had a conversation, and she made a request," he explains, his tone tightly controlled.

"No sh*t," Dick interjects with a dubious and mischievous smirk, his eyes flickering with amusem*nt. "She's really got you by the balls, huh?" His remark elicits a chuckle from the others, and Damian feels the tension within him mount. How dare they trivialize this matter? It is not something to be treated with levity.

Sensing the heat rising in his cheeks, Damian cracks his knuckles audibly, a tangible release of his pent-up frustration. He endeavors to calm the tempest within, to regain mastery over his emotions, but the anger remains, smoldering just beneath the surface.

Their father, observing the exchange with an astute gaze, finally interjects. "Alfred will furnish you with a dossier containing the pertinent information," he says, his voice commanding attention. "I suggest you remain by her side as she reads it, ready to address any inquiries she may have."

Damian nods, his jaw clenched tightly as he processes his father's words. Turning to Alfred, his voice carries a taut edge. "Include only the corresponding data found within her file. Ensure that both documents mirror each other in sequence," he commands, leaving no room for ambiguity in his tone.

Alfred, a paragon of composure within the cave, acknowledges with a nod. "Certainly, Master Damian. I shall attend to it without delay," he replies, exuding a calm assurance.

Drawing in a deep breath, Damian endeavors to quell the tempest raging within him. He feels the weight of the impending revelation pressing upon his shoulders, uncertainty and anxiety gnawing at his resolve.

Damian stands in the heart of the Batcave, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds that constitute his existence. The low hum of the Batcomputer, the gentle flickering of monitors, and the mingling scents of metal and earth in the air create a tapestry of familiarity. This cavern is his refuge, a haven where he hones his skills and prepares to confront the darkest facets of Gotham City.

Yet today, his sanctuary is marred by the impish grins of Dick and Jason. His elder brothers possess a talent for exasperating him to the utmost degree, incessantly probing his vulnerabilities with their unrelenting and insipid banter. Damian's jaw tightens as he fortifies himself for the impending storm of mockery.

"So, little brother," Dick begins, his voice laced with exaggerated innocence, "did your urgent matter involve a love poem or a candlelit dinner?"

Jason, always quick to jump on the opportunity, chimes in with a mockingly thoughtful expression. "Or perhaps a grand romantic gesture? Did you serenade her under a full moon? Oh, Damian, you charmer!"

Damian's scowl deepens as irritation simmers just beneath the surface. He prides himself on his stoicism and focused demeanor, but their relentless teasing has a way of prying at his composure.

"You two have an unhealthy obsession with my personal life," Damian retorts, his voice edged with a sharpness that betrays his annoyance. "You should focus on your own inadequacies instead of meddling in mine."

Dick feigns shock, placing a hand over his heart. "Why, Damian, it's only because we care about you," he says, his tone dripping with exaggerated sincerity as he makes disgusting kissing noises. "We just want to make sure you're not being too cheesy, that's all."

Jason chuckles, clearly relishing in the moment. "Yeah, we wouldn't want your love life to be as dramatic as your brooding face. It might be too much for the world to handle."

Damian scowls, feeling his frustration mounting. "And I suppose your love lives are the epitome of sophistication?" he retorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "If I recall correctly, Dick, your romantic endeavors resemble a revolving door of heartbreak, and Jason, your relationship history reads like your criminal record."

Dick raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Ah, Damian, you always have a way with words. So sharp, so cutting. It's almost like you're compensating for something."

Jason chuckles, joining in the repartee. "Yeah, you're like a prickly cactus. But hey, maybe that's what gets her going." He waggles eyebrows at the insinuation.

Damian's scowl deepens, but he can't help but feel a hint of amusem*nt beneath his annoyance. It's a language only they understand, a way of showing affection in their own peculiar way.

"Just remember, the two of you better catch some criminals tonight," Damian calls out, his tone filled with a mix of annoyance and determination, "or I'll have to question your usefulness as vigilantes."

Dick quirks an eyebrow, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, don't worry, baby bat," he calls back, his voice brimming with faux confidence. "We'll make sure Gotham stays safe, even without your impeccable skills to aid us." Jason chuckles and shoots Damian a playful wink.

As they turn and make their way towards one of the Batmobiles, Damian observes them, his annoyance lingering but the affection outweighing it. The scent of motor oil permeates the air, wafting with a pungent yet oddly comforting aroma. The engine roars to life, drowning out the sounds of their banter with its thunderous rumble. Damian's keen eyes catch the glint of moonlight dancing off the sleek curves of the vehicle, accentuating its aerodynamic design, and he can't help but crack a small smile of appreciation.

Damian's irritation gradually dissipates as he redirects his attention to the task at hand. With a resolute expression, he swiftly moves towards his private quarters within the Batcave. The scent of fine leather and polished armor assaults him as he opens the door, revealing a meticulously organized array of suits, gadgets, and weaponry that evoke a sense of both elegance and functionality.

His nimble fingers deftly select the pieces of his uniform, the fabric rustling softly and the metal components emitting a gentle clinking sound that punctuates the room's stillness. Damian moves with practiced efficiency, slipping into the form-fitting kevlar suit that molds to his physique like a second skin. The sound of straps being fastened and buckles being secured reverberates through the room, creating a symphony of preparation.

Once fully suited up, Damian checks his utility belt, meticulously ensuring that each pocket is filled with the essential tools he may require. He activates the communication device embedded in his cowl, seamlessly syncing it with the Batfamily's extensive network. With a nod of satisfaction, Damian strides purposefully back towards the main area of the Batcave, his footsteps reverberating with a confident yet controlled cadence.

There, he finds Drake, already adorned in his own distinctive red and black suit, leaning casually against another Batmobile. Batman stands nearby, his imposing figure casting a long, formidable shadow across the cave. He adjusts the cowl on his head, his deep voice resonating with unwavering authority. "We have received credible intelligence on a criminal gang operating in the East End," he explains, his tone a brooding blend of determination and vigilance. "Reports suggest they are plotting a major heist. It is time to put an end to their nefarious activities."

They exchange a series of brief nods, their collective readiness palpable in the charged atmosphere. As a formidable trio, they stride purposefully towards the awaiting vehicle. The scent of gasoline and the metallic tang of anticipation hang in the air, mingling with the faint echoes of doors opening.

Without uttering a word, Damian gracefully slides into the backseat, securely strapping himself in as the engine roars to life, unleashing a harmony of raw power. The potent vibration surges through his body, an exhilarating reminder of the adrenaline that courses through their veins on every mission.

As they navigate the darkened streets of Gotham City with skillful precision, the urban landscape springs to life around them. The blaring sirens, the distant cacophony of chaos, and the occasional screech of tires create a symphony of urban turmoil that fills the night air. Damian's heightened senses drink in every detail, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings for any subtle signs of impending danger.

Soon, they arrive at their destination, a dimly lit alleyway rumored to be the gathering spot for the criminal gang. Batman brings the impressive vehicle to a controlled halt, and the trio emerges from its protective shell, poised and ready to confront the challenges that lie ahead.

The sounds of their purposeful footsteps echo against the concrete as they approach the criminals, who turn to face them with a mixture of surprise and trepidation. Damian's muscles tense, his senses heightened, as adrenaline surges through his veins. He moves with calculated precision, his extensive combat training guiding his every action.

The clash of fists, the grunts of exertion, and the occasional sound of a gadget being deployed fill the air as the battle ensues. Damian fights with a ferocity that belies his tender age, his movements fluid and precise. Alongside Batman and Red Robin, they form an indomitable force, their unity of purpose evident in every coordinated strike.

Minutes feel like seconds as they swiftly subdue the criminals, leaving them bound and helpless, atoning for their transgressions. The scent of victory permeates the air, intermingled with the sheen of perspiration and the lingering remnants of their adversaries' fear.

Standing amidst the aftermath of the fight, Damian's chest rises and falls with each labored breath. With the mission accomplished, they retreat back to the Batmobile, the scent of triumph clinging to their skin. "We have neutralized this gang, but our work is far from over," Batman declares, his voice resonating with unwavering authority.

Hours later, exhaustion and battle scars etched upon them, they return to the welcoming confines of the Batcave. The powerful engine rumbles to a stop, and they step out of the vehicle, their worn uniforms bearing the marks of the night's intense encounters, a testament to their unwavering dedication.

As they make their way towards the main cavern of the Batcave, Damian's mind becomes consumed with a different mission, one that tugs at his heartstrings. He knows he must retrieve the files, the vital information she requested to unravel the mystery that has consumed her thoughts. His gaze flickers towards the Batcomputer, its screencasting a gentle, cool blue glow that illuminates the cavernous darkness.

Unbeknownst to his companions, Damian meticulously formulates a plan. He needs to maintain utmost discretion, seamlessly maneuvering through the city's underbelly unseen. With silent resolve, he slips away, his footsteps muffled against the cool, stone floor as he gracefully disappears into the shadows.

The scent of dust and dampness envelops the air as Damian enters the hidden alcove where the files are safeguarded. The shelves lining the alcove are adorned with old, weathered volumes, each one containing secrets preserved within their faded pages. The faint sound of his heartbeat reverberates in his ears as he selectively retrieves the relevant files, cradling them securely under his arm.

Once he has obtained what he came for, Damian retraces his steps, gracefully making his way towards the exit of the Batcave. The distant chirping of bats resonates through the cavern, a constant reminder of his nocturnal realm. He moves with a quiet determination, his senses keenly attuned to any signs of unwanted attention.

Within the Diamond District, the night sky sprawls above him, an expansive canvas adorned with twinkling stars. Damian melds seamlessly into the shadows, his figure barely discernible as he gracefully leaps from rooftop to rooftop. The crisp scent of cold air fills his nostrils, and the wind whispers through the towering structures that dominate the cityscape.

With the agility of a predatory creature, Damian reaches his destination—a familiar building nestled amidst the sprawling cityscape. His sharp eyes scan the darkened windows, intently searching for the one that belongs to her. Finally, he spots it, a soft glow seeping through the drawn curtains.

Cautiously, Damian ascends the building, his gloved fingers delicately gripping ledges and window sills. The subtle creak of metal against his touch sends a thrill of anticipation coursing through his veins. He arrives at her window and, with the precision of a trained acrobat, silently opens it, slipping inside.

Inside, the room is shrouded in darkness, save for the gentle glow of a bedside lamp. The sweet scent of lavender lingers in the air, its delicate fragrance serving to calm his heightened senses. Damian's eyes acclimate to the subdued light, revealing her peaceful form lying in bed, blissfully unaware of his presence.

He takes a cautious step toward her, but the weight of his foot causes the floorboard to groan in protest, the accusatory sound echoing through the room. Startled, her heart races as she leaps off her bed, her body instinctively whirling around to confront him. Fear widens her eyes, and her muscles tense, every nerve primed for action as she gazes upon him, an unfamiliar figure invading her sanctuary. The air becomes heavy with tension, an acute sense of danger hanging palpably in the room.

She places a trembling hand over her rapidly rising and falling chest, desperately attempting to steady her breath. Breathlessly, she manages to utter, "What the f*ck? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Her panicked voice quivers with each word, the fear unmistakable in her tone, as she collapses back onto her bed, the gravity of the moment overwhelming her.

He offers her a gentle smile, his expression conveying both apology and reassurance, as he slowly raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Please accept my sincerest apologies for causing you alarm," he says softly, his voice a soothing balm amidst the chaos. With cautious steps, he takes another stride closer, the sound of his footfalls scarcely audible now. As he reaches her, he delicately places the manila folder on her vanity.

Her eyes snap to it, the presence of the folder instantly commanding her attention. It represents a forbidden Pandora's box, housing the potential for chaos and upheaval. Within its seemingly innocuous exterior lies the power to shatter the delicate balance of their relationship, each page holding the weight of secrets and revelations that could irrevocably alter the course of their lives.

Chapter 28: A Testament of Strength

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

My heart pounds in my chest as I fixate my eyes on the seemingly mundane manila folder. How odd it is for something so inconspicuous to hold so much power. As my heart continues to race, I look at Damian, or better yet, Robin. This is the first time I've seen him fully adorned in his vigilante uniform, and I must say, it certainly suits him - slight pun intended.

The warm, soft hues of my lamp are at odds with the tense situation at hand. Swallowing a lump in my throat, I walk on shaky legs to stand before him. His body, rigid with anticipation, remains still like a statue. The room seems to shrink in his presence, his towering figure casting a shadow that engulfs us both. The scent of leather and the faint hint of sweat clings to the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of the nearby scented candles.

Looking up at him, I can see the firm line of his mouth and the tic in his jaw. But he remains silent as I pick up the manila folder, heavier than I could have ever imagined. I'm not sure if it's actually heavy or if the weight of the secrets it houses lends to the illusion that it is.

I can practically taste the regret emanating from him in waves, intensifying my own trepidation. I know that I asked for this, but now, I'm wondering if ignorance truly is bliss. Shaking my head at my own weakness, I turn around and walk back to the edge of my bed. The soft fabric of the duvet brushes against my fingertips as I sit heavily, the bed sinking slightly under my weight. I run a shaky hand over the top.

His movements snatch my attention as I watch him turn the chair of my vanity around to face me. He sits stiffly, the chair creaking under his weight, the sound a stark contrast to the stillness of the room. "So this is everything?" I ask meekly. The confidence I once felt has been siphoned out of me by his tortured gaze.

Silently, he nods, his eyes locked on mine. The room seems to hold its breath, waiting for the tension to break, for his stoic facade to crack and reveal the emotions that lie beneath. But he remains resolute, clasping his hands in front of him, his fingers interlaced, resting on his lap. The stillness is almost suffocating, the silence oppressive.

I exhale sharply, trying to steady the pounding in my chest. Breathlessly, I say, "Okay." Refocusing my attention on the file, I crack open the first page. My muscles are taut in anticipation of what I might find. Steeling my nerves, I allow my eyes to actually comprehend the words on the page.

Before I turn the page, I steal a look at him, biting my lip nervously at his infuriatingly patient and neutral gaze. "Are you going to stay here the entire time?" My voice is a soft whisper. I would have preferred to sound more determined and confident, but I can't seem to muster those emotions right now.

He flicks his gaze to my door, darkening as he realizes whose roof he is now under. Anticipating his unspoken question, I quickly chime in, my words a hushed confession. "He's not here." The room seems to exhale in relief, the tension momentarily easing.

"Honestly, I have no idea where he is," I sigh. "Probably committing war crimes in Crimea under the guise of altruistic aid." My casual shrug comes out more twitchy than I would have liked, but the laughter in his eyes makes it worth it. His eyebrows shoot up, and his head tilts in consideration. A small flash of his teeth from his grin eases the dull ache in my chest.

Returning my focus to the file, I crack open the first page, the sound crisp and purposeful. True to his word, he has compiled corresponding facts that were in my own file. I thumb through the many pages of his estate's blueprints, marveling at the numerous secret tunnels and alcoves now visible in this 2D format. Next, his report cards, transcripts, and records, all dating back to his formative years. As I scan these documents, I absorb as much as I can. Stellar grades, numerous extracurricular activities, and a few detentions from fighting.

However, I frown at a gap in the timeline. Looking back up, I ask, "Why is there a gap in your education?" I make sure to keep the question neutral in an attempt to curb any accusatory tones that may be laced in.

He smiles gently and replies, "When I was ten, shortly after I moved in with Bruce, I decided I wanted to live in a monastery in the Himalayas." His simple response shoots a bolt of curiosity through me, one that must be evident on my face because he continues, "I needed to discover my own voice and who I was without either of my parents interfering. It was the best thing for me at the time."

The admission makes my heart bleed with guilt for making him relive what was clearly a difficult decision. His impassive and calculated words give me the sense that he's been anticipating my questions and preparing his answers. I shoot him what I hope is a reassuring smile before flipping through more pages.

Whereas my folder contained scientific papers and grants, his does not. Rather, there are research papers, written business proposals for Wayne Enterprises, and comprehensive budget analyses from various regions. I can feel my mouth drop at the staggering numbers and complex business plans.

"Am I allowed to see this?" I ask, dumbfounded. He shrugs and grins before replying, "No, but you asked and I obliged." His face grows serious once more. "But please keep this information to yourself. Some of these projections have yet to come true, and we can't afford this information being leaked to our competitors." His request stings a bit, but it's soon washed away with understanding.

"Of course," I rush out. My face heats with embarrassment as I tuck my head down, allowing my curtain of hair to shield my face from his prying eyes. Clearing my throat, I continue on to the most harrowing section.

This section of his medical documents is far larger and more detailed than my own. Pages upon pages expose a myriad of X-rays, CT scans, diagnoses, and medical jargon I barely understand. I rub my fingers across some of the pictures of bruises and broken bones, swallowing the bile that threatens to escape.

Not only did he provide me with a review of doctor's notes, but also corresponding police reports. I wince at the detailed descriptions, recalling how and why these injuries occurred in the first place. Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, pages of the coroner's results come into view.

And then, the photographs of his disfigured victims come into view. The images are stark and haunting, their lifeless forms captured in frozen moments. The unnatural pallor of their skin, drained of its vitality, sends a shiver through my entire being. It’s as if their absence of blood has sucked away all warmth from the room.

My heart catches in my throat. It feels as if the blood in my veins has drained out of me as I flip through each and every report. My breath becomes rapid again as I desperately try to suck in oxygen that just isn't there.

My wild gaze shoots to Damian as I try to formulate some sort of question, but fail miserably. I open and close my mouth several times before I croak, "I thought Batman had a no-killing rule." I'm ashamed to even be voicing my thoughts, but I need to know.

His expression is solemn, but a tick in his jaw gives away his discomfort. Through gritted teeth, he replies, "He does. However, my mother never had such reservations." He sighs deeply through his nose, collecting himself. "I was trained and lived with the League of Assassins until I was nine years old. Their training was brutal and did not prescribe to the same morals as my father's. I excelled. Ra's Al Ghul was my grandfather, and my mother was Talia Al Ghul. It was my birthright to follow in their footsteps and rule over the League. These are the victims of the men and women I brutally murdered before I moved in with my father." His voice is firm but mournful. Softly, as if it's an afterthought, he mumbles, "Before he showed me another way of life."

My heart shatters into a million pieces as understanding dawns on me. "Damian," I begin gently, not wanting to alarm him. "You were just a boy, you—"

"Don't. Don't make excuses for me. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I reveled in their deaths. I enjoyed watching the life seep out of their eyes."

I suck in a sharp breath. Grinding my molars, I wait a moment before answering, "Maybe. But you were still a boy." I place the file on my bed, my hands feeling cold and detached as my gaze burns into him. "You can't blame yourself for not knowing any better, for not knowing an alternate way of living. You've only ever been surrounded by death and destruction." My voice is stern and unyielding. "But when you moved to Gotham, that changed. You changed. That means more to me than whatever else is in these pages," I reply honestly, letting the truth of my own words sink deep beneath my skin.

He looks up at me, his eyes skittering across my face desperately, yearning for absolution. I rise, walk over to stand before him, and place my hands on the side of his neck. I tilt his head up, forcing him to look at me. Forcing him to see my truth.

"You don't know what you're saying," he says with a tinge of disbelief and self-doubt lingering in his words. Rage stains my cheeks, burning me from the inside out. My nails dig into his skin lightly, trying desperately to make him understand.

"I know exactly what I'm saying, Damian," I declare. "I know that you could have, and maybe you did, fight against adopting a new way of living. But ultimately, you took a long, hard, introspective look and rewired your entire way of life to become the man you are today." My voice shakes not with uncertainty but with an overwhelming sense of belief.

Staring into his eyes, I watch as he slowly digests my words, his eyes softening with relief as he comes to understand. I stand there, between his legs, for what feels like eternity before he places his hands lightly over mine. "Thank you, habibti, for your kind words," he swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "But I do not deserve them." The sadness in his verdant gaze makes his eyes glassy. "I do not deserve your understanding or rationalization of the heinous crimes I've committed."

Frustration bellows within me, demanding release. I feel my nostrils flare as I huff out a rough breath through my nose. I crack my jaw before replying, "I'm not rationalizing your actions; I'm simply stating my observation. You have grown into a man who not only has seen the error of his ways but has taken immense strides to rectify them. You've evolved, and you cannot punish yourself for doing what most people can't." My voice is laced with a mixture of exasperation and determination

He chuckles darkly and shakes his head, causing my hands to move with him. "Do not come so swiftly to my defense without reading the rest of the file, darling," his words are sharp, cutting through me like a dull knife.

I tilt my head up in challenge before dropping my hands and walking back to the edge of the bed. I sit with more confidence and indignation than before and flip the file back open to where I left off. I continue reading, each page filled with more gruesome details, none of which do anything to assuage his belief.

My eyes scan past the rest of his medical documents, newspaper clippings, and photographs. Rather than making me hesitate and reconsider my words, they solidify my resolution. I audibly snap the folder closed, the defiant sound reverberating through the room. Looking back at him, angrier than ever, I can't help but feel the burning ache of bitter, molten fury. How could he ever think that the contents of this stupid file would ever change the way I feel about him?

Does he truly have so little faith in me?

I no longer contain my true emotions. Now, it is plain as day how I truly feel. I march over to him and stop to stand directly before him, between his legs. "You listen closely." the taste of bitterness coats my tongue as I speak. "I know you added more than necessary to this file," I seethe. "And I know why you did it. You want me to be scared, you want me to turn my back on you because you think it'll be easier if I see you the way you clearly see yourself."

He tries to interject, but my voice slices through the air, cutting him off. "You’re most comfortable when you feel in control, and you only feel in control when your own suspicions are proven right. In this case, you assume that I'm like everyone else who sees you as this monster."

My voice cracks, the sound echoing like splintering glass. "But, Damian," I plead. "You are not a monster." The finality of my tone resonates deeply within my bones. The surprise of my conviction is laid bare on his face.

His wide eyes stare unblinkingly at my own. His hands come to rest on my waist, squeezing tightly as the warmth of his touch grounds me. "How can you say that? What if I am a monster?" My chest feels like it's been cleaved open at the desperation in his question.

Leaning in, I rest my forehead against his. With him sitting and me standing, we are at eye level. I let my gaze burn with resolution as I plead silently with him to understand. "Damian, a real monster would never question if they were one or not." I don't bother elaborating. None is required.

He closes his eyes briefly and inhales a shuddering breath. The tight cords of his muscles ease as he slouches against me. I almost stagger back at the weight of his body leaning against mine. He pulls back, only to bury his face against my chest. Immediately, I wrap my arms around him and bury my fingers in his hair. He envelops me with his own arms, wrapping around my body entirely.

I kiss the crown of his head and let my lips linger. Inhaling deeply, his scent fills my nostrils and wraps around my raging heart. We stay like this, silent and clinging onto each other. I begin rubbing my hands down his back, relishing in the soft yet thick material of his uniform. He hums against my touch, the rumble reverberating against my chest. Our heartbeats synchronize and slowly steady to an even thumping.

He pulls away first and looks at me with more vulnerability than I have ever seen before. He looks as if he could shatter at any moment, eliciting a soft, sorrowful moan. His lips part in alarm as tears prick my eyes. Removing his hands from around my waist, he places them against my face and uses his thumbs to delicately wipe away the stray tears.

"Beloved, please do not cry for me," he begs softly. "You have bestowed upon me the most precious gift." His voice is light and airy, and his gaze is filled with wonder.

I release a wet, sardonic laugh. "Oh yeah? What exactly would that be?" I can't help the skepticism in my voice.

"Acceptance," he whispers, as if saying the word out loud will make me reconsider.

This time, the laugh that erupts from me is genuine relief. "Of course, I accept you, Damian," I practically scream. "There's no part of you that isn't worthy of acceptance." A myriad of emotions washes across his face, making it crumple as they overwhelm him.

"Thank you," he murmurs, his voice shaking. "Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me. None." A rogue tear slips down his face, shimmering in the room's dim light. "I wasn't ready for this. I don't think I'll ever be ready for this," he admits.

My chest tightens, and my throat constricts. I croak, "Neither of us was ready for half the sh*t we went through, but clearly we were built for it." The line between his brows creases heavily at my words.

"Indeed we are," he whispers. His warm breath caresses my face.

A surge of warmth rushes through my body as the pain in my chest blossoms into a contented ease. The words that have been lodged in my throat for a while are finally ready to release. Looking at him earnestly, I watch as he continues to study me with wonder and disbelief. It's time to put those reservations to rest.

"I love you, Damian," I finally say. His eyes become wide as saucers as more tears begin streaking down his face. "I have loved you for a long time,” my voice trembles. “ Honestly, I loved you from the day your eyes locked onto mine in the auditorium on the first day of class. I've loved you for every moment since, even when your smugness grated against me when you scored higher on an exam." I chuckle as the memories come rushing back. His eyes dance with laughter as he too remembers.

His voice cracks when he responds, "I love you too. Thank you. Thank you for everything you have done and continue to do." His thumbs run across my cheek with more delicacy than a man of his stature should be able to possess. "I vow to do everything in my power to be worthy of that love." His declaration shoots heat through me, so searingly hot that it makes my knees weak.

"You are worthy. You always have been." My breathy voice makes him groan and shift in his seat. I move my hands up and down his arms, finally resting them on his shoulders. Squeezing slightly, so he can fully understand the depth of my next words, I say, "Oh, and if you ever try to tell me which parts you deem worthy of my love, I will castrate you." The severity hits home, but rather than making him nervous as intended, he throws his head back, laughing.

I huff out a mock offended breath and playfully smack his arm. "I'm serious. None of that self-doubting bullsh*t," I exclaim. A smile splits his face as he shakes his head before placing a delicate kiss on my palm.

"Consider me thoroughly warned, beloved." The words are sincere despite the clear mirth in his voice. The heat radiating from his lips onto my palm makes a pool of warmth sit low in my stomach. I blink slowly as the living, burning flame shoots electricity through me. My body hums to life as the fire between us rekindles. His eyes flare with desire as he gazes upon my hooded lids.

"Beloved," he warns.

"I know," I breathily whisper.

His eyes grow dark with barely contained lust before his lips are on mine. The dam of desire is ripped open, and my knees grow weak as wave after wave of pleasure surges through me. His mouth against mine is hot and insistent. I’m blissfully trapped in his arms, the hard lines of his body pressing against mine.

He groans against my mouth, making the thrum of my own need for release grow exponentially. He pulls back momentarily to stand to his full height before he cradles the back of my head, bringing his lips down once more. With hands now gripping my waist, he holds me steady as my wobbling legs threaten to give out.

Sliding his hands up my body, he tunnels his fingers into my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss. My mouth parts, giving him the opportunity to slide his tongue expertly against my own. The teasing strokes have me curling my fist in his hair, pulling his chest closer to mine.

I kiss him back with everything I have, relishing in his taste of mint and everything we’ve been waiting for. I run my tongue along his bottom lip, causing him to groan against my mouth. He pulls away, our chests heaving in unison, before he mumbles "(Y/N)". I cut him off with another kiss, this one more ravenous and desperate than before.

Desire dances along my spine, sending bolts of electricity through my body. I need this. I need this more than the air itself. As if reading my thoughts, he claims every curve of my mouth with reckless abandon that makes my body sing. His need, just as deep as my own, is clear from every stroke of his tongue and every squeeze of his hands against my soft body.

He kisses me until every part of my mouth feels like it's been thoroughly discovered and explored. I can’t get enough. Pulling back, my erratic breathing matches his own, as I look at him. All the banked heat between us that we’ve never allowed ourselves to truly acknowledge is bared between us.

A woozy headiness fills my head, making my scalp prickle in anticipation. Nothing exists in this moment except us and our needs . The city outside has grown quiet, and the yellow-hued lamp softly glowing makes his eyes sharpen. His face has lost all its boyish charm, and in its place is a man. A man who I need.

"Damian," I whimper. No explanation is required as his hands wrap around my ass, lifting me in one smooth motion. I wrap my legs around his waist and curl my hands against his neck, bringing his mouth back where it belongs.

His hips grind into me, making me gasp against his mouth at the sumptuous friction. He breaks free from my lips and trails his kisses across my jaw down to the hollow of my neck. I surrender to the sensation, my body going pliant against his. His tongue flickers against my throat, making me melt further into his touch. Need snakes through me, viciously tearing through my body.

Mine.

Damian Wayne is mine.

"God," he says against my throat. He recaptures my lips, and I kiss him back with a hunger I’ve only felt for him. His hard evidence grinding against me makes every inch of my skin aflame. I suck in a sharp breath as his erection rubs a sensitive spot, making me arch my back into it. I squeeze my legs tighter around him, eliciting a primal growl against my mouth. He grips me tighter, rubbing against me more furiously.

My mind empties completely. The only sensations are physical ones as he ravishes me with his velvety petal lips. I want to drown in his delicious taste. As his hands tighten against my ass, my bones liquify. His uniform is an unwelcome boundary between us. I hungrily rove my hands around him, trying to find a zipper or something. I pull back, frustrated, and shoot him an exasperated look.

"How the f*ck do you get into this thing?" My voice is deep with husky lust. Chuckling, he places me on my feet and deftly begins removing the layers of the skin-tight fabric. I breathe heavily as I watch his fingers dance across invisible zippers. Before long, his bare chest greets me. Like a starving animal, I rush forward and rub my hands against his warm, taut skin.

His abs should be physically impossible to achieve, but here they are, at my disposal. A wicked idea pops into my mind. I sink to my knees before him, his eyes going wide as he watches each excruciatingly sensual movement.

I look up at him from under my eyelashes and run my tongue between the divots of his muscles. His warm skin deliciously sears into my tastebuds. His stomach quivers as I lick down his happy trail, only stopping due to the obstructive pants he’s still wearing.

“Habibti,” his gravelly voice calls out in uncertainty. "What are you doing?"

With more confidence than I thought I was capable of, I reply, "Returning the favor, darling." The sweetness dripping from my voice makes him throw his head back and groan.

With the enthusiasm of a starving man about to eat his first meal, he undresses down to his boxers. His eyes uncertain as his hands hover over the waistline. The heat of his bare skin radiates off him in delicious waves as I nod my head. His eyes darken with unrestrained desire as he drops his boxers, baring his full length.

I suck a sharp breath at the size of him before a wicked smile splits my face. I’ve never done this before, but I plan on worshiping him devoutly. I wrap my hands around his length and begin licking the tip slowly.

I have no plans to withhold today.

With my stacked hands, I begin twisting my hands and swirling my tongue around his head more feverishly. I savor the shiver that ripples through his body. I begin bobbing my head as I suck, taking him deeper. I lick my tongue around him, relishing in the way his sounds of pleasure make my own desire coil tighter.

I look up for a brief moment and see his jaw clench so tightly that a muscle begins to spasm. His eyes are closed as he digs his hands into my hair, firmly pressing his fingers into my scalp.

I suck harder, taking him deeper, hitting the back of my throat. I choke as my gag reflex kicks in, making my eyes water. Drool dribbles down from the sides of my mouth, dripping down my chin, but I don’t stop. Faster and more firm than before, I twist my hands around his hilt and flick my tongue around the head. His muscles are taut as his groans mingle with the sounds of my sloppy, wet blowj*b.

I draw in breathfuls of oxygen through my nose as my eyes continue to water. His hands begin guiding me at a faster rhythmic pace while I continue to ravish him with my erratic tongue. "Just like that, habibti," he roars deeply. The encouragement races through me like molten lava, making my core slick with desire.

I swirl my tongue faster, my bobbing more furious. "f*ck," he grounds out with a preternatural calm. The tendons in his neck strain more as his abs begin to spasm. His release comes swiftly as he pours himself down my throat. I lap up every drop before releasing him. His hands go slack at his side with each labored breath. He cracks his eyes open and immediately bends down to help me stand.

His bewildered eyes sparkle with satisfaction. "I’m sorry, beloved; I meant to give you a warning," he apologizes. I smirk, whipping the saliva off my face with the back of my hand. My chest rises and falls rapidly when I say, "I would have it no other way."

Desire once more darkens his gaze as his eyes fall to my lips. "Let me take care of you," he huskily whispers. I shake my head and place my palms on his warm, bare chest. "No. I told you I was repaying a favor and I meant it." His brows crease in confusion before he says, "But I want to." His voice resembled a child being refused candy for dinner. I laugh at his genuine tone but refuse once more.

He watches me as I go to my closet and pick out the largest T-shirt that I own. When I return, he once again dons his boxers. I lick my bottom lip at the delectable sight of his olive skin stretched over his chiseled muscles. He catches my stare and shoots me a devilish grin.

"Reconsidering, beloved?" His tone is husky and teasing, making my core ache in response.

"Perhaps," I say innocently, tilting my head. "But I’m too stubborn to change my mind now." He chuckles darkly, taking a step closer. "Is there anything I can do to make you change your mind?" His hands are on my waist once more, trying to squeeze reasoning into me. I bite my lip and look up at him. Shaking my head, I mumble, "Ughugh," not trusting myself with words.

"Okay, but if you do change your mind, you know where to find me," he says saucily before winking and taking the shirt out of my hands. I watch as the muscles in his back pull deliciously while he tugs it over his head.

"Stay over?" I ask. He turns back to me, now covered in my largest shirt, which adheres to him like a second skin. Good god, he’s huge. The fabric stretches across him tightly, molding to his obscene muscles. I didn’t think him in a shirt would have me squeezing my legs to abate the thrum, but it absolutely does.

"If you will have me," he says formally before coming to plant a quick kiss on my lips. I have to repress the groan that wants to slip past my lips. Instead, I nod, feeling my cheeks heat with the realization that I will be sharing a bed with him tonight. I turn my back to him and climb under the covers of my bed, still feeling the raging desire course through me.

He knowingly grins and picks up his discarded uniform before neatly folding it and placing it on my vanity. I place the file on my nightstand, and reach over to fold the covers back for him. He slides in next to me and watches me closely. I can feel the flush creep down my neck at his close proximity.

For f*ck's sake, I just had this man’s dick down my throat, and sharing a bed with him is what’s making me flush?

I huff out a laugh at my own absurdity and reach over to turn off the lamp. We’re encased in thick darkness before my eyes adjust. Squinting, I look over toward him before sliding down to rest my head against the pillow. He does the same, and I turn to face him. For a moment, we don’t move.

Deciding that it’s time to stop being a little bitch, I inch closer and rest my head in the crook of his shoulder. He releases a breath and wraps his arm around me, resting his hand on my hip. I inhale his intoxicating male scent and borrow further into him. His response is a rumbling chuckle that does nothing to cool the heat in my veins.

I plant a kiss on his peck and whisper, "Good night, my love," before a yawn seizes me. He runs his fingers through my hair and murmurs, "Sleep well, my dear; dream of me." I giggle in response but don’t say anything further. I fall asleep to his balanced, even breathing and his hand delicately brushing my strands.

Chapter 29: Embers of Laughter and Lingering Dread

Chapter Text

Damian’s POV:

The rueful guilt that enveloped Damian as he stealthily slipped away an hour before sunrise made his chest constrict uncomfortably. A pang of remorse, acrid and bitter, lingered on his tongue, tainting each breath he took as he moved through the dimly lit room. The tension in his muscles slowly eased when he delicately placed a bundle of exquisite orchids with a meticulously handwritten note on her nightstand, their delicate fragrance permeating the air, a subtle symphony of floral sweetness.

With one foot poised on the windowsill, he stole a fleeting glance back at her ethereal form, her countenance serene in slumber. He committed each minute detail of her visage to memory, her lips slightly parted and her resplendent tresses cascading and tousled upon the pillows.

A surge of warmth coursed through his core, a caress of tenderness that kindled a fire within. He yearned to revel in the silkiness of her hair beneath his fingertips, to trace the contours of her face with a touch so gentle. Alas, he knew he must resist the allure, for the risks were too great to indulge in such desires.

He seamlessly dissolved into the ethereal obscurity of the pre-dawn night, skillfully maneuvering his way back to the manor. The echoes of his footsteps upon the rooftop reverberated, a solitary testament to his fleeting presence. He strained his senses, attuned to any subtle signs of pursuit, the susurrus of leaves, or the distant murmur of voices. The resolute silence that enveloped him brought both solace and heightened awareness, each step a tacit testament to the gravity of his clandestine departure.

The first rays of sunlight brushed the sky with a palette of rosy hues and golden glimmers, and Damian could feel the gentle warmth of the early morning sun caress his skin as he ascended the majestic staircase of the manor. The redolence of polished wood and aged books permeated the air, intermingling with the faint aroma of a delectable breakfast emanating from the kitchen. These comforting scents enveloped him, imparting a sense of familiarity and stability amidst the tempestuous storm brewing within.

