The capital sun hadn't even broken past the tall spires of Silvorout Palace when Damon stood in front of his mirror, fastening the last silver cufflink on his right sleeve. The black of his formal uniform clung to his frame with cold precision, a commanding presence molded in silence.
The Salvatore crest was stitched like iron over his heart, but it might as well have been a lead weight. He glanced at the phone on the bed. Still nothing. No new messages. No missed calls. Not even from Lucien.
A dull, familiar ache settled in his chest.