For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Damian truly felt invigorated and well-rested. The usual dawn awakening, heralded by a jarring alarm, was replaced by a natural emergence from slumber, a profound sense of refreshment and innate alertness. The soft, cool embrace of the bed linens against his skin and the gentle zephyr that danced through the open window delighted his senses, reminding him of the tranquil serenity he had reluctantly left behind.

He could acclimate himself to this new rhythm.

Still clad in his regimented uniform, he stealthily traversed the labyrinthine corridors of the manor, ensuring each footfall evaded the creaking floorboards. The velvety texture of the walls brushed against his fingertips as he deftly maneuvered through the passageways, while the hushed air within the hallway held a whisper of secrets, teasing his senses with its enigmatic allure.

Upon reaching his bedroom, he discarded his attire with swift efficiency, hastily preparing for the day ahead in civilian garb. The cascading torrents of warm water in the shower invigorated his senses, revitalizing his spirit. The redolence of his cherished soap lingered amidst the steam-filled atmosphere, a soothing embrace amidst the uncertainty that loomed over his path.

With remarkable alacrity, he donned his school uniform, the damp strands of his hair clinging to his forehead from the hurried shower. Silently, he entered the dining room, gracefully assuming his customary seat to the right of his father.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the room, intermingling with the tantalizing scent of freshly baked bread. The harmonious clinking of silverware against porcelain and the subdued hum of conversation orchestrated a symphony of sounds, grounding Damian in the present moment.

Grayson's absence created a void in the morning atmosphere, the familiar cadence of his footsteps and the comforting scent of his cologne conspicuously absent. However, Drake's presence was palpable, evidenced by the tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee, infused with an ungodly amount of espresso, wafting through the air. He eschewed a proper meal, opting instead for a gargantuan mug of caffeinated brew.

As Pennyworth placed the steaming plate in front of Damian, the enticing sight of vibrant red tomatoes, velvety feta cheese, and succulent shredded courgette tantalized his senses. The shakshuka emitted a symphony of sizzling spices, releasing fragrant wisps of herbs and seasonings that intertwined into a rich aroma. Unable to resist any longer, he licked his lips in eager anticipation, feeling a faint tingling of warmth against his tongue.

Todd, his mouth full, paused mid-bite, and Damian caught a glimpse of his quirked eyebrow, an arched question silently conveyed. "Worked up quite an appetite, did we?" His voice, laced with amusem*nt, ignited a surge of annoyance within Damian, amplified by the mischievous spark dancing in Todd's eyes.

Damian's piercing glare conveyed his disdain, but it only elicited a dark chuckle from his irreverent older brother. Shifting his gaze, he took note of their father's absorbed countenance, deeply engrossed in the world of newsprint. Drake, consumed by his tablet, contributed to the ambient soundscape with the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of his fingers against the screen.

Grumbling, Damian scowled at Todd, his expression fraught with intensity. His narrowed eyes bore into his brother's, wordlessly warning him to cease his banter. But as expected, Todd casually brushed off the unspoken threat, his smirk widening. "Oh, c'mon, don't think we didn't notice your late arrival," he quipped with a touch of levity. "Or should I say early," he playfully amended.

Drake, catching the exchange, spared them a fleeting glance before retreating behind his tablet, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Sensing the futility of further engagement, Damian rolled his eyes, choosing to disengage from their banter and redirect his attention back to the sumptuous feast before him.

The harmonious flavors danced tantalizingly on his palate, teasing his taste buds with every delectable bite. The rich, tangy tomato sauce mingled exquisitely with the creamy feta, while the succulent courgette added a smoky depth to the ensemble. Damian relished the interplay of textures, the tender morsels of courgette intermingling with the velvety sauce, creating a symphony of culinary delight that gratified his discerning palate.

Amid the hushed silence, punctuated only by the rustling of newspaper pages, his father's voice pierced through the stillness, demanding attention. "Invite (Y/N) to our Thanksgiving gathering next week, Damian," his father commanded, the words hanging in the air, heavy with significance. "And extend the invitation to Bran as well," he added, his voice carrying an undertone of purpose.

Damian's senses heightened, his frustration swelling within him, making it difficult to swallow his mouthful. Inhaling deeply, he absorbed the familiar scents of ink and newsprint, commingled with the distinct fragrance of his father's cologne, swirling around him like a tangible reminder of their complex relationship.

As Damian voiced his objections, his words dripped with a bitter edge, his dissatisfaction palpable. "Pray tell, father, what could possibly warrant subjecting ourselves to the company of such a loathsome man?" The tension in the room escalated, and his father's narrowed eyes bore into him, penetrating his defenses. Aware of the precarious balance, Damian recognized the imperative to tread carefully, to choose his words with utmost precision, lest he inadvertently expose the truth about Bran’s clandestine actions concerning her.

Setting the paper down on his lap, his father focused his unwavering attention on Damian, their eyes locked in an intense exchange. "It will be a good opportunity for us to glean more information about him," he reasoned, his voice carrying a tone of calculated intent. Drake simply nodded in agreement, his tacit approval underscoring their father's rationale. In stark contrast, Todd's voice sliced through the air, confident and calculating, when he stated, “Exactly. We can lift his prints, and I'm certain I can get a DNA sample off him."

Bruce's gaze sharpened at Todd’s vocalized idea, a flicker of intrigue gleaming in his eyes, yet he refrained from correcting or reprimanding him. Realization dawned on Damian, swiftly followed by a pang of guilt and inadequacy, a gnawing sense of having overlooked a crucial aspect.

He should have thought about that.

Clearing his throat, endeavoring to conceal his self-imposed disappointment, Damian responded, "Very well, father. I shall extend the invitation to both of them."

"Excellent. Ensure they understand the nature of this intimate, informal gathering," his father's smirk held a subtle truth, hinting at hidden intentions.

Grinning, Damian nodded in agreement, comprehending his father's underlying strategy. "Bran will undoubtedly feel honored by the prospect of an intimate gathering, thus lowering his guard," he echoed his father's intentions.

"Indeed," was the concise and measured reply his father offered.

Damian's attention shifted as Todd inhaled sharply, his reaction sparking an idea that ignited a mischievous gleam in his eyes. Glancing at his older brother, Damian couldn't help but be intrigued. "With all the free-flowing alcohol, I'm sure he'll become more loose-lipped as the night continues," he suggested with a devious edge.

Drake chose that moment to interject, contributing his own notion. "I'm sure he'd jump at the opportunity to drink some of our fifty-year-old single malt Macallan scotch" He directed an expectant gaze at their father, his eyes conveying a mix of anticipation and contemplation, while their father took a pensive pause.

"I usually reserve that for esteemed guests, but I suppose it would be advantageous for us to bring it out on this occasion," he mused with a slight frown. His brothers and he exchanged knowing smirks before they returned their focus to their meals.

A soft whine pierced the silence, capturing Damian's attention. Underneath the table, Titus nestled his head on Damian's knee, beseeching him with pleading eyes for a morsel of food, while his tail betrayed his anticipation with a wag.

Exhaling a sigh, Damian surreptitiously slipped him a small tidbit, unable to resist the entreaty of those large, expressive puppy dog eyes. Lifting his gaze, he caught his father shaking his head, a faint smile now tugging at the corners of his lips.

Breaking the silence, Todd voiced the plan. "So it's decided. Bruce will get him drunk while the rest of us lift his prints and collect some hair follicles." Squinting against the intrusive light, Damian tucked his head and agreed. His father agreed as well, albeit with more reservation and a nervous light entering his eyes. Drake simply nodded and downed his putrid, bitter coffee.

Once their meal concluded, they pushed their chairs back, their movements creating a faint scrape against the floor, a sound that resonated in the room. Titus, ever the devoted and dutiful companion, walked steadfastly beside Damian, his sturdy body occasionally bumping into his thigh, a tactile reminder of his loyal presence.

Damian affectionately ruffled the top of Titus's head, feeling the softness of his fur beneath his fingertips. The texture was velvety, comforting to the touch. They strolled outside, the crisp air enveloping them as they made their way to the waiting car. Alfred, already stationed by the open door, stood with an air of grace and readiness. Before Damian entered the vehicle, he crouched down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Titus's head, an act of tenderness, followed by a soothing rub behind his ears. In response, Titus reciprocated the affection with a warm lick against Damian's nose, his happy panting filling the air. Damian knew he could show this side of himself, this vulnerability and connection, in the presence of Pennyworth, who understood and accepted him without judgment.

Sliding into the plush back seat, Damian's mind teemed with a flurry of possibilities, the myriad outcomes of their forthcoming Thanksgiving feast swirling in his thoughts. The uncertainty weighed upon him, creating a whirlwind of emotions. How would he stomach being in the presence of her abuser? The prospect seemed daunting, but he resolved to draw upon his extensive training and inner strength to endure the ordeal.

With unwavering determination, he vowed to keep her under his watchful gaze throughout the event, ensuring she would be seated beside him during the meal. And he made a deliberate choice for Bran to sit across from him, affording him a clear line of sight to study the man closely. There was an unsettling aura surrounding Bran, a hidden facet that unsettled Damian to his core. He felt a chill crawl beneath his skin, an instinctive reaction that spurred his relentless pursuit of uncovering the truth.

Damian knew there had to be deeper motivations driving Bran's heinous actions, motivations that eluded their understanding. The puzzle pieces of her abuse and her parents' murder refused to fit together neatly. Something was awry, and they were determined to unearth the missing links, employing any means necessary. Between the ever-darkening shadows of her past, Damian couldn't shake the nagging intuition that connected the two, intertwining their fates in ways yet to be discovered.

But the question lingered: How did they intersect? It gnawed at him, a persistent ache in the recesses of his mind, urging him to explore the tangled web of secrets and truths that lay before them.

Later that day, he broached the subject with her in the hallway. Her gleeful acceptance of his invitation turned somber as he mentioned Bran. Her eyes darkened with apprehension, a flicker of doubt dancing in their depths. Damian despised evoking such a response, but he understood its necessity. They walked side by side, their steps in sync, and he noticed her biting her lip and playing with the straps of her bag - both nervous habits that betrayed her unease.

"So you're essentially going to get him drunk so you can interrogate him subtly?" Her concise yet astute summary of their plan struck a nerve within Damian, eliciting an internal flinch. He clenched his jaw before responding, his voice laced with controlled resolve.

"Correct. However, we shall handle it delicately, ensuring he remains oblivious to our intentions." Wrapping his arm around her waist, Damian drew her closer, the sensation of her warmth against his side enveloping him in a comforting embrace.

She melted into his touch, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of trust and concern. Her gaze held a warning as she tilted her head upward to look him directly in the eye. "Be careful," she cautioned, her voice laced with genuine worry. "He's a lot more observant than he lets on." Damian nodded, absorbing her words, appreciating her insight. He stored the information away, a valuable piece in their intricate puzzle, promising himself that he would remain vigilant and cautious.

By the time he dropped her off, Damian's mind was ablaze with various courses of action, each contingent upon the information she had provided. The evening would be a delicate affair, a tightrope walk between deceit and revelation. He knew he had a responsibility to inform his family, to prepare them for the challenges ahead. While he held little concern for Drake's or his father's behavior, both Todd and Grayson were the unknown variables, unpredictable forces that could sway the delicate balance.

Upon arriving home, Damian swiftly charted a course towards his father's sanctum, where his brothers and patriarch awaited. They convened in the hallowed halls of his father's office, a space suffused with authority and purpose. Grayson, the stalwart guardian, listened attentively, his countenance a reflection of unwavering respect.

Once they were all on the same page he relayed her concerns to his family, and their expressions grew grave, mirroring his own apprehension. With determination etched on their faces, they pledged to approach the situation with astuteness and deliberate action. When it came to her, they would spare no effort to protect and empower her, even as the true depths of Bran's cruelty remained hidden from them.

Damian harbored no illusions about what would happen should they uncover the full extent of Bran's malevolence. Rage would surge through their veins, demanding justice. Even his father, renowned for his composure, would be moved to take action. Yet, despite the throbbing need to shield her from the horrors that awaited, Damian would not falter in his commitment. He would honor his promise to her, no matter the cost, refusing to betray the fragile trust they had built. Their journey had been arduous, fraught with challenges, but their bond remained unbreakable.

As they prepared for the impending trial, the air itself seemed to carry a heightened sense of anticipation, a palpable energy charged with a mix of fear and determination. Within the confines of the office, Damian and his kin elucidated their intricate plans, laying bare their strategies and intentions.

They absorbed the information with a solemn demeanor, their presence a testament to their dedication. Damian’s stance bespoke an unyielding commitment, a readiness to execute their designs without hesitation. The room hummed with a sense of purpose, each word uttered infused with gravity and determination.

______________________________________________________________________________

Thanksgiving: Damian’s POV:

Despite their request for an informal event, they all donned tailored slacks, crisp button-down shirts, and tasteful ties. However, they had forgone the blazers, aiming for a relaxed yet refined ambiance. As they gathered in the foyer, a sense of anticipation filled the air, mingling with the aroma of delectable food that wafted through the house, teasing their appetites and eliciting audible grumbles from their stomachs. The tantalizing scent of roasted turkey mingled with the fragrance of freshly baked bread, creating an enticing symphony of flavors that permeated every corner of the manor.

From the corner of his eye, Damian observed Grayson nervously fidgeting, the subtle rustling of fabric grating on his nerves and exacerbating his own growing apprehension. Unable to contain his irritation, Damian seethed, "Will you quit that?"

His eldest brother shot him an irritated glare before considering his response. "What? She's forgiven you, but not us," he stated sharply, his voice tinged with a hint of bitterness. "I have no idea how she's going to regard us when she arrives." His latter statement emerged as an afterthought, laced with uncertainty.

Surprise surged through Damian as he realized he had forgotten about that minute detail, causing his heart to gallop in his chest. Inhaling a deep breath, he turned fully toward his brothers and father, fixing them with an intense gaze. "I'm certain an apology will go a long way in easing the distance between all of you," he suggested earnestly, his voice carrying a mix of hope and self-interest. He longed for her to cultivate a strong relationship with his family, envisioning a future where the prospect of living with them would be more palatable.

Dick released a tense breath, his expression relaxing. "Okay," he began, his voice softer. "I think we can manage that." He glanced at the others, hope evident in his eyes, and they all nodded in agreement. Dick donned his characteristic easygoing smile once more, the tension in the room easing slightly.

In the background, as they waited patiently, Alfred's footfalls against the polished wooden floors created a flurry of anxiety. Each purposeful and hurried step he took between the kitchen and dining room amplified the sense of anticipation. Though Damian couldn't see him, he knew Alfred wore a tight, focused expression as he attended to the last-minute details, ensuring that everything was perfect for their guest.

Outside, the wind howled against the imposing manor, its mournful cry seeping through the windows. The flickering sconce lights cast intermittent shadows that danced across the walls, imbuing the atmosphere with an ethereal quality. This would be their first major holiday spent together, and the significance was not lost on Damian. He yearned for everything to go smoothly, for her to truly relish this time with them, enveloped in an atmosphere of warmth and acceptance.

Various media outlets had been running stories, speculating and pondering how this gathering would unfold. Damian had refrained from paying them any mind, but secretly, he too was curious. The sudden sound of the door knocker banging rhythmically snapped him out of his thoughts, jolting him and his family into a heightened state of alertness. They exchanged meaningful glances, silently preparing for the upcoming event, taking a moment to straighten their attire, ensuring that every detail was impeccable.

His father stepped forward, his confident strides muffled by the plush Persian rug beneath his feet, followed by Damian and his brothers. Pennyworth, usually responsible for greeting guests, remained preoccupied with the hectic preparations, tending to the last-minute details with focused dedication.

With a prolonged, deep creaking, the massive oak door swings open reluctantly, revealing a glimpse of the world beyond. There, she stands beside the imposing figure of her guardian, an air of elegance enveloping her. Her ensemble is tastefully concealed beneath a tailored camel trench coat, while the rich, deep burgundy of her lips captivates his breath, evoking a sense of allure.

"Welcome," his father states cordially, his voice resonating with warmth. "Please, do come in." They gracefully step aside, allowing the guests to enter. As they do, a gust of wind sweeps through the entrance, causing her lustrous hair to sway in a wild, ethereal dance around her face. Bran, her guardian, places a hand on the small of her back, gently guiding her inside.

He follows closely behind. She bestows upon Damian a small, albeit tightly drawn smile. Bran extends his hand to Bruce, his manner exuding a blend of formality and genuine warmth. "Thank you for your generous offer to host, Mr. Wayne," he says, his words crisp and refined, yet tinged with an unusual hint of heartfelt appreciation. With Bruce’s charismatic charm dialed to the maximum, he graciously encourages them to proceed into the dining room.

Bruce and Bran take the lead, strolling leisurely through the foyer, while Bran's keen eyes eagerly drink in the opulent surroundings, his gaze alighting on remarkable pieces of art and tasteful decorations. The wonder in his voice is palpable, reflecting his genuine admiration for the decadence that envelops them.

They follow at a slight distance, allowing their voices to be carried away in hushed whispers. Turning toward her, he presses a gentle kiss against her cheek and murmurs, "Thank you for gracing us with your presence, Habibti. I am delighted to have you once again within the confines of my home." Her cheeks blush with a soft hue as a melodic chuckle escapes her lips. She playfully unbuttons her coat, teasingly remarking, "As if I would ever miss an opportunity to eat Alfred's delectable cooking." The mirth dances within her gleaming eyes, infusing the moment with a touch of lightheartedness.

Grayson's boisterous laughter reverberates through the room, an infectious sound that echoes with unbridled joy. "Now, that might be the most honest statement I have ever heard," he exclaims, taking a tentative step toward her, arms outstretched in an offering of reconciliation.

Damian observes the tender exchange, his gaze fixed upon her features as they soften, as she finds solace within Grayson's embrace. A sense of relief washes over him, like a balm to his once-tense muscles, as he witnesses the intimate moment. A fleeting tinge of jealousy flares within him, swiftly suppressed, as he redirects his focus toward their collective healing.

Grayson pulls away, tears brimming in his eyes, his voice quivering with sincerity. "(Y/N), I am so sorry," he confesses, his words carrying the weight of remorse.

"I know," she whispers delicately, her voice imbued with understanding. Her expression grows more serious, and she continues, "But never again, do you hear me?" Her poignant tone brooks no argument, eliciting nods and heartfelt agreements from his brothers. Content with their response, she radiates a bright smile, illuminating the room with her warmth, as she begins to shrug off her coat.

Moving swiftly, he steps behind her, gently taking the coat from her, earning a mischievous grin from over her shoulder. Underneath, she adorns a navy wrap dress, its silky fabric caressing her form, falling mid-thigh with capped sleeves and a neckline that offers a tantalizing glimpse. Her bare, smooth legs, like pillars of satin, invite his gaze, causing his mouth to water with desire. He indulges in a leisurely appraisal, his eyes grazing her with an appreciative hunger.

Todd clears his throat, a knowing grin playing upon his lips, as he extends his arm, inviting them to follow his lead. They move in unison, a silent procession, into the lavishly decorated dining room.

Clusters of resplendent fall flowers, such as Dahlias, Chrysanthemums, marigolds, Zinnias, and an array of other blossoms whose names elude immediate recognition, grace the elongated Edwardian dining table. Their petals release a captivating melange of aromas, suffusing the air with an intoxicating bouquet. The delicate embroidery of the crimson satin tablecloth cascades like a waterfall, draping down to the floor, a vivid tapestry of opulence and refinement.

Upon the table, crystal flutes and gold-rimmed chalices sparkle, catching the soft glow of the flickering candlelight. The corresponding fine china, meticulously arranged, awaits each course of the forthcoming feast. The abundance of gleaming cutlery, meticulously polished and strategically positioned, hints at the gastronomic journey to come, a culinary symphony of flavors, promising a tantalizing succession of delectable courses.

Tall candelabras, their radiant flames swaying gently, reach toward the heavens, casting an enchanting warm glow across the room. Their dance of light and shadow creates an ambiance of captivating allure, an interplay of illumination and secrecy.

Ever dutiful, Pennyworth stands beside him, his presence a comforting reassurance. He deftly takes the coat from his arms, tending to its proper place. Her eyes sweep over the meticulously adorned surroundings, tracing the contours of the table with a gentle touch. Every detail, from the flawless floral arrangements to the carefully chosen tableware, reflects Pennyworth’s unwavering commitment to perfection and hospitality.

The amalgamation of fragrant blooms, the soft caress of candlelight, and the sumptuous table setting awaken the senses, promising an evening of indulgence and delight. It sets the stage for a Thanksgiving gathering that will not only be a feast for the palate but a visual and olfactory symphony.

Her eyes squint at the intricately designed name cards on the table, adorned with gold, elongated cursive writing. She turns around, silently questioning the choice with a quirked brow. He responds with a smile and a nonchalant shrug. Meanwhile, Bruce captivates Bran's attention, and they huddle together, engrossed in conversation.

Leaning casually on the back of a chair, Todd inquires, "So, what do you think of our little shindig?" He tilts his head, puckering his lips expectantly, awaiting her response.

Her eyes fill with wonder as she breathlessly replies, "It's absolutely incredible." Her gaze wanders around the room once more, finally settling on Damian. "I am deeply honored to be here," she adds, her voice delicate and ethereal. The mere sound of it sends a surge of electricity coursing through Damian, a tingling sensation just beneath his skin.

"Eh, it's alright," Todd responds, oblivious to her lack of attention towards him. Her head snaps towards him, and a chuckle escapes her lips. Drake shakes his head, a rare smile gracing his typically stoic face.

Grayson abruptly leaves our company, hastening towards the kitchen, capturing everyone's attention. "Where's he going?" Drake voices the question on all our minds. Before we can offer an answer, Grayson returns, albeit at a slower pace, carefully balancing five flutes of champagne filled to the brim. Each step he takes is deliberate and measured, his gaze fixed on the delicate glassware. His tongue sticks out slightly as he furrows his brow, concentrating intensely, but a misstep causes a small dribble to slide down the side of one of the flutes.

Finally reaching them, Grayson beams with pride, as if his accomplishment of successfully carrying the flutes deserves applause. We each take one with great care, and Todd lifts his glass, making a toast. "To family," he exclaims enthusiastically before taking a large gulp. Following suit, she coughs lightly as the effervescence of the champagne tickles the back of her throat.

His father's voice grows clearer as he and Bran approach us, both holding tumblers filled with amber liquid. His father positions himself at one end of the table and declares, "Please take your seats, it's time to feast." The guests rearrange themselves, scanning the name cards to find their designated spots. She gracefully settles into the seat to the right of his father, while he takes the seat on her left. Across from her sits Todd, while Bran, wearing a barely perceptible frown, occupies the seat opposite Damian. Drake and Grayson sit facing each other on their other side.

Once seated, Pennyworth emerges with the first course, a steaming lobster bisque soup. However, he replaced the lobster with oyster mushrooms The delicate clinking of spoons against fine china resonates throughout the room as we begin to savor the flavorful dish. The conversation flows freely and amiably, creating an atmosphere of warmth and camaraderie. Every question directed at her guardian by his father receives meticulously crafted and courteous responses. However, these answers provide no genuine insight into his character, fueling a growing frustration within Damian.

As the successive courses are served, the mounting frustration threatens to burst his seams. This frustration is only exacerbated by the way Bran subtly shoots her disapproving glances whenever someone directs a question towards her.

"Mr. Toremin, tell me a little about the work you do in the Baltic region?" Grayson inquires, his gaze shifting to rest upon the esteemed guest. Adjusting his demeanor with a pat on his mouth, Mr. Toremin proceeds to deliver a rather vague outline of his supposed "philanthropic" endeavors, emphasizing the arduous bureaucratic tasks involved in collaborating with local governments to amend laws and establish peace treaties. As he drones on about embargo proposals, the rest of the group valiantly feigns interest, their attention barely clinging to his words.

"Where have you traveled to most recently?" Drake interjects, a genuine curiosity infusing his voice. Drake listens attentively as Bran responds, his own curiosity piqued, "I recently embarked on a journey to Crimea, where I engaged in profound discussions with local officials, endeavoring to negotiate comprehensive war relief efforts." Bran's voice resonates with unmistakable pride, subtly tinged with an air of smugness. "I would be delighted to divulge further details, but alas, for reasons of national security, I find myself regrettably restrained. I trust you comprehend the gravity of the situation."

"Of course. It must have taken quite a while to come to agreeable terms," Drake swiftly interjects, his response delivered with admirable fluidity. Bran indulges in a sip of his whiskey, placing the now empty tumbler delicately upon the table. Pennyworth approaches with graceful poise, ready to clear the plates and guide the party to the adjoining parlor for the upcoming dessert. "Not at all, actually," Bran responds with nonchalant ease. "In point of fact, I departed on a Thursday evening and returned the following Tuesday. Remarkably, the counterparts involved were remarkably receptive to our generous terms." Damian and his father exchange a knowing glance, silently acknowledging their shared understanding.

Later that night, they will delve deeper into the intricate details of Bran's trip. "That’s fantastic that they were so amiable," Grayson exclaims with joviality. Bran nods in agreement, a gesture reciprocated by Bruce as he pours another generous portion of scotch for his esteemed guest.

Throughout the course of their conversations, Damian discreetly steals glances at her, his eyes capturing her composed posture and the subtle lack of engagement in their discussions. She has transformed into an embodiment of refined elegance, embodying the image of a dutiful high-society woman. The tightness around Damian's mouth grows, as her restrained demeanor grates against his sensibilities. This subdued version of her, devoid of her usual vibrant and passionate spirit, evokes a growing discontent within him.

He fell in love with a woman of radiant strength and fiery spirit. Yet, the person seated beside him feels like a caged bird, its wings clipped and its essence dampened. Frustration surges through him, and he clenches his hands into tight fists beneath the table, struggling to contain his mounting anger.

Pennyworth's return breaks the reverie, pulling Damian back into the present. "If you would be so inclined, the adjoining room boasts a splendid array of sweet delights, including delectable pies, exquisite cakes, and an abundance of macarons," he announces with a refined British accent, executing a graceful bow at the waist before opening the double doors.

Rising in unison, the chairs scrape against the floor, creating a harmonious yet fleeting symphony. They venture into the next room, where several tables adorned with tasteful decorations showcase an impressive selection of enticing desserts. She stands by Damian's side, gently taking his hand as her eyes widen in awe, her jaw dropping in disbelief at the sight before her. Her gaze briefly meets his, and a spark of excitement passes between them. With a chuckle, he affirms her amazement, nodding affirmatively, "Yes, my dear, it's all real."

Rubbing her hands together in gleeful anticipation, a mischievous smile dances across her face. "Oooh I’m gonna f*ck this up," she whispers to herself, the excitement evident in her voice. Laughing, Damian places his hand on her waist, guiding her into the room like a partner in an enchanting waltz.

As she eagerly peruses each table, her eyes sparkle with delight, savoring the visual feast laid out before her. Meanwhile, Damian gracefully retrieves another champagne flute for her, ensuring her glass remains filled. In passing, he whispers to Todd, a sense of determination in his voice, "It's now or never." Todd simply nods, refilling Bran’s tumbler with a practiced ease.

Upon his return, a captivating sight unfolds before him. Her plate is a cornucopia of culinary delights, brimming with an assortment of delectable pies, luscious macarons, and delicate tarts. The fragrant aromas wafting from her feast dance through the air, teasing the senses and igniting a hunger within him. With each bite she takes, a symphony of flavors unfolds, prompting her to close her eyes in sheer bliss, her indulgence accompanied by moans of gastronomic ecstasy, particularly when the pecan pie graces her palate.

Approaching her with purpose, he stands before her, an offering in his hands. Yet, to his surprise, her reaction is one of pouting disappointment. A quizzical tilt of his head accompanies his inquiry, "What's wrong, habibti?"

After savoring her mouthful, she manages to express her concern with a muted voice, "How am I supposed to eat without a free hand?" The weight of her dejection strikes him with a potent mix of adoration and pride. In that moment, he realizes that he has never encountered a more authentically adorable countenance. Little does she know, she already holds him captive in the delicate curve of her hand, rendering him naught but a humble puddle at her dainty feet.

The hushed voices emanating from behind fail to divert his attention from the intriguing idea that has just taken root in his mind. With a tender touch, he retrieves her plate and cutlery, his gaze locked onto her enchanting eyes. Instructing her to take a sip and part her lips, he becomes the conductor of a culinary symphony, breaking off a petite morsel of a raspberry vanilla tart and delicately offering it to her waiting mouth.

As she swiftly chews and savors the delectable flavors, her face becomes a canvas of expressions, her eyes widening with delight, her lips curling into a smile, and occasionally, an uninhibited moan escapes her, as if she is attuned to the pleasures of each morsel, reveling in a dance of gustatory bliss.

"Careful, my dear," he cautions, his voice carrying a gentle tone of concern, "indulging too much might lead to a regrettable stomach ache." Although his words are tinged with caution, they fall upon deaf ears, for she dismisses his warning with a flick of her wrist and a roll of her eyes. "Oh, please," she retorts, feigning offense, her voice infused with a mock sense of indignation, "I’m not a weakling." The scuff in her voice indicates a fictitious of offense. “Give me another bite,” she demands seriously.

How could he deny her when she adorns herself with such captivating charm? Yielding to her enchantment, he acquiesces, his head shaking in both surrender and adoration. He continues to feed her, his smile growing wider with each passing moment.

Meanwhile, from somewhere behind him, a voice interjects, "Oh, Mr. Toremin, I’m so sorry." They divert their attention to the commotion, witnessing Todd's frantic efforts to wipe away a champagne stain from his dress shirt. “I am such a clutz, I’m so sorry.”

Observing the scene, his gaze fixates upon his elder brother, who subtly yet diligently removes strands of Bran's hair from his lapel while continuing his fervent patting. Bran, in his inebriated state, dismisses the mishap with an infectious chuckle. "There's no need for apologies, young man. It's just a little champagne." Despite the slight slowness in his speech, his words retain their eloquence, each syllable enunciated with deliberate care.

Todd releases a nervous chuckle and takes a step back, extending the napkin for him to dab up the remaining spill. However, clenched tightly in one of his fists are several wisps of hair, giving the impression of a mischievous prank. He glances over at them, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips, to which Damian responds with a dimpled nod of recognition.

His father approaches and offers one of his own dress shirts as a replacement, a gesture of hospitality that Bran graciously declines with a polite shake of his head. Meanwhile, Todd, Grayson, and Drake maneuver their way to the group, their presence accompanied by a sense of camaraderie and mischief.

With a playful wiggle of his eyebrows, Todd poses a question, "Eh? How about that? Smooth, right?" Grayson snickers in response, acknowledging the cleverness of the act, albeit with a hint of criticism. "A little heavy-handed, but I suppose it got the job done," he remarks, his voice tinged with amusem*nt. Drake, engrossed in the sight of a delectable cake before him, remains focused on his indulgence, seemingly unaffected by Todd's inquiry.

His eldest brother slings his arm around Todd's shoulder, a wide grin spreading across his face, and gives him a gentle shake. Todd playfully swats his hand away, causing a ripple of laughter, but lets out a belch that resonates through the room, drawing a few raised eyebrows and amused glances. "Sorry," he whispers apologetically, his words a muffled admission.

In the midst of the light-hearted banter, Bran notices her covering her mouth politely as she bursts into laughter. Unable to contain his delight, he watches the rosy hue of her cheeks and the graceful movements of her muscles as she struggles to regain composure. "Kudos to you, Jason. That was a stroke of brilliance," she manages to utter between fits of giggles, her eyes sparkling with amusem*nt.

Pointing finger guns at her in a playful gesture, he playfully responds, "And that's precisely why you're my favorite." He guides her gently with his arm around her shoulder, leading her towards another dessert table. With Drake and Grayson still present, he takes a moment to scan the room, a sense of relief washing over him as he spots Bruce and his father engaged in conversation at the opposite end.

Speaking in hushed tones, he addresses his remaining brothers, "We need to retrieve the tumbler from his hand without leaving our own fingerprints on the glass." The others nod solemnly, their expressions conveying determination and agreement. Drake's eyebrows shoot up, and he points discreetly behind him. "I believe Alfred has that under control." Following Drake's gaze, he observes the old man gently relieving his father of the glass, his hands adorned with white gloves, promising a refill before discreetly departing the room.

"Huh," Grayson begins, his steps slightly unsteady from the effects of alcohol. "Looks like our mission is accomplished," he exclaims, his voice brimming with excitement. Before anyone can intervene, he saunters away, his intent clear in his search for another glass of libation. Sighing heavily, he is left with Drake, who continues to shovel dessert into his mouth as if it were his last meal on Earth. He casts Drake an inquisitive glance, silently questioning his voracious appetite. In response, Drake shrugs his shoulders and mutters with a mouthful of food, "What? I never get sweets outside of holidays."

Shrugging off the curiosity, he leaves him to relish in his culinary delight as he makes his way across the room to find her and Todd engaged in a fit of laughter. "So then, I popped a pizza in the oven and went to play Super Smash Bros with Alina and Izzy, but I lost track of time," she recounts, her voice filled with animated excitement. "It wasn't until her mom came home and said, 'I think something's burning,' that we all rushed to the kitchen. And guess what? I pulled out, and I'm not kidding, a triangular piece of ash." She tries to continue the story, but a fit of giggles interrupts her, causing Todd to join in the infectious laughter. After a few gulps of breath, she manages to compose herself and adds, "It was literally just ash in the shape of a triangle. I told them to refer to me as 'Chef Boyardee,' and they actually did for like two weeks! It was so ridiculous that I even tried to eat it, but it poofed into dust. I mean, nothing about it was edible!" As she concludes her tale, both she and Todd double over, their laughter echoing through the room.

The sound of their shared amusem*nt fills the air, drawing the attention of those around them. Her laughter is infectious, her cheeks adorned with a rosy hue, and her muscles delicately flouncing as she struggles to regain her steady breathing. Todd, also caught up in the merriment, slaps his knee with his mouth agape, shaking uncontrollably with silent laughter.

Finally noticing his presence, she extends her empty flute, her eyes brimming with playfulness, and bats her eyelashes in a wordless plea for a refill. He sighs, a fond chuckle escaping his lips, as he accepts the glass and heads towards the kitchen. As he passes Pennyworth, his gaze catches a glimpse of Bran's tumbler, now carefully sealed in an evidence bag on the counter. A smile of satisfaction graces his face. Returning to her side, he joins the circle formed by his brothers, who have gathered around her, exchanging animated stories and reveling in the joyous atmosphere.

The remainder of the night unfolds with an upward trajectory, as the drinks flow freely and their spirits soar. Damian, ever possessive, keeps a firm hand on her waist, while she leans against him, surrendering to the weight of her own contentment. At intervals, he graces the crown of her head with tender kisses, evoking playful attempts at tickling from her nimble fingers.

With each failed endeavor, her exasperation mounts, yet her determination remains unyielding. " will get you one of these days," she declares with fervor, wiggling her pointer finger in his direction. In a husky whisper, he responds, "Oh, I’m counting on it.” A deep crimson blush spreads across her neck and blooms upon her cheeks, as their intimate exchange unfolds. Lost in their shared reverie, they become aware of Grayson's mock gagging face and his exaggerated exclamation of "Ooowwehhh." The guttural sound sparks renewed laughter from her, prompting a playful swat on Damian's chest.

Undeterred by his brother's antics, Damian remains fixated on her, captivated by the infectious smile adorning her face and the sparkle dancing in her vibrant (E/C) eyes. Pride swells within him as she effortlessly integrates into his family, infusing their dynamics with a newfound richness. A primal surge of male satisfaction courses through his veins, urging him to spirit her away to a secluded haven. However, he restrains himself, cognizant of the constraints that bind him at this moment. An internal groan reverberates within him as she continues to playfully touch him, each interaction further deepening his desire.

Engrossed in her presence, he savors the sight of her blossoming comfort within their familial circle. Their conversation flows effortlessly, with Damian offering his voice sparingly, reserving his attention for the mesmerizing spectacle of her radiant aura. Alas, the passage of time proves too swift, and his father and Bran approach, signaling the need for their departure.

Bran declares, "It's time for us to depart. We don't want to overstay our welcome," marking a turning point in the evening. A noticeable shift overcomes her, transforming her once-beaming smile into an impassive mask, her movements becoming rigid and stilted. The joy that once graced her countenance dissolves, leaving behind a facade of detachment.

A furious rage surges within Damian, threatening to topple him to his knees. Inhaling sharply through his nose, he clamps his mouth shut, suppressing the vile insults that threaten to spill forth directed at her guardian. He cannot bear witnessing her transformation in the presence of the man who extinguishes her radiant light.

How dare he snuff out her brilliance?

As the others sober, they observe Bran with caution, witnessing his exchange of pleasantries with Bruce, his words slightly slurred, his eyes glazed, and his cheeks flushed in contrast to her ethereal radiance. Sensing her need for assistance, Alfred Pennyworth steps in, lending a helping hand as she slips back into her trench coat.

While Bran circulates, expressing gratitude and bidding farewell, she wrestles with the buttons, tilting her chin downward in an attempt to align them with their corresponding slits. Recognizing her struggle, Damian positions himself in front of her, creating a barrier that shields her from Bran's gaze, and deftly aids her in buttoning up.

A warm smile graces her face as he secures the topmost button near her throat. Her eyes reflect a reserved joy as she rises on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you for tonight," she whispers tenderly, gazing up at him with an intensity that disregards the opinions of others. Without hesitation, he cups her face in his hands, his touch conveying a depth of affection that knows no bounds.

For a fleeting moment, they share a soft, lingering kiss upon her lips, his hands trailing down her arm before reluctantly retreating. "Of course," he murmurs, his voice filled with sincerity. "There is nothing to thank me for, beloved. Your presence has become not merely a desire, but a necessity."

Her face radiates with joy at his words, and she squeezes his hand tightly before moving on to embrace his brothers and father. Each heartfelt farewell is accompanied by a reaffirmation of his sentiments, their words echoing his own. Bran, though visibly disapproving and too intoxicated to conceal it, patiently awaits her with his scowl failing to be concealed in time. A quick glance passes between Damian and his father, a silent acknowledgment of their shared understanding.

Stepping alongside Bran, she allows his hand to settle on the small of her back, guiding her with gentle pressure as the rest of them trail behind. Their footsteps weave a tapestry of hushed whispers against the backdrop of Alfred Pennyworth opening the giant, groaning door. As they step out into the night, the cold wind rushes forth, commanding the landscape to sway in surrender to its forceful embrace. Wisps of hair dance in the gusts, framing her face as she turns to offer a final farewell, a mischievous wink twinkling in her eye.

Remaining rooted in the doorway, Damian watches intently, his gaze unwavering as she climbs into the back of the car, her figure receding into the distance with each passing second. His body remains immobile, gripped by an indescribable sense of foreboding. The tightening coil of dread within his stomach intensifies, refusing to release its grip. Somehow, an unshakable certainty settles within him, whispering of impending misfortune.

As the others retreat back into the house, he stands there, a lone sentinel framed by the threshold, his eyes fixated on the spot where their car disappeared into the night. He remains motionless until the settled dust, kicked up by their tires, returns to stillness. Yet, with every inch that separates them, the dread that courses through him grows more profound. A sinking feeling gnaws at his core, as if an invisible specter warns him of the imminent arrival of something dreadful.

Chapter 30: A Sinister Dance in The Shadows

Chapter Text

Bran Toremin POV: Friday - the day after Thanksgiving

Each tentative step he takes down the narrow alley sends shivers down his spine, as if invisible tendrils of malevolence slither along his skin. The putrid stench that hangs heavy in the air seems to seep into his pores, filling his nostrils with a sickening combination of decay and despair. The walls of the alley, smeared with grime and graffiti, appear to close in on him, suffocating him with their oppressive presence.

Holding his breath, he hastens his pace, his heart pounding in his chest like a trapped animal. The feeble light filtering through the cracks overhead casts eerie shadows that dance and twist along the walls, mocking his every movement. The sound of his own footsteps echoes ominously, as if the very ground beneath him holds a sinister secret.

Finally, he spots a small wooden door concealed behind a discarded mattress, a breeding ground for filth and disease. It seems to leer at him, a grotesque monument to the depravity of this place. With gloved hands, he shoves the offensive material aside, revealing the door's weathered surface, etched with years of neglect and maleficence.

As he opens the door, its rusty hinges emit a spine-chilling creak, as if protesting against the intrusion into this forbidden realm. The dimly lit corridor beyond stretches out like a yawning abyss, swallowing the feeble light that struggles to penetrate its depths. The air hangs heavy with an almost tangible sense of foreboding, as if the very atmosphere conspires to crush his spirit.

With each step he takes, the claustrophobic passage seems to constrict around him, the walls closing in like a vise. The uneven cobblestone beneath his shoes feels like a treacherous path, ready to betray him at any moment. He navigates the labyrinthine maze, his heart pounding in his ears, the sound reverberating through the desolate corridor.

The air grows even more stale and oppressive, laden with the sickening stench of decay. Dust particles dance in the faint light, creating a spectral ballet of forgotten souls. The narrowness of the hallway becomes suffocating, his shoulders brushing against the rough brick, as if the very architecture is intent on obstructing his progress.

Left, right, right, left—a monotonous litany of directions echoes in his mind as he follows the intricate pattern he has committed to memory. A staircase looms before him, its steps worn and treacherous. The metal locker he passes holds a silent promise of concealed horrors, its presence a foreboding reminder of the forces at play.

Through a secret door, he goes, a portal into the depths of darkness. The spiral staircase that awaits him descends into a seemingly endless abyss, its steps creaking under his weight as if protesting his intrusion. Each downward turn sends him deeper, the walls closing in with every step.

Finally, at the bottom, he emerges into a vast and ornate domed room, where opulent red velvet tapestries hang like macabre curtains. The grimy cobblestone transforms into deeply veined marble as he crosses the room, heading towards an ornate, gold-leafed door. The handles, elongated and resembling feathers, are longer than his forearm.

He waits patiently, knowing that the doors will not open until the others are ready. Each passing minute feels like an eternity, his frustration mounting and setting his cool skin ablaze with an inner fire. Finally, a loud click shatters the oppressive silence, announcing their willingness to be breached. The doors swing open, revealing yet another domed room, as if a secret within a secret is about to be unveiled.

This second room, however, surpasses the previous one in grandeur and foreboding. It stretches far beyond the limits of his vision, rising to a pinnacle where a skylight casts an ominous glow upon the contents beneath. The ethereal light dances upon the surfaces, casting long, eerie shadows that seem to writhe and twist, whispering secrets of their own.

Swallowing a lump in his dry throat, he summons the remnants of his resolve and pushes his shoulders back, projecting an image of confidence. With each step, the air grows heavier, charged with an indefinable energy. The room seems to expand and contract, as if it possesses a will of its own.

His poised strides carry him further into the heart of this macabre chamber. The domed ceiling, adorned with intricate patterns and ancient symbols, looms overhead like a celestial canopy, simultaneously majestic and foreboding. Every detail he observes, from the tapestries that drape the walls to the cold, polished marble beneath his feet, exudes an aura of darkness.

As he reaches the center of the room, a deep sense of unease settles upon him. He is not alone. Lining the curved walls, stacked benches are filled with identical figures, each one donning the same black cloak and golden avian mask. They sit motionless, their presence an unsettling tableau of conformity and hidden identity.

A realization dawns upon him.

This gathering is the full assembly of the Court of Owls.

The weight of their collective presence bears down on him, their unblinking gaze fixed upon his every move, as if they possess the power to strip away his very soul. Amidst the unnaturally oppressive silence, his breath becomes shallow and his heart pounds with trepidation.

The leader, standing at a raised dais, commands attention with a regal air. Their cloak, adorned with golden threads, shimmers in the dim light, symbolizing their elevated status among the Court.

In this vast chamber, the silence seems to vibrate with unspoken secrets and hidden agendas. Every detail, from the solemn faces of the Court to the daunting height of the room itself, serves as a constant reminder of the power and peril that permeate this clandestine gathering.

His jaw tightens, and he stands resolute, though a sliver of doubt creeps into his mind. The weight of the Court's expectations bears down upon him, their leader's gaze piercing through the mask he wears. He knows the consequences of speaking first, a lesson learned from a previous encounter that left him scarred, both physically and mentally.

In this chilling room of dark grandeur, he stands as a solitary figure, perched upon the precipice of destiny. The fate of his next words hangs in the balance, teetering between salvation and annihilation.

The skylight above, once an ominous source of illumination, now appears as a gateway to an unfathomable abyss, a menacing eye peering into their gathering.

"Bran Toremin," the voice resonates with an unnaturally deep timber, slicing through the air and penetrating the depths of his being. "You have been summoned here today for your final initiation task." The crisp clarity of their voice is almost unbelievable, considering the complete mask that obscures their face.

His muscles stiffen, a storm of fury brewing within him. Final initiation? Has he not already proven himself through countless trials? Yet, he restrains his thoughts, understanding the weight of silence in this chamber. He awaits instructions, knowing that the criteria for becoming a full-fledged member of the Court are arduous and nearly impossible. The sheer number of individuals gathered here today makes him question the true extent of their rigor or the abundance of those in Gotham who meet their standards.

The audience, a sea of silent figures, remains motionless as their leader continues to speak. "You have recently forged a connection with our greatest oppressor, Bruce Wayne," they declare, as if that statement alone clarifies everything. He chokes down a scoff, suppressing the rising tide of emotions within him, and remains silent.

"Through your ward, you have gained access that none of us have," the leader states, their voice dripping with enigmatic implications. "As a result, we have one last task for you to perform." The sentence hangs in the air, pregnant with unspoken details.

"Yes, grandmaster. Name your request," he replies with calculated ambivalence, masking the seething fury that coils within him. His words are laced with an undercurrent of defiance, a subtle challenge to the authority that binds him.

"You must dismantle the Wayne's legacy," the grandmaster commands, their words echoing through the vast expanse of the room. Yet, no further instructions follow, leaving him suspended in a state of uncertainty. His body tenses, becoming as immobile as the statuesque figures that surround him, while his mind races, weaving intricate webs of strategizing and calculating.

"How shall I accomplish this task, Grandmaster?" he dares to question, his voice laced with a frosty edge that betrays his burning resentment. "Have I not already done everything you've asked of me over the past ten years?" The accusation lingers in the air, an icy shard of defiance aimed squarely at the heart of the Court's expectations, teetering his fate on a razor's edge.

"You have," they assert, their voice a deep, cavernous resonance that reverberates through the chamber, sending shivers down his spine.

"Then why, pray tell, do I continue to labor under your commands without so much as a hint of recognition from your esteemed ranks?" His voice quivers with a potent mixture of frustration and seething discontent, his words dripping with a venomous co*cktail of bitterness and defiance.

"You dare question us?" Their head tilts sharply, their gaze piercing through the darkness, a haunting reflection of their namesake.

He swallows the bitter bile rising in his throat, bowing his head in a veneer of deference. "I do not intend to question your supreme judgment. I merely find myself curious as to why my previous endeavors are deemed inadequate." The words flow from his lips like venomous honey, each syllable laced with simmering resentment. The weight of his unacknowledged efforts hangs in the air, an oppressive fog that stifles his very being.

Their watchful eyes continue to bore into him, an unyielding appraisal of his worth. The silence stretches on, a taunting symphony of unspoken verdicts and unfulfilled promises.

"We demand more," they intone, their voice a chilling proclamation that sends a surge of icy rage coursing through his veins. His fists clench, knuckles turning white, as he battles to keep his mounting anger in check. The grandmaster's words fan the flames of his discontent, threatening to consume him whole.

"I have dispatched your greatest adversaries a decade ago, and now you ask me to do so once more?" His voice crackles with an electric fury, a tempest of indignation and betrayal swirling within his chest. The room itself seems to tremble at the edge of his wrath.

His gaze darts to the masked figures whispering amongst themselves, their disapproving murmurs adding fuel to the inferno of his defiance. Ignoring the palpable tension, he forges ahead, refusing to be silenced. "I have not only orchestrated the elimination of two foes, but I have also harnessed your resources to gravely wound the Robin—"

"Gravely wounded, not disposed of as we explicitly requested," their voice booms, a thunderclap that shatters his momentary surge of confidence. The weight of his failure bears down upon him, a crushing burden that threatens to break his spirit.

A jolt of raw fury courses through his veins, his muscles tense and coiled like a predator ready to strike. "To successfully execute an attack on Batman's protégé, inflicting grave injury upon him, is no small feat. It is an accomplishment unparalleled, an act that has eluded even the most cunning minds. And now you demand that I dismantle the Wayne legacy? If you would grant me the focus I deserve, I could refine our approach and rid ourselves of the Robin as originally intended. I fail to comprehend—"

"SILENCE!" The grandmaster's voice thunders, a tsunami of sound that crashes against the walls, shattering the fragile illusion of control. Echoes reverberate through the hall, carrying his reprimand to every corner, leaving silence in their wake.

"You do not question us," their voice ripples with seething anger, the very essence of their authority laced with a tinge of vulnerability. He watches, his chin still dipped in feigned submission, as their heavy breaths betray the cracks in their omnipotent facade.

"My sincerest apologies, Grandmaster," he intones, his words dripping with a mock humility that barely veils the storm brewing within. Gazing down at his leather-clad hands, he clasps them tightly behind his back, fingers trembling with restrained fury.

His blood runs frigid in his veins as silence engulfs him, an oppressive cloak that suffocates his senses. Every nerve screams in anticipation, bracing for a sentence far more sinister than death itself.

"Your arrogant tone shall not be tolerated within these hallowed halls. However, we cannot deny the value of your connections. This once, we shall overlook your impudence and grant you the gift of life. But mark my words, this leniency shall not be repeated," their voice, now shrouded in a veil of monotony, delivers the final verdict.

"Very well," he concedes through gritted teeth, his words laced with a bitter acceptance. "It shall not happen again." The submission drips from his tongue like venom, his voice echoing with an eerie calm that belies the storm raging within his soul.

"As expected," the grandmaster responds, their voice an echo of solemnity. "Now, this final task demands precision, strategy, and unfettered access to our most coveted resources." The words slither through the air, a serpentine whisper that sets his nerves ablaze with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation.

"We are acutely aware that the Waynes remain untouchable, impervious to corruption. Yet, your ward possesses a vulnerability, a key that can unlock the path to their downfall. Through whatever means necessary, you shall employ her as the instrument of their destruction."

A tremor courses through his body, a chilling resonance that matches the frigid depths of his heart. For the first time in his wretched existence, Bran finds himself rendered speechless, his mind a swirling tempest of conflicted emotions and darkening shadows.

An icy grip clenches around his lungs, constricting his breath as the full weight of their request settles upon his weary bones. He raises his gaze, searching the inscrutable depths of the grandmaster's mask, hoping to find some trace of leniency. Yet, the impassive facade offers no solace, no reprieve from the dark path that lies ahead.

His mind spins, consumed by thoughts of her—his ward—whom he simultaneously detests and longs to possess. The tendrils of self-loathing and guilt intertwine, twisting around his conscience, poisoning his every thought. His hands tremble, fingers curling into fists as he battles the storm of emotions that rages within.

Yet, the truth remains. The Court's request has been laid bare before him, a proposition that threatens to consume his very soul. The atrocities he has inflicted upon her are already too grievous to be redeemed, and now he is thrust into a realm of even greater malevolence.

He willingly surrenders to the frigid grip of numbness, allowing its icy tendrils to smother every nerve ending, extinguishing any flicker of emotion within. The yawning void within his soul resonates with a detached, bone-chilling emptiness as the dormant beast within stirs.

With an unsettlingly composed and detached demeanor, he utters, "Consider it accomplished." The words, lacking warmth or humanity, glide off his tongue like shards of glacial ice. His consciousness recedes, retreating into the murky recesses of his mind, relinquishing control to the alien presence that thrives in this abyss.

"Very well, you are dismissed," their voice carries a faint undercurrent of approval, relishing in the perverse satisfaction of his corruption. The command seeps into his mind, and mechanically, his feet carry him away from the opulent chamber. Each step feels mechanical, devoid of natural grace, as if he were naught but a marionette tugged by invisible strings woven from the shadows.

The deeper he descends into the chasms of his own psyche, the more his body succumbs to a numbing detachment. It is as if he floats on the ethereal plane, shielded from the torments of sensation.

Exiting through the small door that leads to the desolate alleyway, the biting cold of the air should prick at his skin, yet it fails to register. Instead, there remains a muted cognizance, as if observing his own actions through a veil of impenetrable glass. They are his actions, and yet they do not resonate within the recesses of his being.

Sliding into the plush backseat of his vehicle, he remains impervious to the warm currents of air caressing his face and the supple leather cradling his form. There is no flicker of sensation within his chest, his body transformed into a hollow vessel, devoid of the pulsations of life.

Within the depths of his being lies a desolate wasteland, an empty chasm guarding a decaying core. He has journeyed too far along this treacherous path to succumb to wavering resolve. Yes, he will execute their request, accomplish this final task, and in doing so, seize the coveted entrance to the inner sanctum of the Court of Owls. Once there, no force shall hinder his ascension.

Nothing shall impede him.

He closes his eyes, surrendering willingly to the engulfing darkness that consumes him whole. No longer in control, he luxuriates in the frigid numbness that cloaks his consciousness. He becomes a mere conduit, a vessel for their sinister desires, devoid of remorse or regret.

______________________________________________________________________________

Jackson’s POV:

He watches her, consumed by seething anger that simmers beneath the surface. It has been a disquieting week of relentless observation, his mind teetering on the precipice of madness. No moment escapes his obsessive fixation as he shadows her wretched abode. The burning desire to communicate with her, to rupture the suffocating silence that separates them, gnaws at the frayed edges of his sanity. Yet destiny revels in cruel amusem*nt, denying him even the briefest brush of connection.

Thanksgiving becomes a grotesque tableau of torment as he helplessly witnesses her whisked away in a vehicle, stolen from his grasp by the whims of fate and the oppressive watch of her guardian. Oh, how he pursues, relentlessly tracking their path, burning with white-hot rage as she disappears behind the imposing walls of Wayne Manor. The audacious gates swing shut, taunting his futile pursuit.

Within those hallowed walls, he lingers like a specter, forever barred from the sanctuary where she roams. Waiting proves agonizingly fruitless, an exercise in futility as she remains ensnared in luxury or emerges, entangled with that despicable Bran Toremin. Both scenarios deny him opportunities, fueling his mounting frustration. Yet, he clings to a twisted patience, an illusion that time conspires with his madness. Yes, he possesses an abundance of time now, a cruel gift born from her unwitting sacrifice.

So he waits, a sentinel ensnared in her every movement. Through the cold, lifeless windowpane of her chamber, he glares with an insatiable hunger, fixated on her mindless indulgence in vapid romance novels meant for feeble-minded fools like her. She never ventures beyond the suffocating confines of her insipid existence, content in her mind-numbing complacency.

But then, a flicker of hope ignites the inferno of his anger. Saturday morning arrives, and she dares to step beyond the sterile safety of her cocoon. He trails her, a phantom fueled by an unholy wrath, maintaining a calculated distance as she meanders aimlessly amidst the clamor of the oblivious masses.

She remains oblivious to his presence, a blind ignorance that stokes the fires of his spiraling obsession. The destination of her aimless wanderings remains shrouded in mystery, an enigma that intensifies his unknowingly unhinged anticipation. If only she would stray down a forsaken path, a desolate alley where he could orchestrate his diabolical designs.

With each step she takes, headphones encasing her in blissful ignorance, he seethes with unbridled resentment. Does she comprehend the toll his deteriorating physique exacts? His muscles wither, collarbones protrude like grotesque symbols of decay. Does she recognize the cavernous hollows beneath his eyes, expanding inch by inch with each passing day?

They bear witness to his festering torment. Does she give a damn about the rejections he faces, educational institutions deeming him unworthy based on their flawed assessment of his character? No, she remains callously indifferent. But that will change. He will make sure of it.

If he weren't consumed by his fixation, he might have missed her stealthy departure from her dwelling. Swathed in an oversized coat, her tresses concealed beneath a hat, her eyes shielded by sunglasses, she merges seamlessly into the undulating masses. A disguise she clings to, naively oblivious to the forces propelling her unknowingly towards his diabolical web.

His purpose crystallizes, a web spun with furious obsession. He trails her through the city's labyrinthine streets, his mind a cauldron of anger and madness. Each step she takes intensifies his frustration and stokes the flames of his fixation. The streets become his twisted accomplices, concealing his presence as he slithers in her shadow. Surveillance cameras become potential betrayers, threatening to expose his wicked pursuits.

He cannot afford to be linked to her, not yet. His plans demand calculated precision, a delicate dance on the edge of insanity.

As she turns a corner, he follows suit, a spectral figure lurking in her wake. And there it is, her final destination revealed like a sinister secret. Robinson Park, a seemingly serene sanctuary, beckons her unwitting steps. Little does she know that its tranquility and seclusion will serve as unwitting accomplices, aiding his designs.

The gap between them narrows, his pulse racing with seething anger and volatile frustration. He relishes the moment, a pawn in the twisted game of fate. Triumph and despair entwine within him, a maddening concoction that fuels his desires. The metallic taste of conquest mingles with the blood that now drips from his cracked lips.

Crouched low, concealed within the dense underbrush, his mind teems with unhinged thoughts. The cold air pierces his bones, but he pays no mind to the discomfort. His focus remains unyielding, fixated on her movements.

Crawling stealthily, he watches, biding his time for the opportune moment when she will venture deeper into the treacherous heart of the park. The bustling street nearby poses a risk, for her screams could shatter the illusion he has meticulously crafted. Patience, he reminds himself, savoring the icy resolve that courses through his veins, freezing him from within. He is so close now, so close he can taste the impending reckoning.

He is a creature of shadows, a predator closing in on his prey. And then, he catches another glimpse of her, her attention momentarily diverted. He presses himself against the damp earth, melding with the darkness. The scent of decay and moist earth fills his nostrils, but his senses are consumed by his frenzied focus. Crouched and hidden, he prepares to emerge from his vegetative cocoon, his eyes blazing with a rage both terrifying and unhinged.

But then, a deep voice shatters the silence, a thunderclap that rips through the air. "(Y/N)," it calls, drawing her attention. Another figure materializes—Damian, that loathsome intruder. A surge of incoherent fury courses through him, his thoughts a discordant symphony of curses and threats. And beside her stands a beastly canine, its form intimidating and savage.

f*ck.

The opportunity slips through his fingers, a savage twist of fate that ignites his mounting rage. How dare they invade the meticulously woven tapestry of his obsession? Anguish and fury surge through him, the veins in his temples pulsating with the intensity of his unruly thoughts. He yearns to strike, to unleash his wrath upon them.

But he knows better.

They throw a stick, and the dog lunges after it, a mindless creature driven by base instincts. Their conversations, hugs, and kisses unfold amidst the dog's mindless pursuit of the decaying wood. As it returns, panting heavily, tail wagging, it drops the stick at her feet.

With a playful gleam in her eyes, she seizes it and brandishes it in the air, taunting him before carelessly casting it into the shadowed depths of the bushes.

f*ck.

It lands uncomfortably close, a sinister omen that sends a shiver down his spine. To move now would risk discovery, the slavering beast sensing his presence. Is it trained to attack, an abomination steeped in malevolence?

Frozen in place, he remains as motionless as a statue, barely daring to breathe. The sound of the dog's intense sniffing grows nearer, invading the silence like a lurking predator. His eyes avert, unable to bear the gaze of the relentless hunter. Suddenly, with a burst of desperation, his head darts between the concealing foliage, snatching the stick with his teeth before retreating into the shadows.

The stick drops once more at Damian's behest, and he throws it again. But it does not pursue. Instead, its attention turns, fixated on his hiding spot. A menacing growl rumbles deep within its throat, its hackles raised, a creature teetering on the edge of frenzy. Slowly, deliberately, it creeps closer, eyes narrowed and ears pinned back.

The urgency pulses through his veins like venom, commanding him to flee. But any movement, even the slightest tremor, would trigger the beast's ferocity, exposing his presence. He cannot be seen, not now, not if he is to have any hope of reaching her.

Of course, her heart bleeds for the canine, a sickening compassion that veils her in a cloak of vulnerability. She steps forward, standing before the creature, her voice transforming into a concerned lilt as she questions its distress. In a nauseatingly dainty and high-pitched tone, she attempts to soothe the beast, her words dripping with affection.

Finally, her pitiful excuse for a soulmate intervenes, seizing the dog's collar, attempting to quell its primal rage through stern commands. It obediently sits, yet its beady eyes never waver from his concealed sanctuary.

Suspicion courses through Damian's gaze, unyielding in its pursuit of any signs of life. But her voice cuts through the air, snapping his attention to their now intertwined hands. Together, they venture deeper into the depths of the park, shadows embracing their every step.

Trembling with unbridled fury and an escalating sense of desperation, he knows he must retreat, reassess his plans. Their laughter, their stolen joy in the face of all they have taken from him—it fuels an inferno of savage rage within. How dare they revel in their ill-gotten happiness while he languishes in the shadows? The darkness within him swells, a tempest of raging madness.

He turns away, retreating into the depths of his fractured mind. But with each step, his thoughts grow darker, more unhinged. New plans, born from the twisted recesses of his rage, take shape like grotesque specters in his deranged imagination. The dried blood from his cracked lips becomes a vile testament to his spiraling madness, staining his chin with a macabre defiance.

The path ahead is veiled in ominous uncertainty, but he embraces the chaos that courses through his veins. Sanity slips further from his grasp, replaced by a euphoria that fuels his depraved desires. He teeters on a precipice he can no longer comprehend, a labyrinth of his own making. Yet, in that darkness, he finds solace, a perverse satisfaction that whispers promises of vengeance and gratification.

Chapter 31: Breaking Through The Shadows

Chapter Text

Damian’s POV: Saturday night

Damian finds himself inexplicably drawn to the library, unable to resist the captivating image of her face lighting up during the grand tour of their home. Every spare moment he can snatch, he seeks solace within its walls, yearning to immerse himself in the memory of her wonder-struck eyes and unabashed giddiness as she caresses her fingertips along the serried rows of bookshelves.

Patrol looms on the horizon, but for now, he luxuriates on the plush tufted leather couch, engrossed in the timeless pages of his beloved childhood classic, Great Expectations. The scent of aged leather mingles with the faint whisper of yellowed parchment, nurturing his nostalgic connection to the past. Charles Dickens, the revered author of his youth, holds a special place in his heart, a connection that ironically extends to his father as well. Damian cherishes the familiarity of the weathered leather-bound book, its brittle pages tinged with the patina of time.

Though he is certain she has already delved into the world of Pip and Miss Havisham, a lingering thought teases his mind—a notion of bestowing upon her this cherished first edition as a heartfelt gift. It would be a small but profound fragment of his past, an intimate piece of his soul that he dares to share with her.

In the midst of his quiet contemplation, his tranquility is shattered by the insistent buzz of his specially engineered phone. He furrows his brow, a flicker of concern etching itself onto his features, as he hastily retrieves the device. The message's content grips his attention, causing him to spring into an upright position on the couch.

The forensic results have arrived.

His heart quickens with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. With swift, practiced dexterity, Damian replaces the treasured book behind the glass encasem*nt, his movements imbued with a sense of urgency.

He races out of the library, his strides purposeful and determined, and seeks refuge in his private chamber. Within the confines of this sanctum, he sheds his civilian garments with deft fingers, trading them for the form-fitting embrace of his vigilante attire. A meticulous inspection of his utility belt follows, assuring him of its completeness and security. A sigh of relief escapes his lips, knowing that no time will be wasted on replacing any missing items.

Emerging from his chamber, Damian sprints down the seemingly interminable corridor, his feet carrying him swiftly towards the nearest secret entrance. With a feverish resolve, he meticulously inputs the elaborate sequence of digits and symbols, his gritted teeth betraying his impatience as the ornate grandfather clock creaks and groans, as it drags agonizingly slow. Finally, with just enough room to squeeze through, he catapults himself into the labyrinthine depths of the Batcave, welcoming the cool embrace of the subterranean air that tames the inferno coursing through his veins.

Navigating the serpentine tunnels, Damian traces a determined path towards the central chamber. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the rhythmic echoes of his pounding heart and the intermittent drips of water reverberating through the cavernous space. As he rounds a corner, the sight of Batman and Nightwing huddled around the glowing Batcomputer greets him, their focused intensity palpable in the dimly lit surroundings.

"Where are the others?" His voice rings out, resonating with a commanding authority that ripples through the cavern, startling the overhead bats from their slumber. Nightwing spares a fleeting glance before returning his attention to the illuminated screen. "They're on their way."

Drawing closer, Damian's eyes fixate on the image of a woman displayed on the computer monitor. The woman in question is none other than Diana Prince, an awe-inspiring figure whom Damian has encountered on multiple occasions. Her presence commands attention, radiating strength and grace in equal measure. Her jet-black tresses cascade like a waterfall down her back, framing a visage adorned with piercing crystal blue eyes that hold the weight of countless battles fought. She stands tall and statuesque, possessing an air of regality that transcends mere physicality.

Wonder Woman, both as a civilian and as the formidable heroine embodies a duality that fascinates Damian. Beyond her captivating aesthetics, she wields a power that extends far beyond brute force. He recognizes that she harnesses her innate beauty as a strategic asset, employing it to disorient and confound her adversaries. There is a profound depth to her character—a woman who is fully aware of the immense power she possesses, be it physical, intellectual, or even emotional. She epitomizes the notion of a multifaceted hero.

While Wonder Woman commands reverence and adoration as a champion of justice, Damian admires her equally for her work as Diana Prince. Unlike some other heroes who lay aside their crime-fighting personas in their civilian lives, she refuses to compartmentalize her dedication to justice. She fearlessly fights on both the battlefield and the diplomatic stage, balancing her roles as warrior and diplomat with unwavering resolve. Having left her homeland of Themyscira, she has committed herself to becoming a diplomat, albeit exclusively for her own nation.

"According to the records I was able to procure," her voice reverberates through the cavernous depths of the cave, commanding attention and stirring a mix of emotions within the team. "He did not arrive in Crimea until Saturday morning, directly contradicting his personal report." Her voice remains unyielding, each word laced with an underlying sense of urgency and concern. Her eyes dart around the room, scanning their faces, her furrowed brow revealing her deep concern. She stands tall, her posture rigid, emphasizing the severity of her words.

The cool blue light of the computer screen reflects off Batman's face, accentuating the tightness in his features. He nods silently, his lips pressed into a thin line, silently urging her to continue her revelations. "Furthermore, I took it upon myself to conduct a deeper investigation into his activities during his trip. What I uncovered is deeply unsettling. Instead of engaging with local officials to broker peace, it appears he has been facilitating the arming of local terrorists, fueling violence, and suppressing grassroots uprisings." Her words strike like a hammer, a blow that reverberates through the silent cave, leaving the team stunned. Her eyes meet Batman's gaze, searching for any sign of confirmation or disagreement.

As the weight of her words sinks in, the cave descends into an eerie stillness. Red Hood and Red Robin have joined the gathering, their presence a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation. Red Hood's jaw tightens, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Red Robin's brow furrows, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, a defensive stance.

"My sources cannot definitively place him in the same room as the terrorists, but the evidence we've gathered so far points to his direct involvement," she continues, her voice tinged with frustrations as she runs a hand through her hair, tugging at a lock.

Batman, now seated in his chair, clasps his hands tightly together and rests them against his mouth. The room is thick with a tense atmosphere, as if the air itself holds its breath, waiting for the next course of action. "Thank you, Diana," he murmurs, his voice carrying a weight of anguish. Her somber expression softens before she speaks again, her voice laced with regret. "I cannot push my investigation any further without risking exposure and jeopardizing my position."

Understanding the constraints she faces, Batman acknowledges her sacrifice with a nod, The lines on his forehead deepen, his brow furrowing even further."We appreciate everything you've provided. We will take it from here," he says, his voice genuine but tinged with a lingering sense of uncertainty.

As the connection is severed, the computer screen fades into darkness. Batman turns toward the team, his eyes searching their faces for signs of resilience and determination. "The fingerprints we lifted from his glass yielded no matches," he reveals, while gaze lingers on each member, his eyes narrowing slightly as he gauges their reactions. His jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare imperceptibly.

Damian’s mind races with possibilities, the weight of responsibility pressing upon his shoulders. He steals a glance at the others, sensing their surprise and mounting dismay.

Red Hood, standing with his hands clenched tightly on the desk, speaks up, his voice edged with disappointment. "We have a lead regarding his business dealings in Crimea. With a little more evidence we’ll have enough to compile a strong case against him.." He moves to stand beside Grayson, placing a firm hand on his shoulder, jostling him. "Nightwing here has enough connections in the DA office to make the case go through without interference and the rest will take care of itself."

But the optimism in his voice finds little resonance among the group. A sense of heaviness fills the air, as doubts creep into their minds. He deflates slightly when he notices the lack of enthusiasm. “What?”

"That’s great and all," Red Robin interjects, his shoulders slumping slightly. "But it still doesn't establish a direct connection to her."

“So what? We’ll put him away for good, and then he won’t be a threat to her.” Red Hood tries to counter, his voice lining with irritation. The weight of his words hangs in the air, easy syllable punctuated by a heavy exhale.

Batman begins pacing, his hands clasped behind his back. His footsteps echo through the cave, each step purposeful and measured. He occasionally stops, his hand gripping the back of a chair or a nearby console, his knuckles turning white under the pressure. "Indeed, it's a step in the right direction. However, a man of his influence and power will still possess the means to manipulate the system even from behind bars," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “It wouldn’t just make him look bad, but the entire country as well. People would question the government’s competency and reasonable skill to keep the people who are supposed to represent the best interest in line.” He shakes his head, mostly to himself. “No, it’s highly probable that this case against him will not see daylight. We need to get something else. If he’s willing to do this he’s probably done something worse in the past.”

"But what that is I don’t know. We need concrete evidence, undeniable proof," Batman continues, his gaze piercing each member of the team. "We cannot rely solely on circ*mstantial findings. If he is capable of such despicable acts, it is likely he has committed far greater atrocities in the past. We must uncover the depths of his villainy, no matter how dark and harrowing they may be."

They remain silent for a moment, disappointment poisoning the air. Damian’s fists clench at his sides, his muscles visibly tensing as frustration courses through his veins.

"You're right. Worst-case scenario, the people will suspect the government's collusion with Bran, which could potentially destabilize it. They would never allow that, so I think the chance of this case succeeding is slim to none," Red Robin murmurs.

A surge of frustration steals his breath for a moment, but he regains his composure and seethes through clenched teeth, "Your regurgitated assessment is a waste of oxygen, Drake. Do you have something to actually say, or are you just wasting our time?"

His brother's eyes go wide under his mask, his mouth slightly ajar from the venom dripping from his voice. He takes a step back, clenching his hands into fists at his side.

"Don't start, Damian," Batman admonishes coolly, his voice carrying a tone of authority. He steps forward, commanding their attention. His hands rest on his hips, his fingers slightly flexing as his gaze shifts between them.

"We're all working hard to solve this," Batman continues, his tone softer but firm.

Before he can respond, Nightwing interjects, his voice brimming with confidence. "with the lack of DNA connection we’re at a setback but maybe if we dig deeper into Bran’s past and widen our horizons we might find something." His suggestion immediately captures Damian's interest. Without uttering a word, Damian slides the keyboard in front of him and feverishly types away, retrieving every record associated with his name.

The others gather around him, their silence speaks volumes as they sift through page after page of futile information. With each document producing nothing of value, Damian's blood begins to simmer, mirroring the growing frustration in the room. At long last, a glimmer of interest emerges.

His police report from the night of their murder. Damian shoots a sidelong glance at his father, whose eyes narrow subtly as he peruses the words displayed on the screen. Their collective curiosity draws them closer, their minds churning through the contents of his statement.

"So he saw them that night," Red Hood declares with fervor. "They shared a dinner together," he exclaims, as if that revelation holds all the answers.

Damian leans heavily against the desk, his head drooping as he releases a tense breath. "And pray tell, how does that seemingly trivial fact hold any significance, bird brain?" His voice grumbles dangerously. The ire on his brother's face becomes unmistakable.

Crossed arms resting upon his chest, Red Hood retorts, "Because it places them in the same city, at the same time, dipsh*t." The others grow tense, the room brimming with escalating emotions.

Rising to his full height, Damian confronts him, closing the gap between them and pointedly gesturing at the monitor. "Really?" Damian's voice drips with sarcasm as his eyebrows knit together, his eyes piercing through Red Hood with a steely glare. He leans slightly forward, his posture rigid and tense, as if ready to pounce at any moment. “Which, by the way, is corroborated by his driver, claims he went right home after and didn't leave," Damian grits out, his voice laced with irritation.

Red Hood scoffs dismissively, turns his head away, and his crosses arms, portraying a facade of nonchalance despite their close proximity. "And you believe that sh*t?"

Damian's eyes narrow beneath his mask, his teeth clenched in frustration. "It doesn’t matter what I believe. However, it is clear that the GCPD did believe him, considering they promptly cleared his name. If you'd rub your last two remaining brain cells you'd understand that we cannot implicate him based on the current evidence BECAUSE NO EVIDENCE EXISTS." His thunderous voice prompts a flinch from Red Hood, the very walls of the room seemingly resonating with their shared rage.

"ENOUGH," his father's voice booms, fists clenched in a display of authority. He positions himself between the two, placing a hand on each of their chests, gently pushing them apart. In a tone calmer and more soothing, he asserts, "We will switch tactics and try to widen our horizons. Our field of vision has been too narrow." Lowering his hands to his sides, he casts a withering glare upon both of them, a silent promise of severe consequences should they engage in further outbursts.

Turning on his heel, Batman issues a rapid succession of commands. "Nightwing, retrieve Bran's credit card statements and track his whereabouts during the week leading up to the incident. Red Robin, cross-reference the hair sample with a broader database and utilize any necessary satellite hacking techniques to expand our search to include Western Europe. Remember, discretion is paramount, cover your tracks."

Without raising his gaze, Red Robin takes a deep gulp of coffee from a magically materializing mug. Obviously,” he mumbles without glancing once at the others as his fingers begin to dance across the keyboard.

Huffing a breath through his nose, Batman pivots towards them, his eyes narrowing as he surveys the scene. "The two of you," he asserts with a stern and calculated tone, "try not to kill each other." His voice carries an air of unwavering authority.

Simmering with anger at their current exclusion, Damian and Red Hood stew in their frustration. Positioned with their backs facing each other, Damian shoots his seething brother a glare, and in response, Red Hood retorts by flipping him off.

As Batman accesses additional police reports from that night, Damian takes a step closer, his gaze focused intently on the files displayed before him. Engrossed in their collective mission, they seamlessly enter a rhythm, their fingers tapping against keyboards, and the hum of technology permeating the room.

His eyes begin to dry from the harsh blue light, and he rubs them vigorously, determined to soldier on. With each passing document, containing harrowing photographs of victims and intricate details dissecting their lives, his blood runs cold.

"Stop," he pleads, his voice desperate and trembling. His father's muscles tense at the urgency in his tone, and even Red Hood's arms fall to his sides, the rage momentarily subsiding. The three of them lean in closer, drawn together by his revelation. His eyes dart from his father, who registers the desperation etched on his face, to the chair he now occupies, empowered to take control. Moving to sit in the chair, he pulls up three separate files and points decisively.

"Look!" he exclaims, a mixture of excitement and urgency lacing his voice.

A moment of silence lingers among the group as they struggle to grasp the connection Damian has unveiled.

"What about it?" Red Hood asks, his confusion palpable.

Damian fixes him with an exasperated stare before elucidating, "They're connected." The certainty in his statement is met with a brief pause, the weight of the revelation sinking in.

"Uh-huh," his older brother mumbles, leaning in closer, squinting at the screen. "And how does a—" he pauses, his voice laced with incredulity, "journalist, weapons manufacturer, and ambassador who died in different ways share any connection?" The skepticism in his tone threatens to unsettle Damian, yet he remains resolute, maintaining his composure.

"Because," he grits through clenched teeth, his frustration simmering beneath the surface, "they all worked in the same location." Both of their eyes widen, realization dawning upon them, drawing them closer.

"Do you see it now? The journalist worked in Crimea. The weapons manufacturer? Crimea. And the ambassador?" He leaves the question hanging, locking eyes with his compatriots.

"Crimea," Red Hood whispers, astonishment evident in his voice. Though his face remains concealed, Damian can sense his brother's expression contorting in sheer surprise.

"Exactly. All of them perished on the same day, and all of them had ties to Crimea. That is no coincidence." Damian's arms tighten across his chest, his confident declaration bolstering his sense of pride.

"Well done," Batman acknowledges, his voice a blend of severity and excitement. "Let us delve deeper," he adds, his words infused with a sense of urgency.

The three of them immerse themselves in their respective investigations. The ambient lighting casts long shadows, dancing across the walls adorned with high-tech equipment. The air carries a subtle tang of metal and dampness, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the scent of ink from the files in the corner.

Damian's eyes flit across the illuminated screens, scanning every minute detail of the weapons manufacturer's life. Each keystroke echoes through the cave, intermingling with the soft hum of machinery and the occasional drip of water, creating a symphony of determination and focus.

The knowledge he uncovers, from food allergies to intimate memories, becomes imprinted in his mind, a mosaic of the man's existence. His gaze intensifies, absorbing the information voraciously, as if he could ingest every scrap of knowledge and recite it back in a multitude of languages.

"Debrief," Batman declares, pushing off the desk in sharp movements. He calls the others over, and they gather around him in a semi-circle, their faces etched with anticipation. The shifting shadows accentuate their expressions—awe, disbelief, and a simmering rage etched upon their faces.

"Red Hood," Batman prompts, his voice resonating with authority, his expectation clear without needing further explanation.

"The journalist was working for Gotham Globe when they sent him to Crimea to cover a story about the Red Cross coming in to help wounded soldiers and citizens. It was supposed to be a fluff piece garnering support for the troops that are supposedly trying to ease the conflict," Red Hood begins, his voice focused and determined.

He walks over to the computer, pulling up a photocopied handwritten journal page. Pointing to it, he continues, "However, when he got there, he discovered that some of the injured people who were labeled as 'local terrorists' wanted to repent their sins before dying by exposing the corruption. He diligently wrote down their statements, many of which overlapped, claiming an unnamed American man was meeting with their leader to supply arms for their cause. Most of them died before he left, but all of them stated that they no longer believed in the cause and that they felt it was time to put it to an end." he rejoins the others, his voice tight, and a deep line appearing between his brows. "He returned home and showed it to his editor who approved the story. He died a week before it was to be released in a house fire which conveniently burned the only existing copy of that story."

As Damian looks at the others, their mouths slightly ajar, he feels a deep-seated sense of anguish for the man, but it doesn't compare to the crippling fear squeezing his heart for her safety. None of the reports discuss the American man's appearance, but he strongly suspects Bran. Batman's steely gaze shifts to Damian, expectant.

"The weapons manufacturer worked in the region, supplying the local government with arms," Damian begins, his voice calm yet tinged with determination. "He never set foot in the region until a month before he died, witnessing the destruction caused by his own creations. It appears he had a change of heart and declared his company would no longer support such actions." His voice drops to a hushed tone. "He died just two days before he was scheduled to make an official public statement."

They nod solemnly, their eyes reflecting the weight of their discoveries. Inhaling a deep breath to steady his nerves, Damian continues, "A similar case regarding the Ambassador. He traveled to the region, uncovered corruption through forged documents, and planned to blow the whistle. Tragically, he died a few weeks before he could finalize and officially file the report."

The weight of the situation descends upon them like an oppressive shroud, its suffocating grip tightening around Damian's chest, stealing the air from his lungs. In the confines of the Batcave, the walls seem to close in, their towering presence amplifying the intensity.

Nightwing speaks delicately, breaking the silence, "And her parents?"

"They were working in the region, engaged in genuine humanitarian relief efforts," Batman responds coolly. "I suspect they, too, uncovered the corruption and intended to expose it. However, they never got the chance." The somberness of his tone reflects the gravity of their loss, and the air itself seems to mourn the lives of those who aimed to bring about justice.

Red Robin's voice is filled with frustration as he questions, "How did we and the GCPD miss this?"

Batman's voice rumbles with a mix of anger and determination as he replies, his eyes narrowing in the dim light, "Because someone very powerful and influential wanted us to miss it." The weight of his words hangs heavy, deepening the chasm of dread within Damian's chest.

"We need to hunt down the murderers and see if they can give us a name," Damian presses, his voice brimming with determination as he fights to distract himself from the agonizing ache in his chest. The others, snapped out of their stupor, nod in solemn agreement. Batman returns to the computer, his focused footsteps echoing through the cave, and the rest of the team trails closely behind him, their movements tight and purposeful. The somberness in the air amplifies the weight, saturating every inch of his body with a tangible intensity.

Amongst the victims, a grim pattern emerges, linking her parents directly to two individuals. The journalist's demise is marked by a mysterious house fire, the weapons mechanic succumbs to carbon monoxide poisoning, and the Ambassador meets a tragic fate in a car accident. The absence of suspicion surrounding their deaths serves as a chilling testament to the meticulousness of the puppeteer pulling the strings. The realization that they are dealing with a seasoned and cunning mastermind only amplifies the gravity..

In a matter of seconds, the computer screen displays the mug shots of the two men responsible for the murders. The images, grainy and haunting, depict both Henry Bowler and Peter Finches, their greasy visages etched with the weight of their crimes.

Henry, with his gray hair, elongated face, and piercing brown eyes, occupies the right side of the screen, while Peter, with his cropped blond hair, pudgy cheeks, and lifeless blue eyes, fills the left.

Damian's gaze fixates on their void expressions, a torrent of fury surging through him. These are the men who have orchestrated his Soulmate's suffering, the ones responsible for inflicting unimaginable agony upon her. The surge of anger electrifies his senses, courses through his veins like a molten flame.

A small, cruel smile tugs at the corners of Damian's lips as he continues to stare unblinkingly at the mug shots. Each feature, every line etched into their faces, becomes imprinted in his mind, a vivid testament to their heinous deeds. The weight of their presence in his thoughts drowns out the sound of Batman's movements, muffled and distant, as his unwavering attention fixates on every inch of those detestable faces, committing them to memory.

"Nightwing, Robin, you're with me," Batman declares, his voice cutting through the fog of his thoughts with a resolute clarity. “The rest of you go on patrol.” As the words register, his eyes snap up, his legs moving with a renewed sense of urgency. With swift and purposeful strides, they cross the distance and slide into the sleek vehicle, the engine already purring with life as the doors seal them within.

Finally, the moment they have all been waiting.

As the flames of the car's engine brighten behind him, casting an ethereal glow, Damian can't help but relish in the pressure of the vehicle's speed as they surge out of the cave, propelled into the thick fog of Gotham's night. Damian's grip tightens on the seat, his knuckles white as the familiar rush of adrenaline courses through his veins, intermingling with the anticipation that hangs heavy in the air.

The world outside becomes a blur as they hurtle through the city, the pulsating lights and neon signs streaking past in a kaleidoscope of colors. The rhythmic whoosh of passing vehicles, the distant wail of sirens, and the murmur of Gotham's restless streets blend into a symphony of urban chaos, heightening the senses and sharpening their focus.

What would typically require a mundane citizen thirty minutes to reach, now takes them less than a quarter of an hour. As they draw nearer, the formidable structure looms before them like a monolithic gothic fortress, its towering walls ascending towards the heavens. Constructed from resilient gray stone, Blackgate stands as an impregnable bastion of confinement.

They are greeted by an entrance flanked by imposing metal gates, each adorned with menacing spikes. Stepping through, Damian's gaze is captivated by lofty, narrow windows that punctuate the facade, their diminutive panes of thick glass serving as an impenetrable barrier between the incarcerated and the outside world.

As they draw near a guard, Damian’s heart rate quickens, the blood coursing through his veins with palpable urgency. The trio, commanding figures, come to a halt in front of a tremulous twent-something newly minted guard. Without uttering a single word, their mere presence sends visible tremors throughout his body. Nervously yet promptly, he grants them access with a swipe of his card tethered to his uniform.

With each security card swipe, the system transmits a signal throughout the facility, causing the cameras to emit a low hum as their lenses focus on them. Manned and remotely controlled access points are strategically scattered throughout the compound.

Every stop they make amplifies Damian's impatience and fury. Each guard they encounter cast wary and suspicious glances their way, further stoking his agitated emotions.

Still, none dare obstruct Batman's path. Finally, they cross the threshold into the formidable compound, narrowing the gap between them and the warden.

"Batman," he addresses with a hint of bewilderment. "I do not suppose this visit is of a convivial nature." His clasped hands tighten as his keen eyes assess each member of the trio.

"No," Batman responds, his voice resonating with an unnaturally deep timber, courtesy of the voice modulator in his cowl. The warden offers him a tight-lipped smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling in a disingenuous manner.

Briskly clapping his hands together, the warden inquires, "Then to what do I owe the pleasure?" False bravado seeps into his voice, kindling a conflagration of anger within Damian. Stealing a glance at Nightwing, he catches a subtle roll of the eyes, eliciting a slight smile from his stalwart ally that he has to smother.

The flickering lights overhead strain and emit an unsettling buzz. The echoes of inmates' agonized cries reverberate through the stone corridors, amplifying the already suffocating atmosphere. Gritting his teeth, Damian scrutinizes the ever-shifting guards, meticulously etching their names and faces into his memory.

"We need to meet with two of your incarcerated individuals," Batman's voice brooks no room for negotiation.

The warden tenses, the corners of his lips downturn as his previously genial demeanor gives way to an icy facade. "I'm afraid you'll have to provide specifics," he drones apathetically. Damian notices his father's fingers flexing, a tangible manifestation of his waning patience.

"Henry Bowler and Peter Finches," he states, his tone measured and composed, concealing the depths of his impatience. The warden's eyes momentarily flare before he tilts his head and narrows his gaze.

"I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible" the warden responds, his apology dripping with insincerity and a tinge of mockery.

"Why not?" Their postures stiffen, frustration coiling their muscles.

"Because Mr. Finches is dead," the warden retorts with a detached crispness, causing Damian to draw in a sharp breath through his nose, clamping his mouth shut to contain his mounting anger.

"And Henry Bowler?" Batman counters, no longer bothering to mask the agitation lacing his voice. Naturally, the guards inch closer, their rubber bullet guns at the ready, prepared to quell any hint of defiance.

Damian surveys their positions, subtly widening his stance and allowing his fingers to brush against the sides of his thighs where the Batarangs are discreetly concealed.

"It's three against seven, Batman. The odds are hardly in your favor," the warden taunts, raising his hand to suppress a yawn, his demeanor smug and self-assured.

With a mischievous smile, Damian tilts his head, assessing the threat with a calculated gaze. "I find those odds rather appealing," he replies smoothly. The warden's muscles tense at his nonchalant tone, his face hardening as his dark eyes bore into him with an intensity that belies his composure.

Defeated, he exhales a strained breath through his nose, and motions for the guards to lower their guns. "Very well. Follow me." The strain in his voice permeates the air, his ego savoring the taste of their impending defeat. Exchanging a satisfied look amongst themselves, the trio falls in step behind the warden, traversing the twisting corridors of the fortress. Four guards flank the warden, their presence formidable, while three close ranks behind them.

As if such measures could ever prove sufficient to vanquish them.

Their footsteps echo amidst the symphony of anguish that saturates the air—a chorus of agonized screams and the discordant clang of metal against metal. Undeterred, the warden demands, "Prepare an interrogation room for our esteemed visitors." Two guards break away from the personal security detail, hastening ahead to fulfill their superior's orders.

Passing through a succession of doors, each unlocking with a swipe of the warden's key accompanied by a beeping symphony and the groan of several-ton reinforced doors, they enter a corridor shrouded in even deeper shadows. Damian squints, his gaze traversing the outstretched arms that emerge from the cells—some adorned with intricate tattoos, others grotesquely mutated.

Within these grim confines, more than a few inmates yearn for the opportunity to display their captors' heads on pikes, for they alone are responsible for their captivity. With every step taken deeper into the fortress, Damian's nerves coil tighter, a volatile energy crackling in the air. The inmates, fueled by a frenzied desperation, bellow and claw at their prison bars, their frenetic display reflecting the distorted depths of their incarceration. One inmate, consumed by madness, froths at the mouth, bloodshot eyes bulging further as they lock onto the familiar uniforms.

Finally, they halt before an imposing steel door. The warden pivots, his impassive mask firmly in place, and delivers his final decree. "You have thirty minutes. Should you choose to overstay your welcome," a serpentine smile slithers across his face, "I cannot personally ensure your safe departure." Before anyone can react, he turns on his heel, clasping his hands behind his back, and retreats through another doorway. His departure a testament to his ill-gotten victory.

Silently, the trio exchanges glances, a tacit understanding passing between them. They would make every moment count. Batman turns his attention to one of the remaining guards, whose nimble fingers input the security code, granting them access. The door swings open, granting them passage.

They step into the dimly lit chamber, Batman taking the lead. As Damian carefully navigates around his mentor, his eyes snap to the man shackled to the floor, rigidly confined to a cold, unyielding metal chair.

His mug shot could have won him a beauty contest compared to the image he sees in front of him now.

His unkempt gray hair cascades in greasy, matted strands, entangled with filth and neglect. Hollowed eyes stare out from beneath a weathered and scarred face, bearing the weight of untold sorrows. His sickly pale skin, stretched taut over jutting cheekbones, appears almost translucent, while a wild and tangled gray beard descends towards his chest. He exudes an air of fragility and feebleness, as if his very existence hangs on the precipice of collapse. It is as if the weight of his unkempt chin threatens to snap his brittle neck, incapable of supporting the burden of his own head.

"Henry Bower," Batman begins, his voice resolute as he locks eyes with the weakened man. Nightwing stands steadfastly at Batman's left flank, while Damian positions himself on his right. The aura of determination emanating from the trio is palpable.

The old man's once deep brown eyes are now clouded by a filmy glaze. The whites of his eyes have turned a sickly yellow, while his gaze remains fixed on the wall behind them, unblinking and devoid of focus.

A crooked smile creeps across his dry lips, causing the weathered skin around his mouth to crack and wrinkle. "Ahh, Batman," he croons, elongating the final syllable in a sing-songy voice. His voice carries a strange mix of derision and amusem*nt. "To what do I owe the esteemed visit?" Damian narrows his eyes at the blind man, an uneasy feeling settling deep within him. Instincts honed through rigorous training tell him that this man is unhinged, teetering on the precipice of madness.

"I have a few questions for you," Batman responds, his deep rumbling voice rocketing against the cold, gray stone walls. Damian's muscles tense, prepared to spring into action at a moment's notice. A quick glance at Nightwing reveals his strategic positioning, ready to unleash his acrobatic prowess should the need for physical confrontation arise.

"Well, well, that is quite something indeed?" Henry's chains clatter offensively as he leans forward, placing his bound hands against the cold, unforgiving metal desk. "Please, by all means, ask away," he instructs with a flourish of his constrained hands. Damian's attention is momentarily captivated by the sight of his cracked and bloodied nails, a testament to the horrors he has faced.

"Let me be blunt, ten years ago you were indicted for murdering Mr. and Mrs. (L/N)," Batman's words cut through the air with a blade-like precision. Henry tilts his head, a wicked smile stretching across his lips, causing the parched skin to further crack. "I know you did not act on your own accord. I need to know who hired you." Batman's voice carries an unmistakable weight, a command that brooks no defiance. The silence hangs heavy as the prisoner ponders his response, his tongue darting out to lick the blood from his lips.

"Tsk, tsk, Batman. I expected something more entertaining," he replies, his face contorting into an expression of mock disappointment. Damian feels a surge of fiery anger coursing through his veins at the audacity of this repulsive excuse for a human being. How dare he make light of his heinous crimes? With a clenched jaw, Damian suppresses the urge to reveal the true depth of his desperation. It would serve him no purpose to show the full extent of his seething rage. Deep down, an inkling gnaws at Damian's mind, suggesting that even in his blindness, this man sees everything.

His father steps forward, positioning himself directly in front of the table, his hands planted firmly on its surface. He leans in, his voice dripping with menace, "Who hired you, Bower?" Unfazed, the old man remains immobile, not even flinching as Batman's breath brushes against his face.

"What makes you think someone hired me?" he asks coyly, still fixated on the wall behind them. The smirk playing on his lips stirs an insatiable urge within Damian—to pummel this decayed creature, driving his rotten teeth into the back of his throat. Yet, Damian restrains himself, maintaining an outward appearance of detached disinterest. He stands tall and composed, scanning the room. Damian notices the three guards exchange nervous glances before returning their scrutinizing gaze to the withered figure before them.

"We both know the answer to that," Batman's voice scrapes against the old man's skin like nails on a chalkboard. The once-hollow face of the prisoner grows serious, his bushy eyebrows settling heavily upon his browbone.

"I can’t tell you." The once-light and melodic tone takes on a stony, resonant quality, mirroring the transformation in his demeanor. The frail façade crumbles away, revealing the true nature of a cold-blooded killer.

"That is not an option, Bower," Nightwing declares, causing the man to slowly turn his head, his neck joints popping from the effort. In that moment, a glimmer of an idea sparks within Damian's mind, prompting him to step forward and join his father's side.

"Whoever hired you has recently decided to re-engage their old antics. Innocent lives are being extinguished, and every trail leads back to you," Damian weaves an earnest and concerned tone into his voice.

His skillful lie takes hold, evident in the seething rage contorting Henry's features. "They’ll kill me!" he spews, his voice cracking as he slams his shackled hands down onto the surface. The resonant clash of metal against metal reverberates through the room, assaulting Damian's ears, but not as intensely as the frenzied wheezing breaths escaping the prisoner's lips.

"Who?" his father asks gently, taking a calculated step back. Damian can only assume it's a strategic maneuver meant to embolden their captive. However, their calculations prove futile. Henry averts his gaze, his lips pursed in defiance. The room plunges into an oppressive silence, the ticking of minutes growing louder in their significance.

Batman's thinning patience abruptly snaps as he seizes the man's gray jumpsuit, forcefully dragging him across the table. Alarmed, Henry's feet thrash about, their desperate movements futile attempts to dig his nails into his forearms. The guards stand poised, their weapons wavering uncertainly as they swing between the prisoner and the trio.

"WHO ARE YOU PROTECTING?" Batman's voice booms like thunder, rattling the very foundations of the room. In an instant, Nightwing springs into action, disarming the nearest guard before delivering a resounding blow to his head with the butt of the gun. The man crumples to the floor, rendered unconscious. In perfect synchrony, Damian incapacitates the remaining two guards, their bewildered state leaving them defenseless and vulnerable.

Within the span of heartbeats, three guards lie sprawled upon the floor. Conscious of their unseen observers, Damian strides purposefully towards the door, deftly inserting a wire into the electric key swipe, rendering it impotent. The door stands firmly locked from the inside, an impenetrable barrier against any external intrusion.

Advancing with measured, deliberate steps, Damian positions himself once more beside his father, radiating an aura of calculated menace. "Please, please" Henry pleads, his voice filled with desperation, yet met with deaf ears as Nightwing closes in, encircling him like a predator closing in on its prey. "They’ll kill me. They’ll kill me!!" His pitiful, gut-wrenching pleas elicit no sympathy from the resolute trio.

"Who will kill you?" Damian asks, his voice dripping with chilling menace.

"You don’t understand," he whispers, his cracked lips trembling, his face contorted in anguish. Batman forcefully propels him backward, the chair failing to support his weight, causing him to crash unceremoniously onto the clattering chains.

"We can protect you," his father declares calmly, his voice carrying an air of unyielding authority. "Give us a name.”

Looking up from his position on the floor, a blaze of undiluted hatred burns within his blind, snapping gaze. Darkly, he murmurs, "You can’t protect me from the very government that put me here in the first place."

Damian can’t quite place the emotion that snapped in his chest. But then, in a swift, fluid motion, he vaults over the table. His muscles pulsate with icy determination as if glacial frost courses through his veins as his first hit strikes true.

With unrestrained fury, he relentlessly rains blows upon Henry's face, each impact resounding like the crack of lightning. The only sound he registers is the deafening ring in his ears, his vision consumed by the rapidly reddening canvas before him. Every strike causes Henry's head to bounce off the unforgiving concrete floor, his sparse, limp hair billowing around his blood-streaked countenance.

Time becomes an intangible concept, lost within the tempest of Damian's unbridled wrath. But abruptly, a vice-like grip constricts around him, forcibly wrenching him away from his target. Disoriented and consumed by a maelstrom of anger, he lashes out, unleashing a barrage of elbows and fists, striking out blindly at those who dare interrupt his retribution. He screams against their unyielding hold, his cries silenced by a punishing blow to his jaw, snapping him back into the present.

His darting eyes take in the stern countenances of his father and brother, pinning him against the wall. “What the f*ck,” Nightwing seethes under his breath. His words are laced with an undercurrent of anger, sends his racing heart into overdrive, threatening to burst free from his chest. Peering over his shoulder, his gaze lands upon the motionless, grotesquely injured figure sprawled on the floor, hemorrhaging messily.

Daring to steal a glance at Batman, he carefully assesses the telltale tic in his father's jaw and the narrowed, silent admonition conveyed through his piercing gaze. Tucking his chin, he raises his trembling palms in a gesture of placation. They hold him there, suspended in a moment of uncertainty, questioning whether they can trust him not. Time is a luxury they cannot afford to squander, and so they release their grip and step back, granting him a reprieve.

He knows better than to make any sudden movements as they turn their backs to him. Watching them approach Henry, he remains rooted to the spot, a silent observer. Nightwing leans down, applying two fingers to the side of the man's neck, his eyes reflecting a mixture of relief and gratitude. A breath escapes his lips as he looks up at Damian and mutters, "He's alive. Thank God."

Together, they lift the battered figure, guiding him back into the chair with gentle precision, his head lolling with the movement. But then, an alarming change overtakes Henry. A sound akin to choking fills the room, only to be replaced by a cacophony of maniacal laughter. His head jerks back, blood streaming down his chin and neck, his wide eyes darting about the room with unbridled madness.

Bewildered, the trio shares a perplexed glance, stunned into momentary silence as the deranged laughter echoes through the chamber. Eventually, Henry's fit subsides, his head swinging heavily in Damian’s direction. His still form wears a twisted smile, revealing the gaps of missing teeth, which he gleefully spits onto the floor before him.

His voice gurgles, thick with blood, as he spits once more, finally able to speak. "I don't know his real name, and I've never laid eyes on him," he rasps earnestly, the wet, slapping sound of his words reverberating across the room. Drawing a shuddering breath after the fit, he continues, "but he preferred to be known as... the silver fox." The weight of his labored words settles deep within Damian's bones, sending an involuntary shiver cascading through his body.

Damian locks eyes with his family, their expressions mirroring his own. A resounding pound at the door captures their attention, prompting them to swiftly assume their positions, poised for action. Nightwing opens the door, revealing the warden standing before them, accompanied by a phalanx of at least thirty armed guards, their weapons trained on the trio's chests.

Flushed and brimming with fury, the warden bellows, "Get out!" He jabs his finger aggressively down the hallway. Without hesitation, they comply, their footsteps echoing heavily as they traverse the labyrinthine corridors. Every fiber of Damian's being screams to run, but he knows better than to display any outward signs of weakness.

Finally, they inhale the cool, crisp night air of Gotham. Batman and Nightwing remain silent throughout the ride, their thoughts and emotions carefully guarded. The Batmobile glides to a stop upon their return to the Batcave. Anticipation thrums within Damian, his energy clamoring against the confines of his mental cage. As the doors open, they all emerge, seeking the solace of space. Damian trails behind, maintaining a measured distance as they make their way to the Batcomputer.

Batman takes a seat, pointedly ignoring his presence, and begins typing, while Nightwing positions himself at a slight remove. Glancing around, Damian notes the absence of the others, the passage of time stretching thin. His father continues to disregard him, stoking a surge of indignation that twists his stomach.

"It worked," he states defensively to his father's back. His father freezes, his muscles tensing. In a fit of frustration, he forcefully pushes his chair back, standing abruptly as he strides towards his him. They stand face-to-face, mere inches apart. His father’s fists clench at his sides, the proximity heightening their agitation.

"Do you realize what you were back there?" Batman roars rhetorically. "You were not a hero. Not a vigilante. You were a child." He pulls back his cowl, his hand trembling with fury. Damian's heart sinks, leaving behind an icy void. Swallowing hard, his gaze roams over his father's features, taking in the steely azure eyes, the knitted eyebrows, and the firm line of his mouth.

"But it worked," Damian foolishly argues. Taking a perilous step forward, Batman stands directly in front of him, the space between them narrowing to a hair's breadth. Damian's hands clench into fists, his father's words striking a raw nerve. "You acted like a bloodthirsty assassin," he continues, shaking his head slightly, his rage tempered. "I thought you had outgrown that," he questions solemnly, his eyes closing in resignation. Stepping back, he regards him wearily, a renewed sense of defensiveness emanating from him.

Guilt whips at Damian's nerves, his eyes welling with tears as the weight of his actions settles heavily upon his shoulders. "I'm sorry," his voice cracks. "I snapped. I know it was wrong, but I snapped." His admission scorches his throat as it escapes him. Grayson approaches from behind, placing a reassuring hand on Damian's shoulder, providing a gentle squeeze.

"It happens to the best of us, baby bird," he attempts to soothe. The tension between them eases slightly. "But it won't happen again," Damian promises with unwavering conviction. Searching his father's eyes, relief floods through him as his words are received, believed.

"I know it won't," his father replies, turning on his heel and taking his seat without waiting for a response. Damian exchanges a quizzical look with his eldest brother, who simply shrugs before joining their father. Exhaling deeply, Damian positions himself beside them.

"I'm going to run the name 'Silver Fox' through all known databases I have access to," Batman states as he types. Once he hits enter, he stands facing them, his tired eyes conveying more than words can express. "It will take a while before we get any results." Glancing at his wrist, he checks the time. "Dawn is approaching. Go get some rest," he suggests with a lightness to his tone.

Both Damian and Grayson nod in agreement before heading towards one of the concealed passages. "Damian," his father calls out, his voice trailing behind him. He cranes his neck, looking back. "You'll be the first to know if anything comes up." His words are simple, but their unspoken meaning carries a weight beyond measure. A profound sense of relief washes over him as he carefully watches his father. Without words, their gazes speak volumes—his father has not lost faith in him.

A genuine smile graces Damian's lips as he replies, "Thank you," his voice laced with emotion. With that, he exits the Batcave and heads straight to bed, exhaustion dragging his feet along the way.

Chapter 32: Dipping Into Darkness

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV: Sunday morning

I can count on one hand how many times I've woken up before the sun and actually felt happy about it. Today is one of those rare days. As I stretch my arms above my head, sitting upright in bed, I fight the urge to flop back down with my newly limber limbs. The soft, ethereal glow of twilight pools in broken spots throughout the room, casting an otherworldly ambiance.

Last night, Sam texted that we needed a girls' day, and she was absolutely right. She suggested making a whole day of it, so I planned to surprise her family with an early visit. Sundays are when they gather for breakfast, and they're early risers, so I thought it would be a pleasant surprise. With caution, I pad silently across my bedroom, careful not to disturb the tranquility of this early hour.

As I get ready, a sense of excitement makes me bounce on my feet while I apply a thick layer of occlusive moisturizer to shield my skin from the harsh winter winds. With just a touch of mascara and lip tint, I feel ready. Bundled in thick wool layers—a sweater, coat, scarf, and hat—I step out of my room.

Gloved hands and bundled attire can't entirely ward off the tingling chill as I tiptoe toward Bran's office. My steps falter outside his office door, apprehension tingling down my spine. He’s always in his office at this ungodly hour, and due to the constraints he’s placed on my freedoms, I’m forced to ask permission just to leave the house.

Oddly, since Thanksgiving, Bran's demeanor has taken an unexpected turn. He seems strangely lenient, if not suspiciously detached. Whenever our paths cross in the house, his gaze holds less malice and something else that eludes my understanding.

Initially, I felt a wave of relief wash over me, grateful for the reprieve from his hostility. But with each day, my anxiety tightens its grip, feeding off the unnerving nature of his newfound attitude.

There’s a sick part of me that finds a twisted sense of security in his animosity towards me. Now, when I catch glimpses of his guarded and unfamiliar looks, the perpetual knot in my stomach tightens.

Each glance feels like a veiled threat, an unspoken warning that I struggle to decipher. My heart races in my chest, echoing the mounting tension, as I strain my ears, hoping to glean some insight from the muffled sounds beyond the door.

Taking a deep breath, I raise my trembling fist to knock on the door, steeling myself for the encounter. The door creaks open, revealing just a sliver of Bran's face. A flicker of something flashes across his face, but it disappears before I have time to comprehend it.

"Sorry to bother you," I say forcefully demure. "I'm going to spend the day with Sam," I manage to rush out. "If that's okay?" Something deep within me stirs a disquiet that resents asking permission. Something that nags in the back of my mind, whispering at the injustice of it all.

Bran's features remain inscrutable, a mask I’m most accustomed to. He purses his lips, his one visible eye narrowing as if contemplating my request. The silence stretches, pregnant with anticipation, before he finally speaks, his voice dripping with veiled authority.

"Fine," he says, his tone clipped and controlled. The whiskey on his breath already singes my nostrils, but I force myself to remain planted in the spot. The word hangs in the air, a double-edged sword that grants me freedom while reminding me of the invisible chains that bind me. I swallow hard, a mix of relief and apprehension washing over me.

But then a chilling smile curls his lips, unsettling me further. "Be home before seven," he adds, his demand a reminder of his power over me, a reminder that freedom always comes with a price.

Frozen in place, I struggle to maintain my composure, the weight of his words settling on my shoulders like a heavy burden. Something in his gaze shifts, a glimmer of satisfaction mingled with something darker. Without a word, he slams the door shut, leaving me standing there, my thoughts racing and my heart pounding.

As I listen to the sound of his retreating footsteps, a shiver courses through me. The air feels charged with invisible electricity. I can't shake the sense that there's a storm brewing, and I'm at the center of it.

With a mix of determination and trepidation, I force myself to move, racing downstairs to the mudroom. Grabbing a pair of sunglasses and tucking my hair into my hat, I slip out through the side door, eager to escape the suffocating atmosphere that lingers heavily.

I swiftly survey my surroundings, a surge of contentment warming me from within as I realize none of those bothersome photographers are willing to brave the frigid winter air. They remain confined to their trucks, waiting for a guaranteed sight to capture. Today, however, they won't catch a glimpse of me.

Slipping between houses and deftly maneuvering through narrow alleyways, I ensure that I'm safely out of sight, hidden from their prying gazes. Stepping onto the deserted sidewalk, I steal a quick glance over my shoulder, confirming my escape.

A smug grin spreads across my face, a celebration of yet another successful evasion. I plug in my earphones, immersing myself in music, as the sun timidly peeks through the crevices between towering skyscrapers, determined to make its presence known.

Excitement and anticipation course through my veins, infusing an extra bounce in my step. The quizzical frown of a fellow commuter hints at their lack of shared enthusiasm, but their disapproval holds no sway over my spirits.

A gust of icy wind assaults me, prompting me to burrow my chin into the cozy embrace of my scarf and bury my hands deep into the welcoming pockets of my coat. The city's winds, relentless and biting, whip through the skyscrapers, their howling carrying a sense of untamed power.

In my peripheral vision, I catch sight of vibrant evergreen bushes, a refreshing oasis of green amidst the monotonous concrete jungle. I slow my pace, coming to a halt on the sidewalk, and take a moment to consider my options.

Subject myself to the bone-chilling gusts that lash my skin, or seek refuge among the protective sanctuary of nature's embrace? The answer is clear—an instinctive choice. I alter my course, willingly embracing the additional ten minutes it will add to my journey. The promise of a more delightful experience awaits, enveloped in nature's captivating beauty and the tantalizing scents that dance in the air.

______________________________________________________________________________

Jackson’s POV:

He can't believe his luck. The universe must truly be smiling down on him. Two days in a row. TWO. DAYS. IN. A. ROW. The magnitude of this coincidence overwhelms him, filling him with a mix of exhilaration and disbelief.

A surge of adrenaline courses through his veins, fueling a frenzied laughter that reverberates off the steel and glass of the surrounding buildings, amplifying the triumph of the moment.

But as quickly as the elation washes over him, a flicker of concern emerges. A problem presents itself, tainting his moment of triumph. The empty streets at this early hour, while usually ideal for his purposes, now become a hindrance.

The absence of the usual bustling crowds offers him an advantage, but it also exposes him, making his presence too conspicuous, too easy to spot. He realizes the need for heightened strategy and vigilance today.

The thought of her slipping from his clutches again is unbearable. The mere notion sends a jolt of panic through him. Yesterday's encounter, a disastrous misstep, still haunts him. The memory of it lingers, a bitter reminder of the consequences he cannot afford to repeat. Failure is not an option this time. He can't fathom the consequences, the toll it would take on him.

Moving with deliberate slowness, he navigates the labyrinthine network of adjacent alleyways. Every muscle protests the prolonged exertion, the strain of sustained surveillance. He has stationed himself here for hours, relentlessly observing from across the street. The shrouded pre-dawn air pierces his face; its biting cold causing his skin to tighten painfully.

He can feel the chill seeping into his bones, a constant reminder of the frigid temperature. But the physical discomfort is inconsequential compared to the joy that blooms within him. It is a euphoria that threatens to overwhelm, but he draws strength from years of training and conditioning, honing his mental fortitude to withstand even the most severe shocks to his system.

He will not waver.

With measured steps, he traverses the terrain, his footfalls muffled save for the occasional crunch of broken glass underfoot. The sound reverberates in his ears—a gritty symphony of urban decay.

Even his own shadow seems to comprehend the gravity of this pivotal moment, clenching to his form like a steadfast companion. Meanwhile, her steps, quick and bouncy, cast their own dancing shadow in her wake. Unbeknownst to her, she unwittingly plays the role of an unwitting accomplice in his grand design.

His narrowed eyes follow her every move as she tilts her head back, soaking in the radiant sunlight that bursts through the horizon. He growls inwardly, vexed by the pesky light that obstructs his stealth. He would willingly embrace the icy grip of darkness if it meant unimpeded progress towards his goals. The warmth of the sun seeping through his skin, tingling and defying the cold, is an unwelcome intrusion. It clashes with the chill in the air, creating a sensory dissonance that sets his nerves on edge.

Creeping along the protective cover of the wall, he cautiously peeks around the corner. Still oblivious to the presence of her additional shadow, she slows her pace. The scent of morning dew lingers in the air, a delicate freshness that accompanies the dawn. He inhales deeply, his nostrils filled with the crisp, earthy aroma, but he cannot afford to lose focus. His senses remain attuned to the task at hand.

Dashing across the street, he closes the distance, narrowing the gap as her steps gradually falter. The sound of his own breath becomes a rhythmic beat in his ears, synchronized with the pounding of his heart.

His pulse quickens, a pulsating rhythm that resonates throughout his body. An involuntary curse escapes his lips, frustration consuming him.

What if she senses his proximity?

The thought is paralyzing, threatening to unravel his plans. Seeking refuge behind a trash can, he crouches low, observing intently as she swivels her head between the street and an unknown point of interest. Something he cannot see at this moment. He swallows the bitter groan of frustration, preserving his presence, unwilling to reveal himself prematurely.

Then, as if guided by some unseen force, she abruptly turns and vanishes from sight. His hand curls into a fist, nails digging into the thin flesh of his palm.

Patience, he reminds himself. Patience is paramount in this delicate dance of pursuit and capture. The taste of anticipation lingers on his tongue, an electric tang that fuels his determination.

A minute passes, each second that ticks by etches a mark into his consciousness. He can't risk losing her now. Stepping onto the exposed sidewalk, his shoulders tense, and his skin prickles. He dislikes feeling so vulnerable, stripped bare for the elements to abuse, but he pushes forward.

She is now a mere speck in the distance.

Rather than aggravating him, it sends a wicked jolliness coursing through his veins. Robinson Park. Once again, the stage is set for their fateful encounter. He claps his hands jovially, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and follows her.

Sticking to the underbrush, can hear the crunch of fallen leaves and twigs and smell the earthy scent of damp soil mingling with the crisp air as he quickly gains ground, propelling himself forward with both hands and feet.

This is it.

This is his moment.

As he approaches her, blissfully alone, he takes a moment and looks skyward. "Thank you, Oh Great One, for your divine intervention," he mutters under his breath.

She rounds a bend, disappearing from the view of the street. No Soulmate in sight. He stands, feeling his back crack in the process, and steps over the thorny bushes that have torn at his attire. But that's okay. It will all be worth it soon.

She continues walking, oblivious to his approach. Inhaling deeply, he catches a whiff of her sweat, a tantalizing scent mingling with the subtle notes of her perfume. It stirs something deep within him, a familiar feeling that he resolutely denies acknowledging. His strides eat up the remaining distance between them, his breath quickening as he closes in. When he is finally within arm's reach, he hesitates, a myriad of emotions swirling within him.

Why?

Shaking his head, he blinks hard, trying to clear his mind. He reaches out and grabs her shoulder. Whirling around, she gasps, her eyes widening in alarm. She hastily removes her earphones, shoving them into her pocket as weariness creeps into her expression. Her eyes search his face, taking too long to recognize him.

"It's me. Jackson," he explains, a note of frustration seeping through.

Her brows furrow, the crease deepening as she takes a tentative step back. Suspicion fills her gaze as she eyes him warily. "Jackson?" she asks slowly, uncertainty lingering in her voice. He closes his eyes, the melodic lilt of her voice evoking a sense of familiarity that tugs at his heart. It's as if her angelic tones can soothe even his most brittle nerves.

Smiling shakily, he nods his head slowly, swinging his arms out in a 'ta-da' fashion, his heart skipping a beat when she grimaces. "What are you doing?" Her words are a whisper, stolen by the frigid air that hangs between them.

"I want to talk," he implores, stepping closer. She instinctively steps back, fear radiating off her in palpable waves. Why would she fear him? He just wants to talk. His eyes search hers, desperate for a connection, but her guarded gaze slices through him like a cleaver.

"Yes, me!" he says brightly, trying to chip away at her trepidation. "Your friend?" His confidence wavers, seeping out of his body and into the ground beneath his feet. She chuckles, albeit shakily, her laughter tinged with nervousness.

With her hands in her pockets, she nervously toes the ground, watching as her shoes drag lines in the dirt. He waits patiently for her reply, the seconds stretching into eternity, but he refuses to push her. The weight of the moment hangs heavy in the frigid air, anticipation mingling with uncertainty.

"Now's not a good time," she finally says, her voice carrying a defensive edge. The words hang in the air, laden with a guarded quality that sends a pang of hurt coursing through his limbs. Her eyes harden, and her mouth presses into a firm line. His heart aches, desperately searching for answers, trying to discern the cause of her sudden shift.

Desperation wells up within him, fueling his next words. "But it's really important," he pleads, his voice filled with a mix of hope and urgency. He takes a step closer, reaching out as if to bridge the growing divide between them.

Huh?

It seems to have an adverse effect on her. She steps back even farther, her gaze warning him not to follow. With an iciness he has never heard from her before, she replies, "I have to go." Just as she goes to turn, his arm flies out with a mind of its own and clamps around her bicep.

Her bewildered gaze clashes with his anguished one, her mouth falling agape. The sound of her teeth clamping shut as she slams her mouth makes him flinch. Even the wildlife seems to fall silent, waiting with bated breath for their next move.

But then, out of nowhere, they fall from the trees. Their heads snap in the direction of the descending figures. No, not wildlife. Shadows?

His grip tightens on her arm, pulling her against him as their forms elongate. His breath hitches as he watches the figures unfurl. She tries to wriggle out of his grasp, but he is still far stronger, even in this weakened state.

Four of them take a step toward them, their movements synchronized and their wiry arms swinging. She looks over at him, her eyes pleading for him to let go, but he can't. As they draw closer, he can see that they are people.

People with sinewy limbs, black uniforms hugging their bodies, and the glint of gold accents on their gear. The red goggles, with their gold trim and the horned gold feathers protruding from their face coverings, send a shiver down his spine. It's an unsettling sight, one that instills a primal sense of unease.

His heart pounds in his chest, adrenaline flooding his system, making his muscles tense in anticipation. Sparing a glance down at her, he watches as her frenzied, shallow breaths curl in the air before her. He's about to say something comforting when one of those creatures lunges at her.

She shrieks as he pushes her behind him, blocking their path. "Stay behind me," he demands, while they surround them, their wiry limbs moving unnaturally. They make no sound. In fact, nothing can be heard except for their heavy, labored breaths in the crisp winter air.

"Jackson, what the f*ck is going on?" she asks desperately, her back now pressed against his as she faces two of them. "I don't know," he answers truthfully, regret staining his voice. What the hell was he thinking, following her here?

As the creatures draw closer, their presence barely registering in the dirt, a surge of adrenaline courses through him. He can feel the warmth of her hand bleeding through her gloves as she grips his hand tightly. Their hearts race in unison, the rapid thud echoing in their ears.

"We need to run," he states with a dark urgency, his voice laced with determination. She nods vigorously, unable to trust her own voice in this moment of peril.

But before they can decide on a direction, the creatures unleash a coordinated attack, lunging at them with ferocity. Their clawed hands reach out, a menacing threat that demands swift evasion. Instinct kicks in, and he reacts with lightning-fast reflexes, ducking and rolling to the side, narrowly evading their lethal talons. His movements are fueled by a desperate need to protect her, to keep her out of harm's reach.

He turns his head and watches as one of them grabs her around the waist with one arm, clamping its taloned hand over her mouth with the other. It lifts her feet off the ground, dragging her writhing form away from the rest.

His eyes flicker to her, a mix of fear and determination reflected in her wild gaze. It's a silent plea, urging him to flee. But he ignores the plea, unable to stand by and watch as these vile creatures snatch her away.

No, he won't allow it.

With a surge of energy, fueled by a potent co*cktail of adrenaline and love, he charges forward. His fist swings wide, colliding with the side of one of the creatures, inflicting a satisfying blow. He ducks and dodges as another propels itself toward him, their movements an intricate dance. His limbs move with a combination of calculated precision and primal instinct, striking out in retaliation, desperate to keep them at bay.

The tension mounts as the remaining creatures close in, their sinewy forms advancing with predatory determination. He remains laser-focused on the one in front of him, his senses heightened by every subtle shift in movement. The impact of his punches reverberates through his body, the sound of flesh meeting metal is a stark reminder of the high stakes. Yet for every blow he lands, another is deflected, their relentless assault a constant threat.

In the periphery of his vision, he glimpses the other three creatures, drawing closer with an eerie, calculated gait. But he can't afford to be distracted. He maintains his unwavering focus on the immediate threat before him. With a sudden low kick, one of the creatures strikes him square in the chest, forcing him to stumble backward, right into the clutches of another.

With a swift dip and a forceful swing, he lands a punch squarely on the creature's knee, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his knuckles.

It lets out a pained screech as its leg buckles, momentarily incapacitated. Rolling away just in time to avoid its retaliatory strike, he feels a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, fueling his resolve.

Pushing himself up onto his feet, he bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, his body instinctively assuming the stance ingrained in his muscle memory since childhood. The boxing lessons, once dismissed as a mere pastime, now become his saving grace in this life-or-death encounter.

The remaining three creatures slowly circle him, their glowing eyes fixated on him with predatory intent, their distorted forms a grotesque sight to behold.

Without hesitation, he unleashes a relentless barrage of kicks and punches, each strike carrying the weight of his desperation and determination. His limbs move with blinding speed, a testament to years of training and discipline.

But the creatures are relentless, matching his every move with equal agility and brute strength. Their razor-sharp talons slice through the air, grazing his skin and leaving trails of blood in their wake.

A searing pain erupts in his thigh as one of the creatures manages to land a deep gash, tearing through flesh and muscle. He staggers, feeling his strength waning with every passing moment. His breath comes out in ragged gasps, his lungs burning for oxygen. The sweat-soaked hair clings to his forehead, his body drenched in both exertion and fear.

Amidst the chaos, he hears a muffled scream, a sound that slices through the haze of battle and strikes a chord deep within his soul. His heart skips a beat as he recognizes her voice, his instincts screaming at him to turn and protect her. But he can't afford to divert his attention, not when his own survival hangs by a thread.

The weight of their combined attacks overwhelms him. He can no longer evade every strike; his tired body unable to match their relentless assault. A powerful right hook connects with his face, sending him sprawling backward.

The world momentarily blurs as his back collides with a sturdy tree trunk, the impact reverberating through his entire being. Dazed and disoriented, he manages to roll out of harm's way just as a talon slices through the air, cleaving through the tree trunk with terrifying ease.

Chunks of splintered wood rain down upon him as he drags himself across the unforgiving ground. His injured leg throbs with agonizing pain, making every fiber of his being scream in protest.

One of the creatures, fueled by a feral hunger, digs its claws into his shoulder, sinking deep into flesh and sinew. A raw scream of anguish tears from his throat, mingling with the nightmarish cacophony around him.

The searing pain seeps into his bones, threatening to rob him of his will to fight. With a brutal fling, the creature hurls him backward, his body tumbling and rolling before coming to a brutal stop.

Lying on the ground, battered and broken, his mind spins with a whirlwind of emotions. Regret gnaws at his insides, the weight of his failures crushing his spirit. Every missed opportunity, every unspoken word, and every moment taken for granted surge through his thoughts. Tears mingle with the dirt on his cheeks as he struggles to regain his bearings.

Grief and shame coat his tongue, making his saliva taste like poison, as helplessness renders him speechless. Her anguished cries sear into his mind, burning a haunting imprint on his consciousness.

Fury engulfs him, momentarily numbing the searing pain radiating from his wounded thigh. With great effort, he pushes himself up, his movements hobbled and unsteady. Spreading his hands wide, he beckons the creatures to face him, accepting the challenge that lies ahead.

He knows what he has to do.

His eyes find hers amidst the chaos, and he prays that she can read the apology etched within them.

______________________________________________________________________________

(Y/N) POV:

Utter terror grips my heart, squeezing it even tighter than the creature's vice-like hold on my waist. The moment its twisted limbs wrap around me, I thrash blindly, throwing elbows and feet in a frantic attempt to break free. My screams reverberate with desperate intensity, but they are swiftly silenced as its taloned hand clamps mercilessly over my mouth.

Tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision as desperation courses through my veins, fueling my futile struggle. I fight against its unyielding grip, knowing deep down that my efforts are in vain. I have never felt so utterly helpless watching Jackson unleash a flurry of punches and kicks, his movements a blur of desperation and determination.

My heart plummets to the pit of my stomach with each narrow escape from the razor-sharp claws that threaten to tear him apart. I try to scream past the hand that cruelly muzzles me, but my voice is stifled, trapped beneath its suffocating grasp.

My arms are rendered useless, pinned helplessly to my sides as the creature's strength forms an impenetrable cage around me. Still, I fight. I wriggle, kick, and even resort to futile attempts at headbutting my captor, but all my struggles prove futile.

Tears of frustration streak down my cheeks, mingling with the sweat of fear, as I watch one of them slice through Jackson's leg, causing him to stumble.

No, no, no, no, no!

My mind screams, my voice stifled. I want to urge him to rise, to fight back with every ounce of strength he has left. But my pleas remain trapped within, choked by the hand that imprisons my cries.

He rolls to the side, narrowly evading another devastating blow. But outnumbered and overwhelmed, he stands little chance against the relentless assault. The cold touch of the metal breastplate slices into my back as the creature drags my father deeper into the shadowy undergrowth.

In a desperate lurch within its iron grip, I bellow against the hand that smothers my voice, "Run!" My words are muffled, distorted by the barrier of flesh and bone.

My eyes never leave Jackson's form as he is flung back like a discarded puppet, his body colliding with the unforgiving ground. A sickening thud and the shattering of bones reverberate through my ears, intensifying the raw anguish that claws at my soul. My heart shatters with each passing moment of his motionless body.

I scream and wail. Tears cascade down my face, mingling with the stifled cries of despair. But my pleas, my agonized cries, fall upon deaf ears, ignored by the creatures who draw closer with an insatiable hunger for destruction. They move with a cold and calculated determination, while I am left with nothing but a resolute struggle, futilely writhing against my captor's unyielding grasp.

Through blurry vision, I catch a glimpse of Jackson stirring, his face contorted with rage and anguish, making him unrecognizable.

Even earlier, I struggled to reconcile the broken man before me with the one I once knew. His face has grown pale, his once vibrant eyes now devoid of their sparkle. He has become a mere husk, his spirit diminished by the weight of his past actions and the torment he has endured.

When he first approached me, I was consumed by fear. His wide eyes twitched as he spoke, haunted and unblinking. Desperation and genuine anguish radiated from him, tugging at the frayed edges of my heart. But my walls went up, defenses hardened by past wounds. I brushed him off, refusing to listen, dismissing his pain. And now, regret gnaws at my soul, gnashing at my very core.

I wish I had listened. I wish I had given him a chance to speak. I wish I had swallowed my pride and apologized for ruining his life so thoroughly.

What he did was wrong, unforgivable, but the punishment he's endured surpasses anything he deserved. He has lost everything—his life torn asunder, his will to live drained, and the passion that once ignited his eyes extinguished. He is a hollow vessel, an echo of the man he once was.

Emerging from behind the advancing figures, Jackson stands, his body hobbled on one leg. I try to shake my head, my eyes pleading with him to stay down, to spare himself further pain. But he doesn't even glance my way. Instead, he spreads his arms wide, a gesture of defiance.

"Nooooooo!" I scream against the hand that silences me, my voice straining against its suffocating grasp. Tears burn like a fiery river, tracing rivulets down my face, mingling with the bile of fear and desperation.

Oh God, please. No.

He finally looks at me, his eyes haunted and glassy, carrying a depth of emotion that words could never encapsulate. Within them, I see the weight of his anguish, the burden of his regret, and an apology so piercingly sincere that it feels as if it physically tears through my chest, wrenching my heart from its very core.

My heart shatters as I watch them rush toward him, their twisted forms lunging with feral hunger. He fights back, his weakened body launching a feeble counterattack, but his punches miss their mark, his kicks fall short.

They land a barrage of blows against him, and his knees buckle, his body crashing onto the unforgiving earth. One of them seizes his hair, wrenching him upright as he screams and claws at his captor.

Another creature brandishes a sword, a gleaming blade that speaks of imminent doom. I scream and scream, my voice hoarse and raw, my throat burned by the intensity of my pleas. My eyes widen with horror as they drive the sword through Jackson's chest, his fighting ceasing in an instant.

His face slackens, his eyes vacant and devoid of life. They step back, wrenching the sword free with a sickening squelch, and his lifeless body falls backward. He hits the ground with a soft thud—the last sound he’ll ever make.

I hate myself for not being able to see him clearly through the veil of tears, for the image of his lifeless form to be etched sharply in my mind. I need to hold onto his final moments, to grasp the memory of him with utmost clarity, and I can’t even give him that.

My stomach churns, the tight grip around me offering no relief as I retch uncontrollably against the hand that restrains me. But it remains unmoved, showing no reaction to the acidic bile that seeps through its fingers and drips to the ground, mingling with the dirt beneath us. My body convulses with each heave, desperate to purge the overwhelming horror within me.

Once again, they close in on me, their presence casting a shadow over my shattered spirit. But there is no fight left in me. Exhaustion engulfs every fiber of my being, suffusing me with an overwhelming sense of despair. There is no flicker of hope, no ember of resistance that stirs within my chest. I am a mere shell, clinging to Jackson's lifeless form, his eyes frozen open, staring into nothingness.

Even as one of them withdraws a syringe, even as it forces my head to the side, I remain numb to it all. I don't feel the prick of the needle as it pierces my skin. I don't feel the cold liquid coursing through my veins. I don't feel anything at all, except for the encroaching darkness that claws at the edges of my consciousness. It beckons me to surrender, to yield to its consuming embrace.

Like a coward, I give in.

I let the darkness sweep me away into a void of nothingness, where pain and anguish dissipate, and the world around me crumbles into oblivion.

Chapter 33: Crimson Traces

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

Hushed whispers float around me as my senses slowly begin to trickle back. I try to move, but my limbs won't respond. Even the panic in my mind won't translate to my heart. I try to fight, but the more I do, the more ravenous the darkness fights for control.

I don't have the energy to fight it, so I succumb to it once more.

A dull ringing in my ears is the only indication that I’m alive, or maybe not. Maybe this is hell. My consciousness tries to claw through the inky abyss, but the more effort I put in, the heavier it becomes. I wish the hysteria in my mind would penetrate into my nervous system, but once again it does not.

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

I muster all my strength to focus on isolated fragments of my body, attempting to reclaim my sense of space. My eyelids remain oppressively heavy, but for now, I fixate on the rise and fall of my chest.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Minutes, maybe hours, pass before the stygian darkness begins to dissipate, a small hope I cling to. It tries to fight me, but this time I don't give in.

Focus on your chest. Focus on your heartbeat.

A sluggish, barely perceptible thumping echoes throughout my body. It may be faint, but it is a beat, a sign of life.

Yes! Good.

Focus on your fingers, focus on the blood flowing to your fingers, and try to wiggle them. I imagine my blood traveling through the arteries of my heart descending with gravity through the veins down to my fingers.

I strain to force the sensation of tingling, but it eludes me still. Instead, I begin feeling a heavy, anchoring weight.

This is good. Yes. Move, you fool. Move!

I concentrate on that weight, which gradually transmutes into warmth. Warmth blossoms into a prickling sensation that rapidly pervades my entire form.

Finally.

Drawing deeper breaths, I hone in on that sensation, clinging to it like my life depends on it. Maybe it does.

Come on, (Y/N), feel something.

I beg my body to respond, and a surge of relief washes over me as my fingers begin to twitch.

Slowly, the rest of my senses come back to me. The taste of copper and bile coats my tongue, making me regret so passionately missing it. Next, my hearing returns—the faint sigh of creaking metal and the mournful wail of the wind. Fragments of scent waft through the air, mingling with the dank mustiness, the tang of salt in the air, and a subtle hint of something sharp and earthy.

Still, I can't open my eyes, but I can feel them flickering behind my lids. My heartbeat remains slow but steady. More time passes, but I can't tell how much before the veil of darkness lifts. Blinking makes my eyes feel like there are a thousand pins burning into me, but I welcome it as I lift my heavy head.

I curse my blurred vision, or perhaps it's just foggy. I can't tell. I blink repeatedly, wincing at the searing sensation. Gradually, my sight sharpens as it adjusts to the unfamiliar surroundings, bringing certain details into crystal-clear focus. First, I realize that I am not in Robinson Park. Second, I find myself confined within a metal room, devoid of any illumination. And third, I am bound to a cold, metal chair.

A wave of panic crashes over me, which jolts me into action. I test the chains that restrain my hands and feet, pulling at the unyielding manacles, my already sore muscles straining against them. It proves futile; they won’t budge. The icy touch of the metal cuffs digging into my skin only intensifies the pain.

Wait. Skin?

A fresh surge of alarm courses through me as I glance down at my own body, my heart plummeting into the pit of my stomach at the sight. I draw in a sharp breath, my eyes widening in disbelief. They have stripped me of my clothes, leaving me with nothing but my undergarments.

A deep, inky dread burrows in my stomach. If I hadn't already vomited earlier, I am certain I would now. Memories flood back, invading my mind as the horrifying images replay in my head. My scratchy throat constricts with overwhelming emotion, and tears begin to stream down my face.

"Oh, Jackson..."

My hoarse voice whispers into the stagnant air. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." My voice quivers as I surrender to the torrent of warm, salty tears. Once they start, I can’t stem their flow, but I don't even try. They are the sole source of warmth I have at this moment, and to brush them away would be akin to brushing away his last moments.

I could never do that to him. I wouldn't. God, he deserved so much better. With a trembling lip, I make a solemn promise to myself that if I manage to survive this ordeal, Gotham will know the hero he was. With my dying breath, I will ensure that the world knows Jackson Anders died protecting someone who didn't even deserve a kind word from him, let alone his entire life.

I nod to myself, biting my lip as I draw ragged, sharp breaths. My resolve to survive galvanizes me, fueled by my pledge to honor Jackson's memory. I survey my surroundings, absorbing every detail of the room.

I’m confined within a metal box. The floors, ceilings, walls, and door are all constructed from the same unforgiving material. However, the door features a small porthole, which currently serves as the sole source of light.

I blink as the realization dawns on me that the light filtering through the porthole is moonlight, not daylight.

f*ck.

So, hours have truly passed.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Next, I shift my gaze downward, taking in the sight of my restrained form. I am firmly bound to the metal chair, secured by cuffs that have been bolted into the floor.

Okay, escaping anytime soon is out of the question.

Nevertheless, naively, I tug at the restraints, a futile attempt to free myself. Naturally, they don’t yield. I suppress the panic that threatens to consume me and focus on what I can control, even if it is precious little. At least I still have my voice, fragile as it may be.

I scream.

I scream at the top of my lungs, over and over again, until my voice cracks and fails me. I need to conserve my energy. Despite the agony it causes me, I close my eyes and concentrate on calming my racing heart. As my senses recede, this time willingly, I notice a subtle shift in movement. My eyes snap open as it dawns on me—I’m on a boat.

I look out the porthole, desperately trying to determine if we're moving or not, but all I see is moonlight. Terror tightens its cruel grip around my heart as hopelessness threatens to overwhelm me. But I refuse to let it. I fight to hold onto the waning sliver of composure that remains.

The sound of footsteps above startles my senses to full attention. I can't control the rapid fluttering of my heart, no matter how hard I try. All I can do is follow the sound as it gradually descends. They're coming for me.

Against my will, my body tenses, expending precious energy that I cannot afford to waste. Several silhouettes pass by the room, and my throat goes dry with apprehension.

With a screeching whine, the door bursts open, flooding the room with blinding light momentarily. I turn my head and squint, attempting to discern the identities of the individuals entering. I count seven figures as they file in, their features still obscured by the backlight.

The door closes with a resounding thud, sealing my hope along with it. Then, an offensive, dim yellow light illuminates above me, causing my eyes to burn. I blink, adjusting and absorbing the sight before me.

There, right in front of me, stands my guardian, Bran Toremin. Stunned doesn't even begin to cover how I feel in this moment.

My face contorts into an ugly expression as I roar, "YOU MOTHERf*ckER!" The sound of my own voice seems foreign to me as he simply stands there, hands clasped in front of him.

A small smile lifts the corner of his mouth as he tilts his head, observing my struggle against the chains. I continue to spew profanities. The bird-like creatures who kidnapped me and killed Jackson remain silent sentinels behind him, unmoving as I hurl every known insult.

Quickly, my rage loses steam, my chest rising and falling rapidly as my voice fails me once again. "Leave us," he calmly demands.

They comply.

For some reason, their absence is more unnerving than their presence. Now it's just the two of us, portending a fate far worse than my mind can willingly conjure.

He steps forward until he stands directly before me, then kneels down to meet my eye level. I spit in his face, wiping that smug smirk off his face. Now that I can see his arctic eyes, his callousness is laid bare for me to witness. He sneers as he wipes my saliva away, his right eye involuntarily twitching.

I smile.

That might be the quickest I've ever succeeded in getting under his skin. Good.

But my smile fades swiftly as his gaze turns hungry, scanning over my exposed skin. He licks his lips, relishing in my discomfort, while I suppress the whimper that yearns to escape my lips.

He tsks and rises to his full height, delighting as I crane my neck backward to maintain eye contact. I can't show him my fear; it would only entice him. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, pondering his words. "Are you surprised to see me?" he asks evenly. I lean back against the cold metal chair as he bends at the waist, placing his face directly in front of mine. His arms cage me in as he grips the back of the chair.

I hold my breath, determined not to let the slightest touch of him brush against me. Instead of responding, I stare blankly into his soulless eyes. They flare with anger at my lack of reaction.

Suddenly, my head snaps to the side from the force of his backhand, a blow I didn't even see coming. My cheek stings, and my eyes brim uncontrollably with tears. "You speak when spoken to," he commands with a tone reminiscent of someone addressing customer service.

I clench my jaw and slowly turn to face him, remaining silent. His nostrils flare wildly for a moment before he becomes unnaturally still. The buzzing of the light above me grows louder, as if it, too, clings to its last threads of life.

He descends to my eye level once more, an odd expression crossing his face. "You know, I never wanted it to come to this," he whispers, almost sounding sorrowful. But that can't be right; he isn't capable of remorse.

I flinch as he raises his hand again, but this time he does something far worse than striking me. His knuckles graze my cheek, caressing it for a moment before he drops his hand. "I had such high hopes for you," he muses, tilting his head back and forth, observing me like a lion eyes its prey. "I wanted to witness you blossom into a full woman," he breathes out sharply. "Oh, the possibilities."

A bead of sweat trickles down my temple, a result of both strained muscles and frayed nerves. Bile rises, the acidic burn now a familiar sensation. "What did you do with my clothes?" I manage to croak, my voice cracking gruffly.

He huffs a breath through his nose, his gaze flickering across my half-naked body as if he momentarily forgot my state. "Ah, yes," he begins. "We had to dispose of them." Rising from his position, a faint smile lingers on his lips. "Can't have that insolent child tracking you."

My brows furrow at his words before the realization hits me.

Damian!

My heart stumbles for a moment as fresh waves of fear crash over me. It must be evident on my face because his faint smile transforms into a full one, revealing a row of perfect, white teeth. "Oh, don't worry about him," he coos. "He's not the one I want, after all." His tongue flicks out, and I detect an odd strain in his eyes.

Confusion mingles with the precarious blend of emotions within me. He begins circling me, each click of his shoes resonating in the room. Slowly, he paces tight circles around me, each click of his shoes ringing in the room around us.

His head swivels, his eyes never leaving me. "What I desire," he states boldly, "only you can give me." His voice comes from behind, accompanied by the descent of his hands upon my shoulders, causing me to jolt in the chair, the metal clanging treacherously.

He chuckles darkly, his body heat seeping onto my raw, exposed skin. I refuse to meet his gaze, even when I hear him inhale deeply and exhale right above my head, blowing my hair around my face.

I clench my jaw, refusing to let it quiver. "Let's get this over with already," I say sternly, forcing steeliness into my tone. "What the f*ck do you want?" My eyes remain fixed forward. His grip on my shoulders tightens painfully, but I show no outward signs of discomfort.

"Watch your tone," he warns, suddenly before me, leaning into my personal space once again. His slitted eyes search my blank expression, but I refuse to even blink.

"I want you to tell me something," he states, his demeanor shifting as his charismatic mask returns.

I raise an eyebrow, awaiting his request.

"You see, they want me to kill you," he calmly explains. My lungs sharply expand as I draw in a tense breath, the air feeling thick and suffocating. The room feels colder now, as if the temperature dropped several degrees, chilling me to the core.

"But I think you're more valuable than that." He pauses, allowing his words to sink in, and I can almost taste the underlying menace in his voice. A gust of wind hits the door, causing the hinges to groan in protest, amplifying the eerie atmosphere that surrounds us. His eyes remain fixed on mine, piercing and unyielding, as if searching for any hint of weakness.

"You're going to tell me something about Damian. About his father, something that nobody else knows," he declares with calculated certainty, hanging in the air like a dark cloud.

A humorless chuckle escapes me, mingling with the tension in the room. "And why would I do that? You're going to kill me anyway, so what's the point?" I challenge, my voice laced with defiance, refusing to succumb to his intimidation.

"Because, my dear, if you don't, you'll die much slower and far more painfully." His words strike me like a cold, steel blade, sending a shiver down my spine. He inches closer, and I instinctively turn my head away, avoiding the brush of our noses. His hot, rancid breath brushes against my face, making my skin pucker in revulsion.

He withdraws slightly but remains directly in front of me, a menacing figure casting a long shadow. "So? Death is death, is it not?" I tilt my head, watching him intently.

His booming laughter fills the room, echoing off the walls and reverberating through my bones. "Death is the least of your problems, (Y/N)." The weight of his threat hangs heavily in the air, pressing down on me like a smothering blanket.

My traitorous body involuntarily begins to shake. Yet, I attribute it to the freezing air, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of witnessing my fear.

"Death doesn't scare me," I boldly proclaim.

"No, I suppose it doesn't," he responds with a slight frown, seemingly disappointed. "But there are far worse things than death in this world." His words carry a weight of knowledge and experience, hinting at the horrors he has witnessed or even inflicted upon others.

He cuts off my reply by raising his left hand and snapping his fingers. The door bursts open with a resounding crash, propelled by an unseen force. Two recognizable figures enter, their faces masked in shadow, pushing something I can't quite see.

They move with swift purpose, their movements synchronized, as they deposit the unknown object and swiftly exit, leaving s cart behind.

A serpentine smile spreads across his face as he turns his back to me, his attention captured by the mysterious items. His fingers dance above its surface as he hums, the sound a chilling melody that sends shivers down my spine. I watch, my heart pounding, as his anticipation builds.

Tremors course through my body, as if it knows something I don't. He turns to face me, a small blade glinting in his hand. "Do you know what this is?" His eyes ablaze with a sick fascination. I do, but I remain silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment.

"This is a scalpel, for precision cutting of the flesh," he explains, unable to conceal the excitement in his voice. Each word drips with a perverse delight, fueling his twisted pleasure.

"You'd be amazed at how much you can dismember a person before they die," he adds almost casually. He holds the metal tool with reverence, as if it were a queen's scepter, his eyes gleaming with a sickening intensity.

My breathing becomes rapid and shallow, my chest tightening with each labored breath. My heart races like a wild stallion, threatening to burst through my ribcage. Fear coils within me, gripping every fiber of my being. "You will tell me what I want to know, or you'll experience firsthand what this can do," he declares, his voice laced with glee, relishing the terror that dances in my eyes.

Through clenched teeth, I summon every ounce of defiance within me and spit, "I won't say sh*t.” Anger and determination fuse together, overshadowing the fear that threatens to consume me. My nostrils flare as rage takes hold—a flicker of defiance in the face of unspeakable torment. I made a vow to Jackson, and there is no way this man will take that from me.

His face contorts, his disappointment painting his features. "That's a pity, really. For you, I mean. But for me," he smiles, a malicious glint in his eyes, "that's a gift." His words hang in the air, pregnant with a sinister promise, and a cold dread settles in the pit of my stomach.

He moves behind me, his presence a haunting shadow that lingers just out of sight.. "Now, be a dear and count," he demands, his voice dripping with cruel authority. The first incision cuts into my shoulder, right above the bone, and an agonizing wave of pain crashes through me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, a tear escaping despite my best efforts, as the burning torment steals my breath. But through it all, I remain silent, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of my cries.

"Count, (Y/N)," he orders, frustration creeping into his voice, a crack in his facade.

I clench my jaw, grinding my molars together, stubbornly choosing to endure the pain in stoic silence. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite down harder.

"Where is the safe in Wayne Manor?" His unexpected question momentarily steals my bracing breath, catching me off guard before he cuts into me again, this time down my shoulder blade.

Warmth races down my skin, mingling with the searing pain, as I grind my molars together with renewed determination, still choosing to remain silent.

"Don't be stubborn. This can all be over quickly. Just answer my question," he tries to coax a response from me, the desperation creeping into his voice belying the cracks in his facade.

I refuse.

He continues his relentless assault, the cuts on my body multiplying, each slice tearing through my flesh. Each slice of the blade sends searing pain coursing through my body, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of my cries. The room seems to darken, as if the very shadows are drawn to the scene unfolding before them.

His breathing grows labored, a symphony of heavy exhales punctuating his demands for answers. He orders me to count, but I remain defiant, my lips sealed in silent determination.

When he probes about Bruce's office, I stubbornly refuse to provide him with any information. With each strike, he seems to lose himself further in the darkness, succumbing to the twisted pleasure derived from inflicting pain upon another. I clench my teeth, fighting against the screams clawing at my throat.

Finally, he pauses, stepping back to survey his handiwork. The weight of his fury contorts his countenance, and a bulging vein in his neck reveals his escalating rage. In that moment, an image flashes through my mind—a vision of me wrestling the scalpel out of his clenched fist and dragging it across his jugular. The thought offers a fleeting solace, a glimmer of retribution in the face of my tormentor.

He approaches the cart, his movements swift and purposeful, shedding his navy blazer along the way. The air thickens with anticipation, heavy with the stench of blood and the taste of fear. As he rolls up his sleeves, revealing sinewy forearms adorned with scars.

Despite the warm blood coating my skin, I feel an icy coldness enveloping me. A profound lightheadedness settles over me, my neck straining under the weight of my heavy skull. I allow my head to loll back, finding a fleeting respite against the unforgiving chair, my defiance the only anchor in this sea of darkness.

"Let's try something different," he suggests with a sickening calmness, the words dripping with sad*stic anticipation.

Mockery seeps into my voice as I respond, "What do you have in mind?" I taunt, my words a sharp needle piercing his ego, a venomous challenge to his twisted game.

A malicious smile stretches across his face, warping his features into a grotesque mask of delight. "We're going to play a game called 'You’re going to tell me what I want, or I’m going to do my worst,'" he reciprocates, his voice a twisted melody.

I laugh—a genuine, deep belly laugh that echoes through the room. I catch his smile tightening, barely perceptible, as I continue. But my laughter ceases abruptly, my eyes darkening as they fixate on him. "By all means, please do," I order, my voice dripping with a chilling darkness, an unhinged determination. "Your worst can't even scratch the surface."

For an instant, I detect a flicker of true terror in his eyes, a crack in his armor. But he quickly schools his features, wiping away any trace of vulnerability. He rushes toward me, gripping my face in his hand, his fingers squeezing with bone-crushing force until they nearly pierce my skin.

"Your wish is my command," he whispers, his breath staining my cheeks.

Blows rain down upon my stomach, each strike a hammer against my fragile form. The pain is blinding, searing through me like a wildfire, stealing the very breath from my lungs.

My body doubles over, the air forced out in a tortured wheeze. Yet, through the torment, I clutch onto the vital thread of breathing, gasping for air even as it feels like daggers in my chest.

He delivers a bone-shattering right hook, causing my vision to blur and blood to pool in my mouth. I spit the blood onto his shoes, a grotesque display of my refusal to yield. My eyes fixate on him, a burning intensity emanating from their depths.

Enraged, he bellows, his fists becoming a blur of violence as they rain down upon me. Blow after blow connects with my broken body, each strike leaving its mark, an indelible testament to his brutality. Pain engulfs me, an inferno devouring my senses, but still, I endure.

Through bloodied lips, I manage to form words, each one laced with bitterness. "Do you know what the definition of insanity is?" I pause, a cough wracking my broken body, blood escaping my lips as I speak. I catch a glimpse of confusion flickering across his face, and I seize the moment. "Doing the same thing... over and over again..." A smile creeps across my blood-stained face, exposing my broken teeth. "And expecting different results."

He co*cks his head sharply to the side, chuckling at my delirious state. "Albert Einstein," I mumble to myself, my voice fading. The last thing I see before the world slips away is his arm winding up, his fist hurtling toward my jaw, and then... darkness.

When consciousness reluctantly returns, a cruel reality greets me with open arms. Gone is the familiar confinement of the chair; instead, I find myself suspended from the low ceiling, my hands bound and bearing the weight of my broken body. The accompanying shriek of pain that tears through my parched lips echoes with a haunting lament.

My ribs, stretched to their limits, mercilessly dig into my fragile organs. Each breath I manage to muster becomes a shallow gasp, a mere whisper of life. My bruised eyes strain against their swollen prison.

The chains that now weigh down my ankles have also been callously bolted to the floor, denying me even the smallest respite by curling my legs inward. The metallic shackles bite into my flesh, a constant reminder of my utter helplessness. The tormenting sensation of numbness tingles through my hands.

Alone in this abysmal chamber, my torn and ravaged flesh cries out in unrelenting agony. Each passing breath brings a biting chill that mercilessly lances through the raw wounds.

A groan, part anguish, and part resignation escapes me, accompanied by the sickening blend of nausea, bile, and blood churning in my constricted throat.

I can’t allow myself to succumb to heavy breathing, lest I inadvertently puncture something vital.

Through the meager window of a porthole, a fleeting shadow passes, casting a momentary glimpse of light before the door slowly swings open. Even in the dimness, I recognize the silhouette of Bran, a harbinger of my ongoing nightmare.

He steps into the room, the metallic door slamming shut behind him with a jarring finality. The flickering light exposes his countenance, his eyes now crazed and wild, his hair disheveled.

Each deliberate step he takes towards me reverberates with a chilling malevolence, causing my battered soul to recoil. Hatred, undiluted and unyielding, courses through my veins; its venomous presence both my curse and solace.

Bran's gaze, a searing brand of repulsive curiosity, drills into my battered flesh. "They're growing impatient," he murmurs, his words an insidious whisper that curls against my ravaged skin. "We’ll have to take some drastic measures."

His hands press against my bruised ribs, searing pain melding with my already festering wounds. A vile sensation churns within my stomach, convulsing in instinctual rejection. "I won’t be able to hold them back for much longer," he confesses, his fingers tracing the contours of my broken form with perverse fascination.

A feeble whimper escapes me, borne of fear and desperation. My heart, burdened by the weight of unrelenting terror, clenches tightly within my chest. My mind, seeking refuge in the darkest corners of despair, braces itself for the impending storm.

Bran's eyes snap to mine, a grotesque satisfaction swimming within their depths. My lips, taut with the resolve to deny him the satisfaction he seeks, seal shut the words that long to assail him.

His smile, a twisted contortion that strains his skin, betrays the malignant hope that flickers within his twisted soul. "You can end all this suffering if you just tell me what I want to know." His voice drips with a potent darkness, holding a dark hope that I won't comply.

I shake my head, resolute in my defiance, fortifying myself for the onslaught of torment that awaits.

At that moment, a profound sense of despair engulfs me, intertwining with the searing pain and violation I endure. The sickening delight gleaming in his eyes pierces my soul, a chilling confirmation of the depths to which he has descended. My mind races, grappling with the cruel truth that this man, this monster, revels in my torment.

As he advances, his hands slithering up my body, a fiery trail of agony ignites along my wounded back. His voice, dripping with disdain, delivers a cryptic accusation that sends shivers down my spine. "I’d commend you for your strength, but it’s because of your stupidity that it’s come to this." His words resonate, a harrowing reminder of the choices that brought me to this wretched place.

Then, in a swift and degrading motion, he reaches upward, unclasping my bra. Horror floods my being as the protective barrier is stripped away, leaving me exposed, vulnerable, and violated. The delicate fabric cascades to the floor, an ethereal whisper of my lost dignity.

"No. God, no," I mutter through clenched teeth, my voice trembling with anguish. Panic surges within me, a primal instinct to resist, to fight against the violation of my sacred boundaries.

I scream, tears streaming down my bruised and broken face, as I lash out, attempting to repel his invasive touch. Every fiber of my being wails in solidarity, consumed by a mix of fury, confusion, and unfathomable grief.

All these years, I thought I knew what it was like for a girl to swallow a woman's grief, but I was wrong. Now, in this desolate chamber of horrors, I am forced to confront the grim reality that my understanding was mere naivety. The suffering I have endured at his hands has transformed my anger into something raw and indescribable, an insidious force that coils within me, poisoning my mind and corroding my spirit.

It erupts from the depths of my being, a primal scream that defies the confines of the room, reverberating with biblical wrath. Blinded by an overwhelming surge of rage, I momentarily lose myself in the tempest of my own fury. His alarm is palpable as he recoils from the sound, startled by the intensity of my defiance.

In a desperate attempt to silence me, he cups my face, his touch a grotesque mockery of tenderness. "Shhhh," he implores, his voice laced with a perverse mixture of authority and manipulation.

With a surge of primal instinct, I sink my teeth into his revolting fingers, determined to inflict as much pain upon him as he has inflicted upon me. The taste of metallic blood fills my mouth, triggering a wave of nausea, yet I hold on.

Even as his face crumples in pain, his determination remains unyielding. He persists, attempting to pry my jaws open with his other hand, his fingers digging into the corners of my mouth. The pressure becomes unbearable, threatening to shatter my resolve. With a surge of desperation, I release my grip, my jaw relinquishing its hold.

Immediately, he steps back, cradling his injured hand. The once-twisted delight on his face morphs into a mask of seething fury. Red stains his pale cheeks, contrasting against the sickly pallor of his skin.

His eyes, wide with rage, reveal a primal savagery that sends shivers down my spine. "You f*cking bitch," he spits through clenched teeth, his voice a venomous hiss. The whites of his eyes become stark against the enraged backdrop of his irises.

A slow smirk curls upon my lips, tainted by his blood pooling in my mouth. The metallic taste lingers, a grim reminder of the violence that permeates our encounter. "You'll pay for that," he growls, his voice a menacing growl that reverberates through the room. He drops his injured hand, the pain fueling his determination.

In one swift motion, he lunges toward me, his grip on my waist tightening with cruel intensity. The force of his touch leaves a painful imprint, smearing my skin with dark red, mingling with the stains of my own.

My screams, born from the depths of my anguish, echo off the cold, unforgiving metal walls. Each cry is a desperate plea, but they fall on deaf ears. He remains undeterred, deaf to my pleas, interpreting my screams as an invitation to inflict further pain and degradation upon my violated form.

Yet, amidst the cacophony of agony, a thread of sorrow weaves its way into my shattered consciousness. As my mind begins to dissociate, the sensations of his hands on my body, the violation of him tearing away the remnants of my garments, become distant and surreal.

I find solace, albeit twisted, in this detachment—a respite from the excruciating reality that surrounds me.

Time slows, the air thickens, and the room itself seems to take on a malevolent presence. Muffled sounds blend together, distorted by the weight of my suffering. Shadows dance, casting eerie shapes upon the walls, as the encroaching darkness seizes its hold. It is within this grim setting, this chamber of horrors, that my spirit teeters on the precipice of oblivion.

Embracing a strange tranquility, a twisted resignation to the inevitable, I eagerly await the arrival of that darkness. Its whispers promise liberation—an escape from the torment that binds me.

Powerless to stop him, I find solace in the knowledge that, at least, I won't have to endure this unfathomable nightmare any longer. With a final, fleeting glimpse of the room's haunting atmosphere, I surrender myself to the depths of that consuming darkness. It envelops my mind, swallowing me whole, silencing me once and for all.

Chapter 34: Turbulent Embers

Chapter Text

Damian’s POV: Sunday morning

The insidious darkness he had so deftly concealed from his unsuspecting family over the years was beginning to unfurl, its presence weighed down by an overwhelming desire for release. Last night had marked a pivotal moment, a shifting within him ignited by the blind man's relentless provocation. Since then, he had struggled fiercely to regain his composure, attempting to reestablish the tenuous tether that held his inner turmoil at bay.

The transformation that had taken hold of him remained inexplicable, an enigmatic force stirring at the fringes of his consciousness. A nagging sensation in the recesses of his mind whispered that her unwavering acceptance of him had acted as the catalyst, unshackling the dormant beast lurking deep within his being. Yet, he battled relentlessly against this notion, questioning whether she truly comprehended the profound depths of what this unleashed entity entailed.

Now, standing in the solemn sanctuary of his father's office alongside his brothers, he waged an internal war against the burgeoning urge to surrender to the all-consuming darkness. Acknowledging its existence was an unavoidable truth, but he resolved to confine it within the darkest recesses of his soul, steadfastly refusing to grant it dominion over his actions.

"It may be early, but Tim and I have painstakingly compiled the transcripts in which the name 'silver fox' appears," his father discloses, his call for this early morning family meeting prompting a shared exchange of perplexed and subtly alarmed glances among them.

Todd and Grayson promptly claimed their customary positions upon one of the sumptuous leather couches, their countenances transforming into stern masks of focused attention. Meanwhile, Tim stood faithfully at his father's side, a symbol of unwavering loyalty. In contrast, Damian chose to adopt a more guarded stance, positioning himself slightly apart, his unwavering gaze fixed upon their faces as he sought to glean the urgency woven into this gathering.

He surmised that their father's revelation held a direct connection to the discoveries made the previous night, and a wave of relief cascades over him as his suspicions are validated.

Grayson and Todd, now perched on the edge of the couch, radiate an air of unwavering determination. Drake, seemingly unaffected by the revelation, having been an active participant in the arduous task of sifting through the evidence, cradles a steaming mug of coffee in his hands.

If he is to venture a guess, Drake had forsaken sleep, laboring tirelessly throughout the night to bring their investigation to fruition. A surge of gratitude swells within Damian as he catches his brother's eye, silently acknowledging his unwavering dedication. Drake's widened eyes betray his astonishment, momentarily caught off guard by this uncharacteristic display of appreciation.

The swell of gratitude, however, swiftly recedes, replaced by an unwelcome wave of shame. Had he truly never expressed his gratitude before? Could it truly be so inconceivable that he possessed the capacity for such heartfelt emotions? Shaking off the disquieting thoughts, he focuses his attention on the illuminated computer screen before him, determined to contribute his unwavering focus to the cause.

Todd and Grayson gravitate towards him, their physical proximity heightening the collective impact of the information unveiling before them. "You hacked into someone’s phone?" Grayson queries incredulously, their eyes locking on the transcripts originating from unfamiliar phone numbers. Raising his gaze, Damian catches his father's subtle smile, his lips pressed together in a tight-lipped gesture, followed by a resolute nod.

There had existed an unspoken agreement among them, a tacit understanding not to trespass into such personal realms unless dire circ*mstances compelled them. Yet now, in light of these startling revelations, the weight of their predicament bears down upon them, an undeniable truth made palpable by the intimate conversations recorded. They have transitioned from passive observers to proactive detectives, the figurative gloves shedding as they embrace the arduous task of unraveling the intricate web of deceit that ensnared them.

The discoveries unearthed the day before had laid bare a far-reaching tapestry of criminality, exceeding the boundaries they had initially presumed. This venture transcends the realm of (Y/N). The shadowy activities they had inadvertently stumbled upon was infinitely more sinister than their previous conjectures had alluded to. Each of them now bears the weight of this harsh reality.

Worst of all, they remain oblivious to the harrowing ordeals she has endured at the hands of her guardian. If they were to discover the truth, he doubts they would be capable of restraining themselves from taking swift action. Initially, the notion tantalized him, but upon deeper reflection, he realized that it would be a disservice to both her and the greater public.

As much as he hates to admit it, this situation extends beyond their individual lives, despite his genuine concern for her well-being. "Take note of this discussion about arranging a meeting between the 'silver fox' and a prominent financier," his father states, pointing to the bottom of the screen.

They all scrutinize the text, digesting the implications. "It seems that-" his words are abruptly interrupted by a severe bout of dizziness, causing him to stumble and grasp the edge of his father's desk. Todd and Grayson swiftly steady him, their hands firmly planted on his shoulders.

"Damian?" Todd's voice carries a hint of concern. Shaking his head in an attempt to dispel the dizzying sensation, he only succeeds in intensifying the room's spinning. He instinctively clutches his head, a groan escaping his lips. Drake and his father lean closer, seeking to understand the sudden disturbance. Gradually, the dizziness subsides, allowing him to stand independently once more.

He takes several measured breaths through his nose, steadying himself before asserting, "I'm fine." Shaking off his brothers' lingering hands, he looks at them both and offers a reassuring smile, hoping to alleviate their worries. Todd chuckles, teasingly baring his teeth and playfully flipping him off, but it is Grayson's reaction that catches him off guard. His hand rises to rub the back of his neck, guilt etching upon his features. "I probably didn't need to hit you so hard yesterday," he mumbles ruefully.

Rolling his eyes in response, Damian retorts, "Please, as if a mere punch could debilitate me." The intended effect is achieved, as his brother's face relaxes, a silent laughter twinkling in his eyes. With Grayson's concerns assuaged, they return their focus to the screen. However, when Damian glances at his father, he detects the persistent skepticism lingering in his gaze. His narrowed eyes scrutinize every inch of his being, attempting to discern whether he truly is fine. When their gazes meet, his father finally dips his chin in reluctant acceptance.

For now, he lets the matter slide, knowing full well that he will resurrect his concerns at a later time. In this moment, he is granted a reprieve from further interrogation.

As the hours slip away, the study gradually warms under the gentle caress of sunlight streaming into the room. Despite his father's penchant for privacy, he never draws the curtains closed, resulting in certain patches on the area rug being bleached over time by the cyclical sunlight.

They pour over each word in every transcript, meticulously mapping out physical timelines on a corkboard that Alfred has rolled in. The abundance of references to the name makes it challenging to piece together a coherent picture, but with each passing minute, they inch closer to unearthing the truth.

Just as he pins one of the transcripts to the board, he feels a vibration in his pants pocket. Perplexed, he retrieves his phone, a jolt of alarm coursing through him as he reads Sam's text.

Have you heard from (Y/N) today? She hasn't responded to any of my messages yet. She said she'd come over when she woke up, but it's much later in the day than her usual waking time.

His eyes scan the message repeatedly, desperately hoping for an alternative interpretation. He curses under his breath, choosing to ignore the message as he swiftly navigates to her contact and sends off several texts. The others have ceased their conversations, their attention now fixed on him.

"What's happened?" Todd's voice carries a tinge of confusion. Annoyance flickers within him, tempting him to respond with a snarky remark. Inhaling deeply through his nose, he musters composure and promptly explains the situation, their faces growing solemn as he relays Sam's message.

They encircle him, as he feverishly dials her phone, dread coiling tighter in his stomach with each unanswered ring. The weight of their silent support lingers beside him, a palpable presence as he makes three more futile attempts to reach her, the persistent silence leading only to voicemail.

Then, a message from Sam arrives, causing blood to drain from his face, his fingers trembling as he reads the words.

Turn on the news.

Grayson rushes to his father's meticulously crafted walnut desk, his fingers fumbling with anticipation as he switches on the television, swiftly flipping through the channels to find the news. Their collective attention fixates on the screen, their senses fully engaged as the newscaster's voice fills the room, resonating with a mix of urgency and dread.

“Good morning, I'm Summer Gleeson and this is Gotham City News Channel. We have breaking news from Robinson Park, where a shocking discovery has been made. Earlier today, a man stumbled upon a lifeless body on one of the park's trails. The victim, who remains unidentified, was found crumpled in the middle of the trail and had been stabbed through the chest. Authorities have been alerted and are currently investigating the scene. Our correspondent…”

Damian's attention wanes, his mind retreating from the newscaster's words as a grainy image flashes across the screen. Despite its lack of clarity, he recognizes the distorted contours of Jackson Anders' mutilated face. Ice-cold tendrils weave through his veins, his breath hitching as the witness's voice recounts the chilling encounter with the lifeless remains. His heart slows, a throbbing pulse in his ears, while his vision narrows, focusing intently on the aged features of the witness.

"Damian," his father begins, his voice carrying a gentle undertone, "Is that not the exact trail you were walking Titus on?" The question feels redundant, as his father is well aware of the answer. He confirms it, observing his brothers grow increasingly ashen, the implications sinking deep into their collective consciousness.

He had sensed a bitter edge in Jackson's gaze, the disdainful glares cast their way whenever their paths crossed in the hallways. Yet, the true extent of his desperation had eluded him until this pivotal moment. It becomes painfully apparent that Jackson had been stalking her, an unsettling revelation that causes Damian's nails to dig firmly into his palms.

How did he not realize this? How did he go unnoticed for so long? How long has he been following her? Was he following her this morning?

The final question seizes his breath, fear coiling tightly within his chest. A shared realization dawns upon the others, their expressions reflecting the taut tension of his own. "We need to get to the crime scene before GCPD sullies it," he declares, his voice resonating with a deep, gravelly timbre. A muscular spasm ripples across his clenched jaw, betraying the tremor of apprehension coursing through him.

"Jason and I will accompany you, while Dick and Tim stay behind and finish analyzing the data," his father asserts, fully embracing his Batman persona. None question his command, all swiftly complying as the three of them exit the office, dispersing to their respective rooms to don their uniforms.

Normally, their actions are confined to the cover of night, when shadows offer them solace. But the urgency of the current circ*mstances demands an exception to their nocturnal rule.

Damian races through the labyrinthine corridors, the vivid tapestries blurring past as the stagnant air rushes past him, swirling through his tousled locks. In what feels like mere moments, he arrives at the Batcave, his restless strides echoing against the cool stone floor, his impatience palpable within the dimly lit cavern.

Batman and Red Robin descend in unison, their determined steps exuding purpose as they close the distance with unyielding resolve. Without the need for words, they enter the Batmobile, Red Robin gracefully sliding into the backseat, relinquishing the passenger seat to him. Silence envelops them all as Batman initiates the powerful ignition, the forceful acceleration thrusting them back against the seats, their bodies pressed firmly into the leather upholstery.

Thoughts race through his mind, tracing the paths of various possibilities, while the bustling cityscape whizzes past them. Pedestrians and commuters turn their heads in astonishment at the sight of them in broad daylight, their movements swift and agile as they navigate through the crowded streets, deftly maneuvering around vehicles and disregarding red lights.

Finally, they screech to a halt at the nearest park entrance. With purposeful strides, they make their way toward the trail, voices growing louder as they approach. Batman, taking charge, heads straight for Commissioner Gordon, who is in conversation with the jogger, diligently scribbling notes.

As they draw near, the commissioner's eyebrows shoot up, his surprise etched across his face. With his salt-and-pepper hair, thick-rimmed glasses, and meticulously groomed mustache, he eyes them warily. "Batman?" he says, his deep voice tinged with apprehension. "I thought you were allergic to sunlight," he quips in a feeble attempt at humor.

Unyielding in his stoicism, Batman remains unaffected by the failed jest. "We're here to investigate," he states evenly, offering no need for further explanation. Without waiting for permission, he and Red Robin swiftly duck under the caution tape. Commissioner Gordon whirls around, his mouth opening to protest, but he abruptly snaps it shut.

Undeterred, Damian walks up to the covered body, pulling back the sheet that conceals Jackson's lifeless form. "This is an ongoing investigation. I'm going to have to ask you to leave," a nearby officer proclaims.

Red Robin tilts his helmet-clad head in clear dismissal. The officer must be new. Ignoring the futile objection, Damian kneels down, meticulously scrutinizing every detail of the body.

Defensive marks on the hands, bruised face, a clean wound to the chest, and traces of dirt and debris in the hair. This was no mere hit-and-run or failed mugging. It was a meticulously planned and executed attack. The puncture wound in the chest is precise, large, and clean—clearly the work of a sharp-edged blade.

Not just any common criminal would carry a sword. Rising to his feet, Damian begins to circle the crime scene, absorbing every available piece of information from the kicked-up dirt.

Amidst the hushed tension, Damian's eyes narrow, fixating on a series of footprints that deviate from the ordinary. They lead him on a visual journey, tracing the steps of a hidden dance that unfolded in the soil. His sharp mind reconstructs the scene, visualizing the sequence of events, the give and take of an intense struggle. Following the trail in the dirt, he visualizes the potential scenarios.

Someone was dragged into the thick foliage, and it appears they put up a fight. Every few feet, evidence of a struggle is evident in the disturbed soil. While Red Robin handles the protesting officer, Damian ventures deeper into the underbrush. As the foliage becomes denser, a noxious scent wafts into his nostrils.

His head swivels, scanning the ground as he seeks the source of the odor. While the crime scene carried the metallic tang of blood and the earthy scent of nature, this aroma is putrid and acidic. Finally, his eyes settle on a dried droplet of vomit on top of a broad, waxy leaf.

Extracting a vial from his trusty utility belt, he carefully scrapes the substance off the leaf before sealing it with an airtight cap. Navigating his way back through the bushes, he finds his father engaged in a serious conversation with Commissioner Gordon to the side. Red Robin remains kneeling, intently inspecting the body, delicately lifting Jackson's lifeless arm for closer examination.

"From what we've gathered, the body was discovered only a few hours ago by the jogger," Gordon explains, while Batman listens intently. "Our forensic team estimates the time of death to be around seven forty-five this morning." Damian joins his father's side, his presence a silent prompt for more information. Gordon eyes him carefully before continuing, "By the time the body was found, any traces of the perpetrator were gone."

"Perpetrators," Damian corrects, drawing the commissioner's attention. Surprise flickers across his features as he genuinely asks, "How do you figure?"

Damian's eyes narrow with focused determination, his mind synthesizing the evidence, connecting the dots that form a larger, more intricate tapestry. "The footprints surrounding the scene indicate multiple individuals," he explains, his voice tinged with quiet certainty. "Distinct sizes, different weights," he continues, his words unraveling the hidden story etched into the soil. "It suggests a coordinated effort, a group acting with a shared purpose."

"Okay, perpetrators," he amends, frustration palpable in his voice as he shifts his weight uneasily. The scorching sun beats down on their backs, casting elongated shadows across the crime scene. The distinct smell of freshly cut grass lingers in the air, mingling with the faint scent of distant blooming flowers.

"This was a calculated attack, as Robin stated," Batman's voice cuts through the tense atmosphere like a blade. His unwavering tone commands attention, a reminder of the weight they bear in unraveling the mystery.

Before Commissioner Gordon can voice his queries, Damian interjects, his words laden with urgency. "I doubt he was their target." He cuts off any more potential interruptions, his voice resonating with determination. "There's a set of footprints nearby, leading into the trees, before abruptly vanishing without a trace."

His racing heartbeat reverberates in his ears, the thud echoing amidst the ambient sound of distant traffic. Worst-case scenarios unfold in his mind like a relentless storm. What if those were her footprints? What if she innocently walked through the park, blissfully unaware of the lurking danger? And why was Jackson present? Was he following her, and did he attempt to harm her before being overpowered?

Each question tightens his clenched jaw, intensifying the weight of the unknown. Desperate for answers, he yearns to return to the Batcave, where the sterile environment and advanced equipment could provide insights. Perhaps the bile sample they collected belongs to Jackson Anders, and she remains safe, peacefully asleep in her bed.

Inhaling a sharp breath, he catches his father's gaze, his desperation mirrored in his own eyes. With a barely perceptible nod, their unspoken agreement solidifies. Without a second thought, Damian disappears into the vast expanse of the park, his agile form blending seamlessly with the shadows.

He moves with practiced grace, navigating the pathways that weave through the verdant landscape. Nervous beads of sweat form on his brow, glistening like liquid silver, as he pushes forward, driven by a sense of urgency.

Finally, he arrives at the alleyway behind her townhouse, seeking solace within its shaded confines. The bricks, cooled by the winter’s air, seep into his fingertips. He nimbly scales the wall, his gloved hands finding purchase on the rough surface. The clink of metal against brick fills the air as he deftly maneuvers, utilizing pipes and ledges as his invisible guide.

The window, hidden from prying eyes, beckons him forward. With a careful touch, he eases it open, the faint creak barely audible amidst the ambient sounds of the neighborhood.

Moving through the room with measured steps, he treads softly on the plush carpet, absorbing the familiar scents that surround him. Shadows dance across the walls, casting elongated silhouettes that seem to sway in sync with his racing thoughts.

The house remains eerily silent, devoid of the usual signs of life. Each creak of the floorboards beneath his weight amplifies the hushed stillness, heightening his sense of trepidation. His ears strain, searching for any faint sounds that would betray someone's presence.

His exploration takes him from room to room, his gloved hands grazing surfaces with utmost care. The absence of (Y/N)'s familiar belongings leaves an emptiness in his heart, the lingering traces of her essence serving as a poignant reminder of her absence. The untouched rooms feel haunted as if holding their collective breath, waiting for her return.

Only one room remains beyond his reach, its closed door a barrier that shields its secrets. Darkness seeps from the room, contrasting starkly with the soft light that spills from the hallway. He curses under his breath, a whisper of frustration, as he stands amidst the stillness of her bedroom. His gaze sweeps across the space, the neatly made bed a testament to her meticulous nature.

A wave of anguish washes over him, the realization settling like an anchor in his chest. If she has already left for the day, and if Sam hasn't seen her, it means she has taken an unexpected detour, blissfully unaware of the lurking danger. Alternatively, the more harrowing possibility lingers—a possibility that she, the one he cherishes, has become the victim. The weight of that thought threatens to buckle his knees.

Desperation, fury, and confusion form a tumultuous storm in his mind as his eyes hungrily drink in every detail of the bedroom, searching for a clue to her whereabouts. He begins rifling through her closet and bathroom, his hands moving with a mix of urgency and uncertainty. What he seeks, he does not yet know. Finally, he approaches her nightstand and rips open the top drawer, freezing as he sees his note tucked neatly on top.

His breath escapes in a whoosh as he peers down at his own handwriting. Memories flood back of that intimate night. The softness of her hair tickling his face as she slept peacefully on his chest. The intensity in her eyes as she descended to her knees before him. The warmth of her hands cradling his face as she implored him to listen. The beauty of her smile as she professed her love for him.

Each emotion connected to those memories becomes a bittersweet lump in his throat, causing him to swallow hard. Even the scents of her room send melancholic shivers through him. The intertwining aromas of her personal scent and the lingering lavender candle invoke a sense of being enveloped in her embrace, despite the empty room.

With a determined resolve, he sets the room back to its original state, meticulously restoring every item to its proper place. Moving stealthily through the empty halls, he goes from room to room, ensuring that the windows are securely locked, silently reprimanding them for their lack of vigilance. Finally, he retraces his steps, climbing out through the window he entered.

Returning to the park is a slower endeavor than he would prefer. He curses the intrusiveness of the winter sun, his movements careful and deliberate as he ducks and crawls his way back to his waiting allies. Once he rejoins his father and Red Robin, their expectant gazes fall upon him. He shakes his head solemnly, his lips thinning as the implications become painfully clear.

At this point, testing the contents of the vial will be less about determining ownership and more about confirming their worst suspicions. Rather than wasting further time in the park, the three of them climb back into the Batmobile and race home. The tension in the vehicle is palpable, radiating from their rigid bodies. Batman throws occasional sidelong glances at Damian, as if he were a ticking time bomb.

Curiously, amidst the co*cktail of fear, trepidation, and fury that swirls within him, there is an overwhelming sense of inner peace. A serenity that stems from the unshakable belief that they will find her, that those responsible will face his wrath, and that he will have the opportunity to unleash the unyielding beast within his soul upon them.

When he glances back at his older brother in the rearview mirror, he detects mounting anxiety despite the helmet concealing his features. By the time they return to the Batcave, both of their movements are stiff and jerky, their confusion over his lack of outburst overwhelming them.

He scoffs at their low expectations. He has no time to be rendered useless by such feeble emotions. Instead, he must focus on locating her, a task he is certain will be accomplished shortly. They ascend to Wayne Manor, their steps resolute as they traverse the familiar halls toward their father's office once again.

Upon entering, he spots Drake and Grayson in uniform, diligently pouring over the now-cluttered bulletin board. "She's been taken," he states matter-of-factly. Their mouths hang open in surprise before weariness settles into their eyes. No stirring of annoyance ripples within him.

Grayson cautiously voices their collective thoughts. "You seem remarkably calm for someone whose Soulmate has seemingly been kidnapped," he says, carefully treading on fragile ground.

"We will find her," Damian simply replies, retrieving the vial from his hand. "We should test this to confirm if it belongs to her, although it seems unnecessary." The others exchange glances among themselves before Drake steps forward, gently taking the vial from his grasp.

Even Batman falls silent as they observe Damian rounding the corner of the desk, pulling the keyboard toward him. "Her home was empty. I will track her phone and Bran's to determine their whereabouts," he explains, without sparing them a glance as he begins typing away. The room remains motionless as they watch him, a collective anticipation hanging in the air.

"Uh, Damian," Todd mumbles hesitantly, his voice barely audible over the humming of the computer.

"What?" Damian finally looks up from the screen as it loads, the glow reflecting in his steely eyes.

"Are you okay?" Todd's furrowed brow and downturned lips reflect his concern, the lines on his face etching deeper.

"Of course." The confusion in Damian's voice is palpable, his tone strained with an underlying tension. "Why?" He tilts his head to the side, eyeing them curiously, his gaze piercing through the room.

"It's just that you're frighteningly calm," Drake voices, his own worry evident. The air seems to thicken with unease, the weight of their collective anxiety filling the space.

"We're going to find her." The certainty in Damian's voice leaves no room for doubt, the words resonating with an unyielding determination.

"Of course," Grayson begins, his words tapering off. "But we want you to be prepared that she may be injured." Each word seems to pain Grayson as he speaks them, the gravity of the situation heavy in the air.

"I haven't felt anything through our bond," Damian reasons, his voice steady, though a hint of doubt lingers beneath the surface. His father takes a step closer, his face neutral and clinical as he says, "She may be unconscious, Damian. That could be why you cannot feel anything. It doesn't mean she is uninjured." The room falls into a momentary silence, the words hanging in the air like a lingering echo.

Even as they spend several minutes lamenting the possibilities of her current condition, Damian's emotions remain dulled, a distant echo of what they should be. The only perceptible sensation is a spreading coldness throughout his body, his heartbeat steady and even, the rhythm a metronome of detached composure.

A ping diverts their conversation as the computer finally locates her last known whereabouts, the sound cutting through the tense silence. As they gather behind him, their breaths grow shallow and quick, their eyes fixed on the screen, their collective hope hanging on every pixel.

They track the location to none other than Robinson Park, the words on the screen confirming their suspicions. It's the confirmation he's been waiting for, a flicker of certainty amidst the uncertainty. Once more, they eye him nervously, searching for any cracks in his composure, but he remains stoic, his face a mask of determination.

Swallowing hard, Drake gently takes the keyboard from him, which Damian allows without resistance. He pulls up Bran's location on the screen, the soft clicks of the keyboard accentuating the gravity of their task. The screen indicates that Bran is at home, a fact that Damian knows to be false, a pang of frustration and concern pulsating within him.

They watch him expectantly, their gazes locked on his every move. "He must have left his phone at home for one reason or another," Damian reconciles, his voice steady, though a tinge of doubt lingers in his words. They nod in understanding, returning their focus to the screen as they try to triangulate his last known locations and find a pattern.

However, as time passes, frustration mounts at their lack of success, the tension in the room reaching a crescendo. Damian, on the other hand, grows calmer, his mind sharpening with cold clarity. The icy numbness spreads through his chest, rendering him devoid of feeling.

The darkness coiled within him reaches its peak, taking over his mind as he processes the information in front of him. Grayson, the nervous blubbering fool, begins pacing, his footsteps echoing in the tense silence, his hands laced tightly behind his head. Even Drake has a bead of sweat dripping down his temple, the tiny droplet glistening in the dim light. Todd, though covered, remains a statue behind the desk, his body rigid and unmoving.

"Can you contact Superman?" Grayson suggests, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation. Batman shakes his head, his back turned toward them as he reads the bulletin. "He's off-world, and even if he weren't, he doesn't know her heartbeat well enough to pinpoint it," he calmly clarifies, the words punctuated by a heavy sigh that hangs in the air.

"Wonder Woman?" Todd's high-pitched tone reveals his apprehension, his voice strained with worry. Batman turns around, looking at each of them, his gaze piercing, his face a stoic mask. "She's on Themyscira," he states matter-of-factly, his words carrying the weight of the unspoken truth. "We're on our own."

His words form a small crack in Damian's armor, but he swiftly pushes it aside, a surge of determination fueling his resolve as they begin hacking into storefront cameras along the path from her home to the park. Once they identify her, they meticulously follow her movements, scrutinizing every frame for a clue. Then they spot Jackson, trailing several feet behind her, a flicker of anger igniting within Damian.

This solidifies the premeditated stalking, further fueling the shadowy coils of anger within Damian, his hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white. Yet, despite this new development, there is still no sign of her kidnappers, their absence a haunting enigma. It's as if they appeared from thin air, a phantom lurking in the shadows.

They remain dutifully focused on finding her, forgoing breaks as hours pass by, their determination unwavering. Each passing second corrodes Damian's calm resolve, the storm within intensifying, his heart rate dangerously fast, the sound echoing in his ears like a distant drumbeat. He paces back and forth in front of the desk, his steps purposeful and restless, the tension radiating off him like waves of palpable energy.

The growing dusk sets his teeth on edge, the intensifying golden hues of the sky doing nothing to alleviate his mounting rage, his vision tinged with a red haze. The others also grow silent, their patience wearing thin, their breaths shallow and unsteady.

Batman rarely speaks, and when he does, it is only to confirm yet another dead end, his voice measured and resolute. Even Pennyworth's attempts to ease the tension with tea and sandwiches fall short, the taste of the food flavorless against the backdrop of their anxiety.

As darkness descends and ominous clouds roll in, mirroring their collective mood, Damian reaches his breaking point, the cracks in his composure widening. "This isn't working. We need to get out there and search for her on foot," he demands, his voice sharp and commanding. They pause and look up at him, pondering the validity of his suggestion.

"That may not necessarily be the best use of our time," his father responds clinically, his voice tinged with caution.

"Then what do you suggest?" Damian seethes, his frustration seeping through his words, his voice edged with impatience.

“We keep searching, exhausting every possibility," his even tone grating against his raw nerves. His fingers have been balled into a fist for so long that they were starting to become sore, the muscles in his hand straining under the tension.

"That hasn't exactly been working for us," Damian hisses, his voice laced with frustration, a bitter undertone coloring his words. The room feels suffocating, the air heavy with unresolved emotions.

His brothers have grown accustomed to his short fuse and pay him no mind, returning to their own searches, their footsteps a muffled echo against the cold floor. The sound reverberates in his ears, each step a reminder of the restless energy coursing through his veins.

"We'll find her, Damian," his father asserts, authority brimming in his voice, the words sharp and resolute. "But for now, we each employ a different strategy until we find an anomaly that we can trace." The sound of his father's voice cuts through the tension like a knife, its edge slicing through the stifling atmosphere.

He grunts his response, not trusting himself to refrain from saying something he might regret. Begrudgingly, he complies, not willing to sacrifice precious moments by letting his tumultuous emotions fester. The air crackles with suppressed anger, a volatile storm brewing within him.

However, he finds himself grappling with the overwhelming need to unleash his wrath, the taste of bitterness and resentment lingering on his tongue, diverting his attention from what needs to be done. He berates himself for his weakness, each self-deprecating thought adding fuel to the fire that burns within.

He must get away from the others, lest he take out his anger on them, but he cannot bring himself to spare them when there is still far too much work to be done. Closing his eyes, he practices the breathing techniques employed by the League of Assassins to steel their nerves. It works, but just barely. The inhales are shallow, the exhales ragged, as if his breath is tainted with the darkness that consumes him.

The moon has risen to its apex in the sky, casting a gloomy light atop their manor, its pale glow a haunting reminder of the shadows that lurk within his own soul. The oppressive silence is broken when Drake finally speaks up, the sound jarring in the stillness of the room.

"I think I found something," he carefully states, his voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere. Immediately, a rush of anticipation fills the room, the silence shattered like glass.

All eyes turn to his laptop screen, the soft glow casting an eerie illumination on their faces. Damian's gaze fixates on the small red dot on a map, its pulsating presence a beacon of hope in the darkness.

"This is an abandoned cargo vessel in Gotham Harbor," Drake continues, his voice laced with a mix of trepidation and excitement. "But as of this morning, it has been siphoning energy from the power grid. Not enough for it to be fully operational, but enough to indicate that there is at least some activity within." The words hang in the air, heavy with significance.

A surge of relief mixed with something far darker splits his cells, his skin prickling with an unsettling energy. His eyes narrow, shadows dancing within them, as his gaze locks onto the coordinates. With an eerily calm tone, he says, "Let's investigate." Thankfully, they do not argue with him, the tension in the room pulling them together, and they immediately begin prepping for departure.

Finally. A lead.

His mind goes into conditioning mode, compartmentalizing every unnecessary thought and priming the ones that will aid him. He moves through the halls, like the reaper of death, each precise step echoing like a mournful hymn. The anger that has been simmering deep within him all these years has been polished to a knife, one that will cut down anything that stands in his way.

As his family follows closely behind him, he can tell they sense the shift within him. Their distance and apprehension roll off in waves, a palpable tension that tastes like mercy he does not have in his arsenal today.

They descend into the darkness of passageways leading to the Batcave, the shadows clinging to him like they've rediscovered an integral part of their soul. Even as they reach the platform where the Batmobiles await them, they cling to him.

Chapter 35: Panic's Wildfire

Chapter Text

Damian: POV

He climbs into the vehicle with Batman and Red Hood, his heart pounding in rhythm with the engine's roar. Nightwing and Red Robin take their places in the other vehicle, their eyes locked in determination. As they speed through the night, the wind whips past Damian's face, drowning out the sounds of their voices. But amidst the rush, a cacophony of thoughts and emotions swirls within him, their darkness threatening to consume him whole.

His darkest companion, a whispering presence nestled in the folds of his mind, blossoms in the wake of his desperation. It thrives on his deepest fears, reveling in the chaos that brews within. One foot planted firmly in reality, he lets the other delve into the depths of his imagination, where his greatest nightmares intertwine with his deepest hopes. The jagged edges of his thoughts cut into his soul, each step forward a dance with his own demons.

The weight of their mission constricts his throat, threatening to suffocate him with its relentless grip. A maelstrom of trepidation and self-doubt swirls within, clawing at the edges of his sanity. The path he walks is stained with blood, both his own and those he has slain, the ghosts of his past haunting his every move. Yet, he represses the torrent of emotions threatening to overflow, locking them away in the recesses of his tortured mind.

Silently, they pull behind metal cargo containers, slipping out into the enveloping darkness. Shadows become their allies, shrouding their movements from prying eyes. Damian, a creature of the night, soars forward, each step promising vengeance. But behind the mask of determination lies a storm of conflicting desires. He craves justice, yearns for redemption, and yet, the seductive whispers of revenge linger in the shadows, tempting him with their twisted allure.

Batman and Red Hood descend into the water, their entry a mere ripple amidst the silent night. In contrast, the others ascend near the dock, climbing with the grace honed through years of relentless training. Their landings, feather-light and soundless, blend seamlessly with the ship's deck. Splitting up, they become phantoms haunting the vessel, hunting for signs of life, for any trace of her.

Damian's senses sharpen as adrenaline courses through his veins, heightening his perception of the world around him. Every sound, every movement, becomes amplified, his focus narrowing to the imminent clash that awaits. The weight of his sword feels like an extension of his arm, an instrument of swift retribution.

Pressed against the unforgiving wall, Damian melds seamlessly with the shadows, becoming one with the night. The dull lights of the ship reveal the silhouette of an approaching figure, unaware of the fate hurtling toward them. A sinister smile creeps across his face, his eyes glinting with a mix of determination and something darker.

In one fluid motion, Damian unleashes himself from the wall, his muscles coiled with anticipation. His sword slices through the air with lethal grace, a deadly dance that embodies his years of rigorous training. The gleaming blade meets its target with a resounding clash, sparks erupting from the collision of steel. The force of their collision reverberates through his body, fueling his resolve.

The clash of steel echoes throughout the ship, a symphony of danger and impending doom. Each strike reverberates with a raw power that threatens to shatter the very fabric of their surroundings. Damian's sword becomes an extension of his will, slicing through the air with deadly purpose, leaving trails of ruby in its wake.

As his opponent falters, Damian seizes the opportunity, exploiting their momentary vulnerability. A swift spin brings his leg crashing against their midsection, a thunderous impact that knocks the wind out of their lungs. The intruder crumples, gasping for breath, their resistance shattered.

But Damian's dance of death is far from over. With relentless determination, he closes the distance between them, his sword arcing through the air in a final, decisive blow. It connects with a sickening thud, severing the last breath of resistance from his fallen foe. The body collapses to the ground, life extinguished in a pool of sanguine fluid.

A moment of eerie silence envelops the ship, broken only by Damian's labored breaths. The air crackles with the weight of his actions, the darkness within him coiling tighter, leaving behind a trace of disquiet in his wake.

Damian's eyes, once filled with determination, now hold a haunting emptiness. He drags the lifeless form into the shadows, a macabre tableau hidden from prying eyes. The echoes of the fight linger, etching their mark upon his soul. And with each passing moment, the line between hero and monster blurs, leaving Damian to navigate the treacherous path between light and darkness.

Peering down at the slain individual, Damian catalogs the owl mask, his fury growing righteous. Surprise ignites in his chest as he removes it, revealing a gray withered face. These masquerading creatures, obedient soldiers to the Court of Owls, were not alive anymore, if they were ever alive, to begin with.

He relays this information to the others through their coms, each confirming they received his message. A slow smile grows on his face as the realization dawns upon him—Batman's no-killing rule doesn't apply to what is already dead.

A vicious excitement tears through his body, seeping deep into his muscles as he drops the body over the edge into the ocean. He doesn't care that the splashing will draw attention; in fact, he welcomes it. The sound of running footsteps sings in his ears as he slips into his killing calm, almost gleeful, finally able to exhaust every ounce of his prowess.

He stands there, his sword firmly gripped in his hands, knees bent, as the shadowy figures round the corner. Nearly ten of them form a semicircle around him, inching closer as they size him up. The first one lunges at him, daggers at the ready, but Damian parries effortlessly, slicing a deep, gushing cut across its chest. It stumbles back, but its fall does not come.

They are not so easily killed.

Good.

The darkness uncoiling within him hums its appreciation for the challenge. Two more leaps into the fray, attacking from behind, but their movements are sluggish. Damian spins around, his sword flashing in the moonlight as it twirls, decapitating both of them simultaneously.

Their lifeless bodies fall, spraying crimson arcs that stain the deck. A frown etches onto his face at their swift demise, a desire to prolong their suffering, to make them truly feel the consequences of their actions—though whether they are capable of feeling anything at all remains a question.

The one he had previously wounded lunges at him once again, accompanied by three more, each striking from a different angle. Damian ducks and rolls, effortlessly navigating the space between them. He pops up, his sword slashing with blistering speed through the air, cleaving through flesh and bone. The sickening sound of steel meeting resistance echoes as he severs limbs and pierces vital organs. The metallic scent of blood fills his nostrils, mingling with the acrid tang of sweat and adrenaline.

At that very moment, Red Hood leaps over the edge, water cascading from his form as he lands on the deck. His guns erupt in a symphony of thunderous cracks, bullets finding their targets with lethal precision. Bodies crumple, torn apart by the onslaught of lead.

Batman follows suit, his imposing presence a force of nature as he strikes with calculated efficiency. Batarangs zip through the air, burying themselves in foreheads with bone-crushing impact.

The dance of battle unfolds, Damian's movements fluid and lethal. He weaves through their attacks, a blur of calculated strikes and evasive maneuvers. The clash of steel reverberates, punctuated by grunts of effort and the occasional splatter of blood. Each strike delivers a pulverizing impact, each parry a testament to his unwavering skill.

Damian's senses remain sharp, each movement of his opponents anticipated and met with unwavering resolve. He sidesteps an incoming strike, countering with a swift kick that sends one stumbling backward, bones shattering beneath the force.

A series of quick slashes leaves trails of crimson in the air as his blade finds its mark, flesh parting and arteries spraying like macabre fountains. He dispatches his foes with ruthless efficiency, their dying gasps a symphony of desperation.

The three of them transform into a ferocious tempest of relentless precision, tearing through their remaining adversaries with bone-splintering force. Each strike lands with a sickening crunch, bones fracturing like brittle twigs, flesh yielding to the merciless onslaught. The once formidable and ruthless foes now crumble beneath the unyielding assault, their bodies collapsing with a resounding thud, leaving a trail of shattered forms in their wake.

As the last opponent falls, Damian stands amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving with exertion. The air crackles with a potent mixture of adrenaline and triumph. But in the midst of his victory, an unsettling realization dawns upon him—his vicious excitement, the exhilaration that courses through his veins, threatens to consume him. He fights to control the darkness within, to temper it with the light that still flickers in his soul.

Once they ensure the fallen won't rise again, the three of them lock eyes, a silent understanding passing between them. With unspoken coordination, they disperse once more, swiftly vanishing into the depths of the surrounding shadows. Their movements become a symphony of calculated violence, hunting down their prey in a lethal ballet of predator and quarry.

Damian prowls along the deck, his predatory instincts on high alert. Suddenly, a piercing whistle cleaves through the air, triggering an instinctive response. In a fraction of a second, he drops to the ground, narrowly evading a lethal dagger that hurtles past his head. The weapon lodges itself in the metal wall.

Annoyance ignites within Damian, fueling his determination to annihilate the audacious threat that dares to challenge him. From the shadows, a figure darts forth with uncanny grace, its talon-like appendages slashing through the air with deadly precision.

Their clashing reverberates, accompanied by the agonizing screech of metal meeting metal. Each strike resonates through Damian's arm, impelling him backward with each grating step. Frustration etches deep lines on his face, baring his teeth in a growl of defiance. But he refuses to succumb to the encroaching pressure, adamantly resisting hitting the edge of the ship.

Seizing a fleeting opportunity, Damian feigns vulnerability, luring the humanoid into a false sense of superiority. It raises its arm for a killing strike, a grim smile tugging at Damian's lips. In a swift and brutal motion, he delivers a bone-shattering kick to its exposed chest, hurtling the creature backward several feet. The impact ripples through the air, a thunderous collision of flesh and bone.

Time seems to dilate as Damian's sword swishes through the air, his every movement infused with a visceral determination. With a single stroke, he cleanly severs its head from its body, a spewing arc painting the surrounding air. Another adversary falls, its life extinguished in a macabre spectacle.

Resuming his silent prowling along the shadowed edge, Damian's hunger for blood intensifies, an icy fire coursing through his veins. The mere thought of warm life coating his hands sends a surge of primal exhilaration coursing through his body.

He rounds a corner, heart pounding, and unexpectedly collides with Nightwing. Their eyes lock in a moment of shared surprise, a flicker of adrenaline-fueled understanding passing between them. Without a word, they fall into step together, their movements synchronized in a dance of seamless coordination. They continue to survey their surroundings, a united front against the encroaching darkness, their every step suffused with the raw savagery of hunters on the prowl.

The sound of clashing metal echoes from above them on the main mast. There, Batman and Red Hood engage in a savage symphony of violence. Damian's instincts surge within him, compelling him to bound toward the fray, but Nightwing's restraining hand stops him in his tracks. Whirling around, Damian's fury consumes him, his voice dripping with venom, "What are you doing?"

Nightwing quickly withdraws his hand, recoiling as if scorched by Damian's seething anger. His face contorts with pure horror, his eyes wide with dread as he eyes Damian warily. The weight of his mistake settles upon him, his visage transforming into a mask of guilt and fear.

He quickly sobers, his voice trembling, as he points behind him. "Search for her. We'll hold the rest of them off." Nightwing's words slice through Damian's rage, stirring a potent mixture of guilt and desperation within him. He had almost lost sight of their true objective, his own emotions threatening to consume him. But there is no time for introspection now; there is only the desperate quest to find her, to save her from whatever horrors await.

Damian responds with a stiff nod, his jaw set in grim determination. He turns away, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. Melting back into the shadows, he becomes one with the darkness, his senses attuned to every subtle movement and flicker. Something inside him, an instinct born from pain and desperation, beckons him to the funnel deck. He follows its call, his steps a silent dance with the lurking unknown.

Ascending a staircase, he feels the weight of the impenetrable darkness pressing upon him. The air becomes thick with foreboding, chilling him to the bone. Each step is a calculated risk, his senses strained to the limit as he navigates the eerie silence.

Emerging into a long corridor, a suffocating stillness hangs in the air, a palpable dread that sets his nerves on edge. The silence is broken only by the distant sounds of battle, a cacophony of violence and death.

Peering through a cracked porthole, his eyes drink in the gruesome scene unfolding before him. The others move with ruthless efficiency, their weapons slashing through flesh and bone.

It is a dance of carnage, a ballet of bloodshed, but Damian can spare no time to appreciate it. His heart pounds in his chest, the rhythm echoing in his ears like a death knell. And then, cutting through the air with a sickening finality, he hears it—the most dreadful sound he has ever had the displeasure of knowing.

"(Y/N)," he whispers, his voice strained and haunted, swallowed by the night. A primal urgency seizes him, propelling him forward with reckless abandon. He sprints through the corridor, the metal floor echoing his thunderous footsteps.

The ice that had gripped his chest now ignites into a seething inferno of rage and despair, coursing through his veins like molten lava. Every fiber of his being is consumed by the burning need to find her, to save her from the clutches of unimaginable torment.

Room after room, he tears open doors with ruthless determination, his desperation fueling his relentless assault. Her screams have ceased, replaced by a haunting silence that threatens to shatter his sanity.

His eyes dart across each barren metal room, searching for any sign of her presence, his heart pounding with a brutal intensity that borders on agony. The minutes stretch into eternity as he races against time, his hope teetering on the precipice of despair.

And then, just as his resolve begins to crumble, he hears a faint cry, a fragment of her voice, laced with anguish and desperation. The sound resonates deep within him, a jagged shard piercing his soul.

With renewed determination, he sprints onward, his mind consumed by a single thought. Door after door flies past him, his instinct guiding him, whispering that she will not be behind any of them.

Finally, he comes to a sudden stop in front of the last door, his body trembling. With a surge of feral rage, he begins kicking at the unyielding barrier, each strike a manifestation of his inner torment.

The door holds strong, obstinate to his frenzied assault, but something stirs on the other side. Through a murky, salt-weathered porthole, he catches a glimpse of a huddled figure in a corner. The glass distorts his view, obscuring their identity in a haze of milky stains, but it matters little.

His kicks grow increasingly ferocious, causing the hinges to groan in protest as the door yields to his relentless force. Finally, with a resounding screech, it bows to his demands, flying open wide.

As he surges inside, his heart freezes in his chest at the harrowing sight before him. Acting swiftly, he slams the door shut with a forceful kick, leaving it crooked and unhinged, its disarray reflecting the turmoil within.

Dangling from the ceiling, her naked and quivering form stretches taut, her wrists bound tightly, her vulnerability on full display. Her head snaps in his direction, unleashing a piercing wail that slices through the air, the sound tearing through his soul like a thousand daggers. His heart shatters into a million fragmented pieces, anguish, and rage intertwining within him.

In the corner, the figure stirs, drawing his attention. Bran Toremin stands tall, his eyes flickering with wild uncertainty, oscillating between Damian and the wreckage of the door. "How..." he whispers, his voice trembling with fear, each syllable etched with trepidation.

Undeterred, Damian continues his relentless advance toward the whimpering figure of his beloved, his gaze remains locked on Bran's quivering form. The man makes a desperate dash for the door, driven by terror, but Damian's reflexes are swift as he hurls a Batarang with lethal precision.

It lodges deep into Bran's thigh, tearing through muscle with serrated cruelty. A guttural cry of agony erupts from Bran's lips as he crashes to the ground, his pain a symphony to Damian's ears.

Rage courses through his veins, igniting an inferno within his chest as he refocuses his attention on her battered and bloodied form. From this proximity, the sight of her wounded flesh oozing crimson and the blooming bruises across her abdomen and face becomes vividly clear. Some of the bruises eerily mimic the shape of a hand, a revelation that fuels the tempest of fury within Damian, fragments of wrath lacerating his every limb.

Acting swiftly, he projects a Batarang with precision, severing the weak chain link that binds her hands. Her limp form plummets, and he catches her descent, loathing the fragility and pallor that have overtaken her once vibrant presence.

Tears of frustration, anguish, and despair well up in his eyes as he cradles her, her head lolling back against his chest. The weight of the shackles against her delicate skin ignites an insatiable hunger for vengeance within him, a primal urge to rip out Bran's teeth one by one and force them down his throat.

Her swollen face stands as a stark reminder of his failure, each bruise and laceration a testament to his shortcomings. The slickness of her blood coating her body serves as a chilling reminder of the depths of his ignorance. The scent of copper and metal permeates the air, infiltrating his nostrils like the stench of his own decaying soul.

Every inch of her wounded form causes the cells in his body to recoil, a visceral reaction to the atrocity he failed to prevent. Yet, he cannot tear his gaze away from her, captivated by the sight of her closed eyes and parted lips, her shallow breaths a testament to her resilient spirit.

Pressing his ear against her chest, he listens intently to the rhythm of her heart, relief flooding his being at its steady thumping. Her cold skin seeps through his gloved hands, fueling his determination to act swiftly. With careful precision, he breaks through the cuffs binding her hands and feet, removing them gently, his touch tender amidst the sea of bruises that mar her delicate flesh, their deep, ugly purple staining her once pristine skin.

Next, he removes his cape, its protective embrace enveloping her fragile form. He ensures every movement is gentle, cautious of causing further harm. The cuts along her shoulders and back, though not too deep, are numerous, a haunting testament to the relentless torment she has endured. Bran's agonized grunts behind him send a shiver down his spine, a visceral reaction to the source of her suffering.

It all falls into place now, the puzzle pieces aligning with painful clarity. Bran, the orchestrator of her parents' murder, his affiliation with the malevolent Court of Owls, and his sinister hand in her kidnapping and torture. The weight of the revelation settles upon Damian, a heavy burden he carries alone, for now.

Carefully laying her down, he shields her from any further harm, a silent vow to protect her with all his might. He should inform his family, seek their aid, but a resolute determination wells within him. Not yet. He will exact his own justice before unveiling the truth.

Rising slowly, he turns, his gaze fixating on Bran's pathetic form as he drags himself toward a nearby cart. With a trembling hand, Bran reaches for something atop the cart. Damian allows it, curiosity mingling with the primal presence that slithers beneath his consciousness.

His eyes narrow, focusing on the chaotic scene unfolding before him as the cart tips over, its contents crashing to the floor in a cacophony of clanging instruments. Blades, scalpels, and hammers of various sizes litter the ground, a chilling display of the tools of torture and cruelty.

The cool, slithering beast that resides within Damian stirs, its hunger awakening with an insatiable thirst for retribution. In this moment, his senses sharpen to a painful degree, overwhelming his consciousness as the vengeful darkness takes hold, poised to unleash its wrath upon the deserving.

He takes purposeful, swift strides toward Bran, who clings tightly to a knife, as if it could offer any semblance of protection. Damian watches him with a cold detachment, as Bran’s body trembles uncontrollably, fear staining his wide eyes.

The rage etched so clearly on Damian's face prompts Bran's eyes to narrow, a silent recognition passing between them. "I- I know who you are," Bran stammers, disbelief lacing his breath.

A slow, cruel smile slithers across Damian's face as he revels in Bran's growing realization. "Is that so?" His words slice through the air, their frigid brutality undeniable.

"You - you can't kill me." Bran's voice wavers with a blend of terror and feeble conviction.

A dark chuckle reverberates from Damian's lips, his voice filled with a chilling mirth. He cracks his neck with a calculated roll, savoring the moment before responding, "It's truly astonishing how you seem to know everything and nothing all at once." His voice carries a deceptive lightness, belying the razor-sharp edge of his words.

Bran whimpers in response, his fear saturating the air, mingling with the acrid tinge of ammonia. A full-bodied, boisterous laugh spills from Damian's lips when he realizes the scent of urine, the unmistakable sign of Bran's true terror. Delight courses through Damian's veins as he watches true dread take root within his tormentor. Bran understands, without a doubt, what awaits him.

Taking one deliberate step closer, Damian elicits a flinch from Bran, who raises the knife in his trembling hand. Leaning heavily on one elbow, Bran swings it wildly in a futile attempt at defense. Gone is the facade of mock cordiality, confidence, and charisma. In its place is a quivering, pitiful specimen of trembling flesh.

The blood pooling near Bran's demolished thigh paints a macabre tableau of agony, his life essence slipping away through the slitted artery. Bending down, Damian picks up a scalpel from the ground, turning it in his hands, observing the dried traces of her blood staining its edge.

The wind howls against the battered door, it screams a futile attempt to distract Damian from his purpose. His unwavering gaze remains fixated on Bran. When he finally reaches striking distance, Bran attempts to slash at Damian's shin, but his aim falls pathetically short. In response, Damian kicks the knife out of Bran's hand, his foot coming down on the man's wrist as it skids across the floor, eventually hitting a wall.

Kneeling before him, Damian's voice takes on a low, ominous tone. "Everything you did to her, I'm going to do to you, but much, much worse." Bran's labored, shaky breaths quicken, his body scooting back, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. Damian follows his retreat, Bran's attempts to speak devolving into garbled, incoherent sounds.

Finally, Bran's back presses against the unforgiving wall, his futile escape attempts halted. Damian's fist tightens around Bran's shirt, ripping it off his body with a vicious force. Bran tries to scream, but Damian silences him with a firm hand, pressing their bodies together as he hisses, "Shut up, or I will start by cutting out your tongue." Bran nods fervently, his eyes reflecting a surrender that cannot be feigned.

Reluctantly, Damian removes his hand, swiftly shoving his shirt into Bran's mouth. "You'll want to bite down on this," Damian advises with an eerie semblance of politeness. Then, he slashes the blade across Bran's bare chest, not deep enough to end him, but deep enough to coax rivulets of blood to feverishly cascade down his abdomen.

Again and again, he cuts, relentless in his assault. Each slash across Bran's body elicits pitiful grunts, the wounds widening with each passing strike, fueled by the rise and fall of Bran's tenuous breaths.

The moonlight casts a faint sheen on Bran's cold, sweat-covered body, glimmering off him as he spits out his shirt and locks eyes with Damian. Ah, there it is—the fight he had been seeking. Curling his lip, his eyes ablaze with a volatile mix of fear and rage, Bran grits his teeth and accuses, "You're a monster."

Damian shakes his head, a flicker of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Why? Because I refuse to allow you to harm my Soulmate any further?" he retorts, confirming Bran's suspicion regarding his identity. Bran's eyes widen in realization as Damian leans in, invading his personal space. "No. That does not make me a monster," Damian begins, his voice low and menacing. "But what I'm about to do to you, most certainly will," he concludes, baring his teeth, causing Bran's Adam's apple to bob with trepidation.

And Damian delivers on his threat, unleashing a torrent of raining fists and precise kicks. He becomes a blur of unbridled fury and seething rage, an embodiment of vengeance as he continues to pummel Bran, showering him in his own blood.

His fists shatter teeth, fragmenting them into shards of agony. Bran may perceive a man lost in madness, but what he fails to comprehend is that Damian's madness is what forged him. It's the crucible that honed him into the lethal weapon he has become—the very instrument that rains punch after bone-crushing punch into Bran's crumbling and yielding body.

"Robin," a weak voice calls from behind him. Immediately, he halts, his fist suspended just before it can strike the wheezing, mangled mess of a man. He whips around, his eyes widening like saucers as he rushes to her side.

Her eyes flutter open, mere slivers of consciousness as she reaches a trembling hand out toward him. He drops beside her, delicately cradling her in his lap. The blood staining his uniform, the bruises adorning his knuckles—none of it matters as he gazes into her eyes. "(Y/N)," he whispers, his voice cracking with emotion.

A tremor of a smile graces her lips, imbuing her fragile form with an ethereal beauty. A wet chuckle escapes Damian's lips as he locks eyes with her, relief flooding through him, drowning out the furious grip that had clenched his heart. The tendrils of darkness recede as he begins to rock her gently in his arms, a soothing rhythm that mirrors the steady beat of his heart.

She raises her hand and gently places it against his face, her cold touch sending a slight shiver through him. "Don't," she pleads hoarsely, her voice strained. Confusion knits his brow as she swallows hard, gathering her strength.

"Habibti?" he asks softly, covering her hand with his own.

"Don't kill him," she murmurs, her voice growing stronger. "Please."

His expression darkens, anger seeping into his features. "Why not?" he asks coldly.

The look she gives him nearly stops him in his tracks, her face softening as understanding dawns upon her. "Because death is a gift," she begins, each word carefully enunciated. "And he hasn't earned his yet," she concludes with a resolute steeliness that fills him with immense pride.

He laughs, a rumble escaping his chest as he nods. "I cannot deny you, my beloved. He shall live to see another day."

Her radiant smile becomes the sunshine that breaks through his darkest night, the one thing he realizes he cannot survive without. "Let's go home," he whispers, leaning into her touch. This time, she nods, weariness etched upon her face.

Gently, he lifts her into his arms, ensuring that his cape is securely wrapped around her. Turning towards the door, he begins to walk, but his steps falter as he hears Bran sputtering and coughing. "You'll thank me one day, (Y/N)," he weakly utters.

Looking down at her, he witnesses a fierce transformation in her countenance, anger igniting in her eyes. He halts their departure as she turns her head towards him, her voice laced with undiluted fury. "And why the f*ck would I do that?" Her words resonate with an intensity that surges admiration through his chest.

Bran struggles, chuckling weakly at her tone. "Because... I made you this way," he starts, his voice strained. Her jaw clenches in response. "I made you stronger all these years, I—" She cuts him off, rage pouring forth as she spits, "I didn't need to be stronger. I was a child." Her voice cracks. "I shouldn't have had to fight to be one." Her conclusion hangs in the air, met with stunned silence as he watches her through swollen eyes.

Without waiting for a reply, Damian strides through the now-open door into the biting night air, cradling her against him as she shivers and seeks solace in his embrace. Her trembling body reminds him of the fragility of life, and a pang of desperation grips his heart. Every passing second feels like an eternity as they descend the stairs, each step a reminder of the urgency and uncertainty of their situation.

Upon reaching the bottom, he sees his family racing toward them, their steps desperate and urgent. " (Y/N)!" Nightwing calls out, relief flooding his voice as they come to a halt before them. The sight of their familiar faces should bring comfort, but all Damian feels is the weight of his own failures.

She manages a weak smile, her hand peeping out from under his cape to wave at them, attempting to convey reassurance. Red Hood chuckles through his helmet and says, his voice tinged with a mixture of relief and sorrow, "We've missed you." The others chime in, their voices a chorus of concern and love. Damian's heart swells at their support, but it's overshadowed by a sense of guilt, knowing he let her down.

Together, they make their way forward, walking toward the chaos of GCPD sirens as officers rush to meet them. Damian's grip tightens protectively as they swarm around, a wall of blue uniforms and flashing lights threatening to suffocate them. But with a thunderous bellow, he commands them to back up, his voice betraying his raw emotions, the look of horror on their faces amplifying his authority.

"She needs medical attention," Batman states from beside him, his voice steady but laced with concern. The officers share a dumbfounded look before hurriedly scurrying away, presumably to alert the paramedics. Damian's hands tremble as he watches them go, the seconds ticking away mercilessly.

She nestles her head against his chest, her eyes growing heavy with weariness. "Just stay with us a little longer, (Y/N)," he whispers, his plea only audible to her. But she doesn't stir. Her eyes don't even flutter behind her closed lids.

Panic courses through his veins like wildfire as he looks at his family, his eyes wide with alarm. They quickly pick up on his distress and begin jogging toward the waiting ambulance. He can't bear the thought of losing her, his rock, his reason for fighting.

For a fleeting moment, he doesn't care about the consequences, about the risks they would face. But the voice of reason resonates within him, reminding him of the dangers he would expose her to, the lives that hang in the balance.

Instead, he allows a paramedic to gently take her from his arms, restraining himself from clinging to her unconscious form. "What happened?" one of them inquires, their eyes never leaving her as several others begin working on her.

Batman provides an accurate account, deducing the causes of her injuries and succinctly explaining the situation. The surrounding officers rush to the ship as Damian fills them in on the finer details of the night's events.

They keep his cape wrapped around her body, only removing the material around her arms to insert an IV. Swiftly, once the oxygen mask is secured over her face, they load her into the ambulance and shut the doors. The remaining paramedic turns to them with a grim expression, his eyes reflecting the weight of the situation. "She's lost a significant amount of blood and experienced severe trauma. We're transporting her to Wayne Hospital in case she needs a blood transfusion."

Damian's heart sinks into the depths of his stomach as the words penetrate his consciousness. Guilt and shame surge through him like a tidal wave, threatening to consume him entirely. How could he have let this happen? If he hadn't wasted time with Bran, perhaps they would have received better news by now. If he hadn't been consumed by his own selfish anger, she would have already been examined by a doctor.

A sharp wave of self-loathing and inadequacy settles deep within his bones, tearing at his soul. How could he have allowed this to happen to her, the person he cherishes most?

He turns to face his father and brothers, abandoning his usual facade of emotional detachment. Red Hood reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder, his voice filled with genuine concern as he whispers gently, "She's going to be fine."

As much as Damian wants to believe those words, doubt begins to creep into his mind, poisoning his thoughts with haunting images of her lying on a hospital bed, her life slipping away like sand through his fingers.

Chapter 36: The Weight of Recovery

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

It's the persistent, rhythmic beeping sounds that trickle into the darkness, penetrating my consciousness and pulling me out of the hazy abyss. Slowly, my heavy eyelids crack open, but they feel hot and swollen, resisting my efforts to open them fully.

Even when I manage to part them slightly, my vision remains blurred. Yet, through the haze, I can see that I'm in a vast white room, its pristine walls stretching from floor to ceiling. The windows, tall and expansive, offer a tantalizing glimpse of the outside world, but they are obscured by heavy dark fog, shrouding everything beyond in a veil of mystery.

What surprises me, amidst this sterile environment, is the presence of several bouquets of vibrant flowers. Their colors burst forth against the stark white backdrop, saturating the air with their fragrant melodies.

As my sluggish mind struggles to piece together the fragments of memory, the pain rushes back with an unrelenting force. Waves of aches and sharp stabbing sensations ripple through my body, making their presence known. I can't help but groan, a plaintive sound that escapes my lips, a testament to the torment I endured.

And then, something startles to my left, causing my heart to race, its steady rhythm momentarily disrupted. The beeping of the cardiac event monitor synchronizes with the racing beats, creating a disconcerting symphony of its own. I turn my head, my gaze searching for the source of the disturbance, and my eyes settle on Damian's face, still groggy from sleep.

His presence brings a mixture of relief and confusion. I whisper his name, my voice trembling with a blend of disbelief and longing. Damian nods fervently, his expression mirroring a mix of disbelief and joy. He moves closer, leaning his weight on his elbows against the thin mattress, his face only inches from mine. The warmth of his breath brushes against my skin, offering a comforting reassurance.

"Damian?" I repeat, the syllables tinged with a sense of incredulity. My mind struggles to comprehend the surreal surroundings and the fact that Damian is here with me. It feels like a dream, one I desperately want to believe in.

In response, he nods again, a resolute affirmation of my identity. Then, as if remembering his duty, he stands up and walks toward the door. With a fluid motion, he swings it open and calls for a doctor, his urgency punctuating the stillness of the room.

From my vantage point, I tilt my head slightly, catching a glimpse of his brothers, his father, and even Alfred, their worried expressions etched on their faces as they scramble to catch a glimpse of me. My lips curl into a smile, a feeble but genuine gesture, as I manage to raise my hand in a small wave.

Jason's eyes meet mine, and his face lights up with a reciprocating smile. He raises an eyebrow, playfully boasting to the others that I smiled at him first. Their banter fills the room, a momentary respite from the weight of the situation. I chuckle softly, the sound escaping through a mix of pain and weariness, as I listen to their playful debate.

Amidst the commotion, Bruce's calm voice cuts through, quelling the arguments and bringing a semblance of order. "Will you let us in?" he asks, his tone carrying a blend of concern and longing. It's a simple request, yet it holds layers of unspoken emotions. It resonates deep within me, stirring a profound sense of gratitude and belonging.

Damian ponders it for a moment, his shoulders tightening at the request. Craning his neck, he silently asks me if that is something I would be comfortable with. Nodding, I can't help but smile at their eagerness to see me. Even before I'm done confirming, they push past Damian, shoving him to the side, and all come bounding into the room. Dick and Jason get caught in the doorframe, trying to squeeze in first, shooting each other dirty looks that make me chuckle.

Chuckling makes me realize how dry and sore my throat is. "Water?" I ask, my voice weak and hoarse. Immediately, Damian jumps up, followed by Tim, Jason, and Dick as they search around the room for a glass.

I take a moment to observe my surroundings now that I am more aware. It's clear that I am in a hospital room, but never have I seen one quite like this before. Besides the floor-to-ceiling beautiful windows, which are still partially obscured by the heavy dark fog outside, there is a kitchenette with a minifridge, providing a touch of familiarity and comfort.

An entire seating area is arranged nearby, with plush chairs and a small coffee table, giving the space a cozy ambiance. The room also features a connecting bathroom, allowing for convenience and privacy. To my surprise, there is even a white wood wardrobe, adorned with delicate carvings, containing a soft robe inside. The attention to detail and the luxurious touches make this room feel more like a high-end hotel suite than a sterile hospital environment.

While the others continue to run around the room, searching for water, Alfred calmly, but quickly, maneuvers around them. He effortlessly retrieves a water bottle from the mini fridge, his years of experience evident in his graceful movements. The rest of the group stops and stares at him, their expressions a mixture of dumbfounded misery and begrudging admiration.

Bruce, with his arms crossed over his chest, chuckles at the sight, enjoying the momentary disruption of order. Alfred uncaps the bottle and hands it to me with a warm smile. "Small sips, little miss," he instructs kindly. I nod in gratitude and follow his instructions, feeling the cool liquid soothe my parched throat. Meanwhile, the others gather around the bed, their faces a mix of relief and concern. Damian, returning to his plush chair, lightly takes hold of my hand again, his eyes fixed on me with a tenderness that overwhelms my emotions.

"How do you feel?" Bruce asks, breaking the momentary silence. His voice carries a mix of concern and curiosity.

I take a deep breath, consciously noting all the aches and pains that reverberate throughout my body, wincing at the throbbing behind my eyes. "Never better," I shoot back playfully, a grin tugging at my lips. Jason and Dick burst into laughter, their amusem*nt contagious, while the others offer polite smiles.

"You're one tough chick, you know that," Jason chimes in, his voice trembling ever so slightly. I glance at him, witnessing a glimmer of moisture in his eyes despite the co*cky smile on his face. I shrug, tilting my head and reply, "Ah, well, it doesn't pay to be anything else these days." I force a lightness into my voice, hoping to dispel the underlying anxiety I can sense simmering beneath the surface.

Before anyone else can comment, a knock on the door interrupts the moment. An older woman, with gray hair and kind eyes, enters the room, holding a clipboard. "Miss (L/N), my name is Dr. Leslie Thompkins. I'm the doctor assigned to you," she introduces herself cheerily.

I offer a grateful smile. "Thank you, Dr. Thompkins," I reply softly, my voice still scratchy and sore. She nods, her eyes noticing the water bottle in my hands. "Good. Make sure you get plenty of fluids, although don't drink too much too quickly or it might make you nauseous." With a gentle wave, she dismisses Damian's brothers, replacing the now-empty bag of fluids. "You survived quite the ordeal," she mentions casually, now jotting down notes on my current vitals.

"Yeah, not my favorite experience," I reply sarcastically. Her eyes meet mine, filled with silent laughter. "Well, I'm sure you already know, but I'll tell you anyway - you're going to make a full recovery, and that sense of humor of yours will definitely help." The collective sigh of relief from the others fills the room as she injects something into the hanging IV bag. "This is a small dose of morphine for your pain," she explains.

I nod, a small smile gracing my face. "Anything we need to look out for?" Damian asks from beside me, his voice still tinged with worry. When Dr. Thompkins catches sight of our intertwined fingers and his close proximity, her gaze softens.

"No. Despite her injuries, she didn't sustain any long-term damage. None of her organs were punctured, and the internal bleeding was minimal," the doctor replies softly. "However, I will instruct you to take it slow for the next month." She turns her attention back to me, her features growing stern yet not unkind. "You have four cracked ribs, significant bruising, and the cuts along your back and shoulders all required stitches." She places a hand on Bruce's shoulder, an intimate gesture that strikes me as somewhat unusual for a doctor.

"As much as I enjoy your humor, I hope I don't have to see you here again." She shifts her gaze to Bruce, shaking his shoulder lightly. "Bruce here has shaved off at least ten years of my life from all the times I had to patch him up over the years," she clarifies playfully. He chuckles in response, shaking his head. "All those extreme sports are bad for the bones." Dr. Thompkins winks at me, and I feign confusion and mild surprise, prompting a deep laugh from her.

"Oh, she's good," she remarks to the others before making her way to the door. My mouth opens and closes like an idiot, my mind reeling with the realization that she knows who they are. "Don't do anything strenuous for the next month or so, and for the first two weeks, you'll be on bed rest." With that, she leaves the room, the door clicking silently closed behind her.

"Wha-" I begin to say, my voice trailing off as I struggle to find the right words. They exchange a knowing look, their eyes filled with amusem*nt. Dick breaks the silence, explaining, "Alfred can't always patch us up when things get dire, so Dr. Thompkins here steps in to help occasionally." Still bewildered, I must wear my confusion on my face because Bruce steps in to provide further clarification. "Leslie worked with my father and has been a trusted family friend for years. She's one of the few who know about our identities and has pledged to maintain patient confidentiality."

"Ah," I manage to utter, the effects of the morphine finally starting to take hold. The pain that had radiated throughout my body begins to dissipate, replaced by a welcomed numbness that causes my head to sink into the pillow.

Sensing my exhaustion, Damian instructs his family to leave so that I can rest. I squeeze his hand, silently expressing my gratitude. He gets it, his eyes softening with understanding and reciprocated gratitude.

They clear out, promising to remain just outside until I feel better. Tears well up in my eyes at their genuine concern and unwavering dedication, causing me to swallow hard. I nod and offer them a trembling smile, hoping it conveys the depth of my appreciation.

Once the room is empty, save for Damian, I let the tears stream down my cheeks. Without hesitation, he comes to sit on the edge of the bed and gently brushes them away with his thumb. "Habibti, why do you cry?" he asks, his voice filled with sadness, shattering the last remnants of my crumbling resolve.

I'm unable to form a coherent reply as sobs rack my body, rendering me utterly helpless. Everything from the past few days comes crashing back, overwhelming me with a flood of emotions. I realize I don't even know how much time has passed since it all began.

Through the tears, I manage to choke out, "How long have I been here?" My voice sounds nasal due to the congestion in my nose.

"Just about thirty-two hours," he whispers, watching me closely for any signs of panic.

I allow the emotions to wash over me, the weight of grief, anger, and despair crashing down all at once. I cry for what feels like an eternity, while Damian remains still, holding my hand in unwavering support. He doesn't try to tell me that everything will be okay or to stop crying. Instead, he simply stays by my side, allowing me to work through it all. Not once does he grow impatient as waves of tears cascade down onto my hospital gown.

Finally, the hysterics lessen, allowing me to regain a steady breath. Looking at Damian through wet lashes, I muster the courage to ask the question that has been haunting me. The room feels still, the air heavy with anticipation. "Bran?" I whisper, my voice barely audible, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace that has settled between us.

Damian's posture stiffens at the sound of his name, his face darkening, a storm brewing beneath his composed exterior. "He's on the third floor," he responds, his voice carrying a clinical tone.

I take in the sterile surroundings of the hospital room, the faint scent of disinfectant mingling with the floral aroma from the bouquets of vibrant flowers that adorn the room. The sound of distant beeping monitors lingers in the background.

"He's guarded by several GCPD officers and cuffed to the bed," he continues, his words filling the space between us. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead cast an eerie glow, accentuating the gravity the words. I watch him closely, his hand that intertwines with mine tightly gripping, his fingers bearing the calluses of countless battles fought.

"Although," Damian adds, running his free hand through his disheveled hair, a sign of his inner turmoil, "I doubt that is necessary as he slipped into a coma due to the head trauma." I sense the weight of his words, the realization settling heavily in my chest. The room seems to close in on us, the walls tightening, as the silence stretches on.

"Coma?" I manage to utter, my voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and relief. Damian's lips curl into a wry grin, his eyes meeting mine, conveying both understanding and a hint of caution. "Yes, a coma," he confirms, his voice carrying a note of solemnity.

The room feels suspended in time as if the world beyond its walls has momentarily ceased to exist. The soft hum of medical equipment serves as a constant reminder of the fragility of life. My mind races, grappling with the implications of this newfound knowledge. The tears that clouded my vision are replaced by a profound sense of peace, tinged with a bittersweet acceptance.

"So-" I begin, my voice trailing off, leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air between us. Damian's gaze holds mine, his eyes filled with a mixture of apprehension and unwavering support.

"Yes," he responds, his voice steady and resolute. "When he wakes, he will be tried and found guilty for his involvement in your parents' deaths." His words resonate within me, stirring a whirlwind of emotions. The room seems to grow colder, a chill settling over my skin, as the weight of this truth settles upon my shoulders.

"Wha-" I start to speak, but the words catch in my throat. My mind swirls with a tempest of thoughts and memories, as if the very fabric of my reality has been shaken. The room feels suffocating, each breath a struggle against the weight of the revelation. "So it's true," I finally whisper, my voice barely audible, as if speaking the words aloud will make the truth too real to bear.

Damian nods solemnly, his eyes reflecting a profound sorrow. "I'm sorry, beloved," he replies earnestly, his voice filled with a mixture of regret and empathy.

I focus on my breathing, drawing in a shuddering breath, trying to steady my racing heart. The sterile scent of the hospital mingles with the bittersweet taste of closure, an amalgamation of emotions that lingers in the air.

Swallowing hard, I find myself unable to conjure any sympathy for the man who shattered my world. Even though the truth now stands before me, solidified and irrefutable, I strangely feel a wild sense of peace. It is a peace born out of the knowledge that their case can finally be closed.

Justice, though bittersweet, has been served, and the memory of my parents no longer has to be tainted with lingering questions and unfulfilled answers. At this moment, amidst the sterile confines of the hospital room, I find solace in the closure that has been long overdue.

Happy tears brim in my eyes this time, a radiant smile adorning my face as I gaze at my Soulmate, squeezing his hand tightly. "Thank you, my love," I say, my voice trembling with emotion. His expression morphs into one of stunned disbelief as he struggles to comprehend my gratitude.

"Why are you thanking me, my beloved?" he asks, his voice filled with genuine curiosity, tinged with a hint of confusion.

"Because you saved me," I reply, my voice cracking with raw vulnerability. "Not just physically, but also my soul," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

His face crumples, a whirlwind of emotions overwhelming his usually impassive demeanor. He leans closer, resting his forehead against mine, seeking solace in our connection. "It is a privilege for me to simply be in your presence, let alone be responsible for your salvation. Thank you, Habibti, for entrusting me with something so sacred that I can hardly believe I'm worthy of," he whispers, his words meant only for my ears.

I chuckle softly, bringing a hand up to rest against his cheek. He leans into my touch, his head tilting until my palm is flush against his face. I gently rub small circles with my thumb, reveling in the intimacy of the moment, adoring the way his eyes flutter closed in response to the sensation.

"What did I say about being worthy?" I ask, a playful tone in my voice, recalling the words I spoke the night he snuck into my room. He pulls away slightly, looking at me with a burning fire dancing in his eyes. He snickers at my rhetorical question and responds by kissing the back of my free hand.

Just as a sense of contentment washes over us, another memory floods back, stealing the breath from my lungs. "Jackson," I murmur breathlessly, the weight of the truth pressing upon me.

With my hand still resting against his lips, Damian's eyes snap to mine, a mixture of rage and anguish dilating his pupils. He lowers my hand, his face clouded with darkness as he asks, "What about Anders?"

I'm momentarily taken aback by his intense reaction, realizing that he has no knowledge of what transpired. "Oh, Damian," I say, my voice filled with regret. "No, he wasn't bad."

He looks at me with a dubious and slightly suspicious frown. "Please, elaborate," he replies slowly, his voice laden with a cautious tone.

I gather my strength, fighting down the emotions that threaten to choke my words as I clear my throat. "He... he died protecting me," I rush out, the memories flooding my mind.

Before Damian can interject, I continue, my words tumbling out in a torrent. "I was walking through the park when I ran into him, and he said he wanted to talk." I inhale a sharp breath through my nose, the tears once again streaming down my cheeks. "And I brushed him off," I admit, my voice trembling with self-loathing. "I brushed him off when all he wanted to do was apologize and redeem himself."

The confusion in Damian's expression gives way to remorse and sorrow as I cover my mouth, attempting to stifle the sobs that threaten to erupt. He remains silent, steadfastly holding my hand, as I take several deep breaths to steady myself.

"He pushed me behind him when those things attacked, and he fought valiantly to give me a chance to escape. But then I was snatched away, and even then, he continued to fight against them, desperately trying to save me." Each word that escapes my lips feels like a knife piercing my heart. I release a wet sob, causing the monitor to jump in alarm as my heart rate races uncontrollably.

Damian brushes a hand down my hair, his touch gentle and comforting, pulling me closer to him. His lips find my forehead, planting a tender kiss that soothes the ache in my chest, a pain that extends far beyond the physical trauma. I look up at him with tear-filled eyes, my face blotchy and ruddy from the torrent of emotions unleashed within me.

"And now he's dea-" I choke on the words, my voice breaking, unable to continue the sentence. The weight of loss presses upon my heart, threatening to drown me in sorrow.

"I know, darling, I know," Damian murmurs against my hair, his warm breath caressing my skin as his lips find the crown of my head. His touch radiates solace, his presence offering a refuge from the storm raging within me. He pulls away slightly, his hand cupping the back of my neck, his gaze filled with compassion and understanding.

"But there's peace in death," he whispers, his words laced with a mix of sadness and acceptance. His eyes implore me to believe him, to find solace in the notion that death can sometimes bring release from pain. And I do.

"Weren't you the one who said death is a gift?" he asks softly, a small smile gracing his lips. His attempt to infuse a glimmer of lightness into the heaviness of the moment is both heartwarming and bittersweet.

I let out a soft chuckle, my voice carrying a trace of melancholy, as I reflect on his words echoing in my mind. I lock my gaze with his, finding a warm solace and unconditional love reflected within his eyes. "I want them to know," I declare with unwavering determination, my voice still raspy from the ordeal. "I want them to know that he died a hero. I won't let his sacrifice be forgotten."

Damian instantly agrees, his commitment evident in his resolute expression and unwavering support. The weight of exhaustion tugs at my consciousness, aided by the calming effects of the morphine. A yawn escapes me, overpowering my resolve to stay awake. Damian releases his grip on my neck, rising to his feet once more. He leans in, his lips finding mine in a chaste kiss, a gentle farewell before I succumb to sleep's embrace.

"Rest now, my darling," he whispers against my lips, his voice tinged with a mixture of tenderness and longing. "When you awaken, we will be here, by your side." His words carry a sense of unwavering commitment and unwavering love. As I lean back, resting my head against the cool, soft pillow, his presence lingers in the room, providing a comforting anchor amidst the encroaching darkness.

I try to express my gratitude, to convey the depth of my emotions, but the words may or may not find their way past my lips. With each passing moment, the weight of exhaustion pulls me further into the depths of slumber. As I watch the figure of Damian fade into the distance, my eyelids grow heavy, the embrace of sleep eagerly enveloping me.

Damian’s POV:

Emerging from the room, Damian enters the adjoining sitting room, his family's eyes brimming with anxiety. He lowers his voice to a hushed tone, wary of disturbing the fragile tranquility that envelopes her. Casting a meaningful glance toward his father, he subtly gestures to the hallway, prompting Bruce to nod in silent agreement, and they step out into the corridor.

Aware of Alfred's discreet vigilance to prevent any eavesdropping, they wait until the door closes with a soft click, ensuring their conversation remains confidential. Bruce's genuine concern, a contrast to their past conflicts, momentarily unsettles Damian, emphasizing the depth of their evolving relationship.

"There has been a development concerning Jackson Anders," Damian discloses, his arms folding resolutely across his chest. An arched eyebrow of curiosity adorns Bruce's countenance, urging Damian to exhale a controlled breath through his nose before delving into the details of her encounter with Jackson. With each word, Bruce's features darken, yet a softer expression replaces the darkness when Damian reveals her heartfelt request.

Concluding his account, Damian patiently awaits his father's response, observing the cogitation in Bruce's eyes as he formulates a plan. "I’ll contact Lois Lane," Bruce declares, determination ringing in his voice. Leaning his shoulder against the wall, mirroring Damian's stance, he crosses his arms, emanating an air of quiet resolve. "I have already initiated contact regarding an exposé on Bran Toremin and the Court of Owls."

A flicker of surprise dances within Damian, causing his brow to furrow with intrigue. "For what purpose?" he inquires, his tone lowered, yet firmly tinged with skepticism.

Bruce appears momentarily taken aback by the sudden intensity in his son's voice. "The District Attorney s trying to brush this whole mess under the proverbial rug. It seems they intend to broker a plea deal with Bran, desperate to avoid the harsh glare of public scrutiny for their own failures," he explains with measured deliberation, his voice carrying a weary undercurrent.

Absorbing his father's words, Damian nods with comprehension, a simmering frustration brewing beneath his composed facade. "Should the story be exposed to the public, the District Attorney will find themselves bereft of the option to negotiate, compelled to pursue a trial," he articulates, completing his father's train of thought, his tone unyielding, resolute.

Bruce responds with a firm nod, his lips pursed in agitation. Damian takes a moment to center himself, inhaling deeply through his nostrils and exhaling purposefully, his desire to safeguard her emotional well-being fueling his next question. "Have you given due consideration to the potential emotional toll this revelation may have on (Y/N)?" he inquires, his words imbued with a bitter frustration that resonates deeply within him, a testament to his unwavering concern.

"Contrary to popular belief, I have," Bruce responds, a hint of fatigue underlining his words. "While it may cause moments of embarrassment and grief, I firmly believe that ensuring Bran remains incarcerated, will ultimately serve her greater well-being.”

An overwhelming surge of rage inundates Damian's being, his hands involuntarily clenching into taut fists at his sides. He swiftly scans their immediate surroundings, ensuring no prying eyes bear witness to the erosion of his patience. "Do you truly believe she will merely experience embarrassment?" he seethes through gritted teeth, the fiery intensity of his words seems to paint the very air around him in vivid hues of frustration. "She will be utterly mortified, compelled to relive the heart-wrenching tragedy of her parents' demise in the public sphere. Every onlooker will feel entitled to pass judgment, to opine upon her most personal anguish."

Bruce's countenance transforms into an impenetrable mask, his features akin to a solid slab of stone, betraying nothing. With deliberate composure, he responds in measured tones, laced with a caustic bite. "I am acutely aware, Son," he retorts, spitting out the word with venomous force. "However, I have meticulously weighed the available options, and in the grand scheme of things, this option holds greater promise."

Damian's searching gaze traverses his father's face, desperately seeking any flicker of guilt or hesitation, but his scrutiny finds no trace. His mind whirls, engaged in a ceaseless battle of considerations, mirroring the calculated contemplation of his father. Following an extended bout of silence, he shakes his head, exhaling a tense breath, his eyes cast downward to the glossy expanse of cream-colored linoleum beneath his feet.

"I’ll make the call," his father's voice interjects, reclaiming Damian's attention once more. "I will alert her to the circ*mstances surrounding Jackson. She possesses the finesse to craft a narrative that is both tasteful and reverential. I’ll even request its inclusion within her article, ensuring that he receives the honor he deserves," he concludes softly, his words infused with a note of subdued reverence.

Reluctantly, Damian nods, acquiescing to the notion that his father's proposed course of action represents a reasonable fulfillment of her request, albeit one that aligns with his father's customary approach. Yet, deep within, he quietly resolves to transcend the expected, determined to go above and beyond. How exactly, he remains uncertain.

As Damian's hand instinctively reaches for the doorknob, poised to reenter the room, his father halts him with a commanding tone. "There is one more thing we need to discuss," Bruce declares, his voice assuming a grave timbre.

Apprehension coils within Damian's gut, a disconcerting churn that imbues the air with a sense of foreboding. Gradually retracting his hand, he braces himself for the imminent exchange, steeling his resolve for the weighty conversation that awaits.

"Is that so?" Damian challenges, his patience worn thin as he no longer attempts to conceal his exasperation. His father's eyes narrow slightly, a disapproving tightness forming at the corners of his lips. "Yes," Bruce begins, his tone carrying a discernible edge. "The way you conducted yourself on that ship..." He pauses, his voice lacing with a mixture of concern and sternness. Damian cracks his knuckles, leaning a shoulder against the wall, ready to face the weight of his father's words.

"There was a moment when I feared I had lost you again. A moment when it seemed you were succumbing to the alluring call of darkness," Bruce continues, his Adam's apple bobbing with a visible swallow. "But I want you to know that I am proud of you. Proud of you for resisting the temptation to cross that line and take Bran's life."

A swift surge of conflicting emotions washes over Damian, mingling anger with relief, momentarily clouding his thoughts and hindering his ability to articulate a coherent response. However, as the turmoil within him gradually settles, he finds the courage to speak. "Don't be," he states firmly, his voice carrying a resolute tone.

The expression of bewilderment that flickers across his father's face prompts Damian to emit a dark chuckle, his head lolling back slightly from the weight of the revelation. "There is nothing to be proud of, Father. I would have done it," he confesses, the words landing like a harsh slap across Bruce's visage. The overhead fluorescent lights seem to flicker in disapproval, adding an air of tension to the exchange.

"I didn't spare him of my own volition. It was her," Damian whispers, a mixture of shame and frustration tinting his voice. "She asked me to spare him, and I could not deny her." He admits his weakness, partly ashamed that he was unable to make the decision on his own, and partly indignant that he feels shame at all.

Bruce places a firm hand on Damian's shoulder, his features resuming their customary impassiveness. "The reasons behind your choice may be complex, but what matters is that you made that choice," he declares with a tone of finality, his words carrying an unshakable conviction. Tears threaten to well in Damian's eyes as the weight of his father's unwavering pride washes over him, a potent mix of emotions swirling within his heart.

Still, Damian cannot reconcile with the idea his father holds of him. In fact, as the years pass, he feels increasingly detached from the others, despite their belief that he has fully assimilated into their moral code. Except for Todd, perhaps.

The rest of them see him as someone who has undergone a complete transformation, as if he has shed his old self entirely and emerged anew. But they are mistaken. He hasn't changed. Instead, he has suppressed a part of himself, pushing it deep into the recesses of his soul, nurturing a coiling, slumbering beast that is now unleashed.

For so long, he believed he could keep that darkness contained. He thought he could live with only half of who he is. But that, too, was a fallacy. Last night shattered that illusion, revealing the truth he can no longer deny.

Not even she, the one person who knows him intimately, comprehends how close he was to losing himself to that insatiable hunger for blood. All this time, he viewed it as a separate entity, but it is not. It is him, an integral facet of his being, and now that he has acknowledged its existence, he cannot turn a blind eye to it any longer.

Gazing at his father, Damian knows that the words he is about to utter will cause pain, but he needs to speak them nonetheless. "I'm sorry, Father, but I cannot accept your perception of me, and I refuse to apologize for it," he rushes out, his voice tinged with a mixture of confusion and desperation. "I am your son, and I am eternally grateful to you for teaching me another way, but I am also Talia's son. No matter how hard you try to strip that life away from me, it will always be a part of who I am. I cannot deny that I am both a Wayne and an Al Ghul."

He watches his father closely, his chest tight with anxiety as the weight of his words settles upon him. Bruce's face softens, the tension easing from his features as they resonate within him. "I'm sorry if I made you feel that way, my boy," he says with genuine regret. "I understand what it's like to live as two sides of the same coin, in constant conflict with each other. For me it's Bruce Wayne and..." He glances around the empty hallway before continuing, "And Batman. For you, it's Damian Wayne and Damian Al Ghul. I never intended for you to feel the need to deny one side of yourself to please me. I am not very adept at this whole parenting thing. Thankfully, Alfred has been there for all of us," he adds with a slight mutter. "But please know that I am still proud of you, regardless. I never want you to feel the need to hide any part of yourself from us. We are a family, a flawed family, but a family nonetheless. Be yourself and understand that nothing can diminish my love for you." Bruce rubs the back of his neck with a touch of unease, his eyes locked onto Damian's.

An array of emotions washes over Damian, too complex to untangle as he stands there speechless. Then, a small grin lifts the corner of his mouth, and he asks lightly, "Nothing?" His father chuckles, the anguish dissipating as he shakes with silent laughter.

"Nothing," Bruce affirms firmly before averting his gaze. "Although, I would prefer if you refrained from going on any more killing sprees," he adds with a hint of playful admonishment. Damian's face splits into a wide smile as they lock eyes. So much remains unspoken between them, but they understand each other without the need for words.

I love you, Dad.

I love you too, son.

Thank you for accepting me.

I will always accept you.

Even if I take lives? Damian raises an eyebrow.

Even then. But I would be incredibly angry. Bruce reciprocates the facial gesture.

They share a silent laugh, etching this moment into their memories before reentering the room. His brothers watch them, their expressions filled with understanding, while Alfred stands off to the side, wearing an expression that conveys a mixture of exasperation and resignation. But even that cannot dampen Damian's spirits at this moment. Now, all he feels is happiness knowing she is safe and that his family stands beside him.

Chapter 37: Embracing the Past, Embracing the Future

Chapter Text

(Y/N) POV:

The first week following the incident proved to be agonizingly monotonous, with a tranquil routine that initially seemed comforting. However, after a mere forty-eight hours of such dullness, I yearned to reclaim the vibrancy of life.

Unfortunately, my desires were met with strict opposition. Damian insisted I remain confined to bed, Alfred dutifully served me flavorless soups and non-solid sustenance, and despite my pleading, the doctor adamantly refused to release me prematurely. At times, I found myself contemplating the idea of escaping through the window, although I never acted on those fleeting impulses.

Yet, a glimmer of salvation emerged in the form of permitted visitors. As soon as Damian relayed the news of Sam's allowance to visit, she arrived, her eyes glistening with tears as she bounced into the room and embraced me, albeit with a gentleness that left me wanting more.

"Can't risk squeezing the life out of you," she remarked amidst sniffles. "Fair enough," I replied, attempting a smile. We settled onto the bed, facing each other with legs crossed, and she proceeded to fill me in on the latest gossip and school drama, recounting even the messiest and less flattering headlines.

Despite the occasional wince at some revelations, I clung to her every word, diligently absorbing the details. Sam shared the news of Lois Lane's exposé on Bran, which had ignited a fervor throughout the media.

After several hours, Sam bid her farewell, granting me a tight hug that, although secretly causing discomfort, I refused to admit. Damian returned, considerate enough to grant us privacy, allowing us to catch up.

In his hands, he held the exposé that unveiled Bran's sinister involvement in the deaths of my parents and the subsequent kidnapping. When I spoke with the authorities, I deliberately chose to omit the years of abuse, deeming it too mortifying to confess, particularly when they possessed an abundance of evidence to secure Bran's lifelong incarceration.

"Do you want me to stay while you read?" he asked, his voice unusually hesitant. I nodded, prompting him to release a tense breath and slide into the bed next to me. The scratchy sheets cradled our bodies as we settled in. My eyes shifted between the paper and him as I whispered, "Have you read this yet?" He propped his head in his hand, looking at me sorrowfully, and shook his head.

I adjusted our positions so that we could both read it together. Our fingers brushed against each other, creating a gentle connection. The faint scent of the ink on the paper wafted up, mingling with the comforting smell of his cologne. Our eyes scanned every word, the letters etching themselves into our minds. As the weight of the words settled upon us, I felt a lump form in my throat, my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

When we reached Jackson's part, tears started streaming down my face, blurring the lines on the page. I could taste their saltiness as they met my lips, a bittersweet reminder of the emotions welling within. Lois portrayed him as the hero he truly was, her words painting vivid images of his courage and selflessness. I could hear his voice in my mind, echoing through the room, as memories intertwined with the present moment.

That night, I fell asleep in Damian's arms, my tears staining his shirt. His warmth enveloped me, and I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath against my cheek. The room was filled with a gentle hush, interrupted only by the soft beeping of the monitors. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow upon us, creating a sense of solace amidst the darkness.

I wasn't allowed to attend Jackson's funeral, and that crushed me as well. The scent of fresh flowers filled the air, their delicate fragrance mingling with the lingering sadness. I longed to be there for him one last time, to feel the soft earth beneath my feet and the weight of grief shared among loved ones. But my injuries were still fresh, a constant reminder of the pain endured, and the others were concerned about potential retaliation from the Court of Owls.

The next day, the De Luca family arrived, their presence filling the room with a burst of vibrant energy. They carried with them an array of flowers, their colors, and fragrances intertwining to create a captivating floral tapestry. The room had been transformed into a botanical paradise, petals, and leaves weaving together like a painter's masterpiece.

Amidst the sea of blossoms, the real treasures they brought were the secret treats concealed within their midst. Cannolis, their crisp shells dusted with powdered sugar, beckoned with promises of sweetness, while the scent of coffee gelato filled the air, rich and inviting. Damian's eyes, though tinged with a subtle frown, betrayed a hint of longing as he glanced at the indulgent delights.

With a playful smile, I made him swear to keep our little indulgence a secret, a mischievous glint in my eyes. I delicately picked up a cannoli, its creamy filling peeking through the edges, and took my first bite. The delicate crunch of the pastry mingled with the sweet cream, a delightful symphony on my taste buds. It was a moment of sheer bliss as I savored the first solid food I had tasted in days.

Damian's lips curved into a small smile, a mixture of amusem*nt and longing. He gingerly selected a cannoli for himself, his fingers delicately grasping the treat, his eyes locked with mine as we shared this illicit delight.

We spent hours talking, the sound of our voices creating a symphony of comfort and familiarity. Laughter punctuated the air, the room was alive with shared stories and unspoken support.

Tears welled up in my eyes when Alina and Eduardo told me they had taken time off to be with me. The softness of their touch as we embraced, the warmth of their presence, enveloped me like a soothing embrace.

When Alfred caught me devouring a cannoli with a dollop of coffee ice cream, he was far more upset than I had anticipated. Alfred's disapproval carried a hint of love, his concern palpable in the air. He promptly took them away from me, despite my best attempts to guilt him.

No amount of tears or pouting worked on him. It was frustrating, but honestly, it was for the best because my stomach revolted against the dairy that night. I tossed and turned, the discomfort lingering, while Alfred did his best to make me comfortable. His touch was gentle yet firm, his presence a reassuring anchor amidst the turmoil. Meanwhile, Damian, overwhelmed with guilt, refused to leave my side, not even for patrol.

The next day, the anticipated persuasion began. I knew it was inevitable, but I had hoped for a little more time. One by one, his brothers, Father, and Alfred took turns attempting to convince me to move into Wayne Manor. I stood my ground, adamantly resisting the idea, no matter how enticing their arguments were.

"But then you'd have Alfred's cooking every day," Dick pointed out, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

"You'd never have to do your own laundry again," Tim chimed in, attempting to appeal to my practical side.

"I could teach you how to throw Batarangs at any time of the day," Jason added, extending his arms wide as if that offer alone would be irresistible. It wasn't, but I did entertain the idea of them teaching me some basic self-defense skills.

However, it was Damian's persuasive points that finally broke through my defenses. He leaned casually against the door frame, delivering his proposition with a hint of confidence. "You'd have unlimited access to our library and Titus," he stated simply, his voice carrying a magnetic allure. In that brief half-second between his suggestion and my response, the others erupted in jubilant celebration.

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at their enthusiastic responses. With an assertive tone, I interjected, my voice commanding their attention, "However," I bellowed over their voices, raising a finger in the air for emphasis, "I will only relent under two conditions." The weight of my words silenced them all, their eager expressions turning more serious.

"One," I began, holding their gaze, "I will only live there until the end of August, and then I will move into the dorms." It was important to me to maintain my independence, to forge my own path outside of the confines of Wayne Manor. The others nodded, understanding my need for autonomy.

"Two," I continued, directing my words specifically to Damian, "You need to resume your patrols and training." My eyes met his, conveying the significance of this request. The essence of who he was, the protector and hero, needed to be rekindled. They exchanged glances, silently considering my stipulation.

However, Bruce, being the ever-vigilant guardian, made it abundantly clear that my safety was paramount. He firmly stated that I would never be left alone for any significant stretch of time. During their patrols, they would rotate, ensuring that someone always stayed behind to keep me company and provide the necessary protection.

Realizing that they had acquiesced to my other demands, I found myself with little ground to argue. It became evident that we had reached a consensus, and I decided to solidify our agreement by insisting on drafting a contract, albeit informally. The idea was met with nods of approval, acknowledging the importance of clarity and commitment.

Taking charge, I took a moment to write out the terms of our agreement in clear, concise language. The words flowed from my pen with purpose, ensuring that our expectations and responsibilities were well-defined. As I wrote, I could feel Bruce's proud gaze upon me, his eyes sparkling with a sense of admiration for my assertiveness.

Once I finished, I passed the contract to each of them, watching as they read the terms and contemplated their commitment. Their signatures, one by one, adorned the document, signifying our shared dedication to honoring the agreement we had established. Bruce's pride was palpable, his satisfaction evident as he surveyed the signed contract.

In the midst of the chaos, Damian and I received our acceptance letters from Gotham University. Eager to discover our academic fate, we both checked at the same time, holding our breaths in anticipation. I had been admitted into their exclusive biochemistry program, a highly coveted opportunity reserved for only ten undergraduate students each year. Adding to my elation, the scholarship they awarded me covered not only my tuition but also my housing expenses.

However, rather than accepting the scholarship, a surge of guilt and gratitude compelled me to decline it. In an email to the dean of students, I pleaded for them to grant the scholarship to a deserving student facing more challenging financial circ*mstances than my own. The response came swiftly, assuring me that the board would carefully review the applicants and find a suitable recipient.

I promptly accepted the offer to attend Gotham University, not wanting to wait for the responses from other schools. That evening, Damian joined me in my cramped hospital bed, wrapping his arms around me as we discussed the classes we hoped to take.

He shared his desire to reconnect with his heritage by brushing up on his Arabic language skills, which sparked an idea within me. Since our chosen degree paths had no overlap, I suggested that we make a commitment to take at least one elective course together each semester, with our first joint endeavor being the study of Arabic. The thought of delving into the complexities of the language, exploring Damian's rich cultural heritage, filled me with excitement and curiosity.

As he placed a tender kiss on my temple, he murmured how much my suggestion meant to him, solidifying my determination to follow through with our plan. Arabic, with its intricacies and beauty, represented a vital piece of Damian's history that I yearned to understand and embrace. And so, nestled together between the confines of the hospital bed, we drifted off to sleep, our conversation meandering through the realms of hope and dreams.

Finally, several days passed when Dr. Thompkins gave me the all-clear and released me from the hospital. As I buzzed with newfound energy, the anticipation deflated when I saw them rolling in a wheelchair.

"It's just protocol," Damian explained sheepishly as he wheeled me toward the back exit. Despite my reluctance, I found some solace in the wheelchair as I realized the considerable distance we had to cover.

The healing process had been agonizingly slow, particularly with the deep cuts that adorned my body, but each day brought manageable progress. However, the simple act of walking remained a taxing endeavor.

My weakened state and the strain it placed on my body caused my breath to become labored, exacerbating the shooting pain that radiated from my broken ribs.

Damian expertly navigated me through the labyrinthine hospital corridors, leading us into the dimly lit concrete back channels before finally coming to a stop in front of three sleek, all-black Mercedes Sprinter vans.

I couldn't help but question the necessity of such extensive precautions. "Is all this really necessary?" I sighed, my frustration evident as I rolled my eyes. Damian stood steadfastly by my side, one arm loosely enveloping my waist while the other tenderly held my hand, assisting me into the van.

"I'm afraid it is," Bruce explained with a somber tone, his voice tinged with the weight of his responsibility. "With the paparazzi likely to discover your release and the persistent threat from the Court of Owls, we cannot afford to take any chances." I knew it was futile to argue with their cautionary measures, and I found myself silently grateful as we finally embarked, leaving the cacophony of camera flashes and intrusive shouts behind.

The tinted windows shielded us from prying eyes, but the persistent demands of the photographers pierced through the soundproof barriers. The journey home was short-lived, and as the heavy gates of Wayne Manor closed behind us, I exhaled a much-needed breath of relief.

The subsequent weeks became a whirlwind of activity as I settled into the bedroom adjacent to Damian's, declining Alfred's generous offer to make any alterations to the aesthetics and furnishings. It was a temporary arrangement, and I wanted to maintain a sense of independence, reminding them of my eventual move to the dorms. Alfred raised a quizzical eyebrow, silently acknowledging my resolve, before letting the matter rest.

Although I wanted to return to school, I knew it was decided to wait until after winter break. Damian, my unwavering Soulmate, remained faithfully by my side, sacrificing his own classes to be my constant companion. Sam, on the other hand, proved invaluable by providing us with the assignments we missed.

Surprisingly, Gotham Academy displayed a flexibility that allowed us to take exams online and submit our work electronically. The coursework proved manageable, but I couldn't help but crave the camaraderie of Sam's presence and the invigorating rush of track practice.

Jason, ever the intuitive caretaker, connected me with a therapist immediately after I regained consciousness in the hospital. This kind-hearted professional provided a safe space for me to share, heal, and grow. I attended therapy sessions twice a week from the very beginning, finding solace in the empathetic guidance she offered. Jason, too, continued his own therapeutic journey, periodically seeking guidance when his past demons resurfaced.

In the rare moments of respite that Alfred found, he graciously dedicated himself to aiding in my recovery. Together, we diligently practiced physical therapy exercises, gradually rebuilding my strength. He attended to my needs, meticulously tending to my bandages twice a day until the day came when they were no longer necessary.

By the end of the third week, I was able to walk unaided, my stitches had dissolved, and the once-vibrant bruises had faded to a pale, ugly yellow-green. I was on the path to healing, both physically and emotionally.

While I healed, The others moved with fervor, adorning the manor with the festive spirit. Ten separate Christmas trees stood proudly in various rooms, each radiating its unique charm. Their branches bore the weight of twinkling lights that danced in a mesmerizing rhythm, casting a warm and gentle glow throughout the rooms.

The air was infused with the intoxicating scents of the season. The aroma of freshly baked gingerbread cookies wafted through the hallways, their spicy sweetness lingering in the air. The fragrance of fresh pine enveloped the house, as the scent of the majestic Christmas trees blended with hints of crisp winter air. Peppermint candy canes adorned the branches of the trees, releasing their invigorating scent whenever someone passed by

Outside, snow gently fell from the sky, creating a tranquil scene of winter wonderland. The delicate flakes landed on the ground, forming a soft, pristine blanket. I watched from the bay window, captivated by the sight of the fat, fluffy flakes transforming into smaller, intricate crystals that shimmered under the moonlight.