Flash Marriage: In His Eyes-Chapter 310: Manor Made of Fortress

–Livana–

I glanced at my son. He was still clutching his baby bottle, staring at the screen with innocent curiosity.

"Wat dat?" he asked, pointing.

Jane quickly scooped him into her arms.

"Let’s go over here and watch something else," she said gently.

Relief washed over me like a quiet tide. I listened as Jane began singing softly with Sky somewhere in the background while I returned to work.

We are safe. For now.

But then they attempted to damage the bars again.

Logan stood near the bedroom window, assessing the impact outside. On my laptop, the grid of surveillance feeds displayed every angle of the manor—each square a pulse of vigilance. The estate looked calm from above, almost serene, as if violence had not brushed its gates.

My husband was downstairs—directly beneath our bedroom—waiting. Ready. Anyone who dared breach that wall again would not leave breathing.

The bars were partially damaged. Yet before the intruders could even step inside, they had already fallen to the ground. Holes on their heads.

Efficiency.

I had imagined something different for today—shopping in the village, perhaps a quiet picnic under pale English skies. But the world we live in does not grant softness without resistance.

We would need to leave the manor.

Hours passed within reinforced walls. Sky had fallen asleep in Jane’s arms, still holding his bottle. Outside, our men were cleaning the grounds. We could not leave immediately—ambushes linger in impatience.

I cannot risk my child.

Here I was, thinking we could finally have a simple family day.

I considered contacting the Queen regarding the matter. My fingers hovered briefly over my device. I exhaled.

No.

Not yet.

I watched the screens instead—Damon speaking with Commander White, who was issuing instructions to the Captains. Damon later turned to another man—likely one of his Shadows.

By the time the cleanup concluded, the horizon had begun to pale. Dawn crept in like a reluctant witness.

Now the manor would need blessing again.

Ritual matters.

I approached Jane and Sky. They had both fallen asleep on the sofa, curled together. Jane stirred the moment I touched her shoulder—alert, disciplined.

She had not been deeply asleep at all.

I gently lifted Sky from her arms.

"Go to your room and rest, alright?" I told her softly.

She nodded, glancing once at the monitor.

"I’ll make breakfast," she murmured.

I did not stop her.

She carried my laptop as we exited the panic room, emerging through the concealed bathroom door. Damon was already there, methodically placing his firearms back into their case.

I laid Sky on his bed, tucking him in carefully, removing the empty bottle from his relaxed grip.

Jane left.

Damon took a quick shower, then returned and slipped behind me as I lay beside our son. He wrapped his arms around me, his warmth steady against my back. He kissed my shoulder. My cheek.

"I dealt with everything downstairs," he whispered. "They’re fixing the damage. The bar is still holding."

"How are we going to leave the manor?" I asked quietly.

I had solutions, of course. I always do.

But truthfully... I did not want to leave. I wanted this—our son between us, the illusion of peace, the picnic I had imagined.

I closed my eyes, willing to sleep to claim me.

My husband, however, had other intentions.

"I want you," he murmured against my ear.

I smacked his arm lightly, though I could feel his desire unmistakably pressed against me.

"Stop moving," I hissed softly.

"Please," he muttered.

This man.

We had nearly been at war only hours ago, and now he burned for me as if danger were merely foreplay to life.

I tapped him again, and he slipped out of bed with a boyish grin. He laid a blanket over the carpet while I carefully eased myself away from our son’s embrace.

I knew exactly what he wanted.

Sleep could wait.

For my husband, desire is not a distraction.

It is proof that we are still alive.

–Jane–

I planned to inspect every bit of damage after preparing breakfast, but the kitchen already smelled incredible—warm bread, grilled meat, brewed coffee. The scent wrapped around me like something domestic and deceptively normal.

Logan, Damien, and Commander White stood at the island counter, sleeves rolled up, assembling sandwiches packed with protein for the team outside. Efficient. Focused. Almost... wholesome.

"Babe, it’s fine," Logan said, raising his hand to stop me from intervening. "We can manage this."

I tilted my head slightly.

Manage? Yes, clearly they could. But the way they wrapped those sandwiches—uneven folds, loose corners—irritated something precise inside me. Presentation matters. Order matters.

So I walked to the sink without a word, rolled my sleeves to my elbows, and washed my hands and forearms thoroughly. The water was warm. Steady. I dried them carefully before taking the paper wrappers and redoing each sandwich with tight, clean folds.

Neat. Structured. Controlled.

There were at least twenty ready. Ten of our men were injured. Thirty were dispatched in total.

I kept count automatically. I always do.

They distributed the food with bottled water while monitoring radio updates and perimeter readings. Another helicopter arrived soon after—the cleanup team.

From the kitchen window, I watched them work. They restored everything meticulously—even repositioning the flowers crushed under boots. Blood erased. Shell casings collected.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think nothing had happened.

My head throbbed. A dull pressure behind my eyes. I sat down slowly, palms resting on my thighs. I needed to focus. I couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not until everyone left.

"Babe." Logan approached quietly. "Everything’s clear now." He smiled—too bright for someone who’d shot through skulls hours ago—and wrapped his arms around me. "Let’s sleep."

The sun was already slipping through the barred windows, soft and golden against cold metal.

"I don’t think I should sleep," I muttered.

"Livana’s Bishops are here," he whispered. "They’ll help move us to the new residence."

He took the tablet from my hands and lifted me from the chair as if I weighed nothing. My arms circled his neck instinctively. He kissed my forehead—firm, grounding—before placing me gently on the sofa.

I closed my eyes.

Fatigue crept in the moment he held me. As if my body only permits weakness in his arms. That realization unsettled me.

I heard water running from the bathroom. Steam soon drifted into the room. He returned, scooped me up again, helped me undress with quiet efficiency, and lowered me into the warm bath.

The heat soaked into my muscles. My skin felt sticky—gunpowder residue, sweat, adrenaline. He scrubbed my arms carefully, washed my hair. The scent of shampoo replaced the metallic tang of blood and smoke.

We had shot them in the head without hesitation. Clean shots. Controlled breathing. Like a game of Counter-Strike—but this wasn’t pixels. This was bone and matter and consequence.

"I love you," he whispered.

It sounded sincere. Heavy. Rare.

Adults don’t say that often and mean it. But Sky says it constantly—with sticky hands and honest eyes. That child means it every time.

Logan...

I think I love him.

But I am not certain.

Love, to me, has always been strategic. Conditional. Calculated. Yet when he looks at me like that—like I’m something fragile instead of lethal—my chest tightens in a way I cannot disarm.

We kiss like real lovers. Slow when we need to be. Desperate when the world almost takes one of us.

Does love have to be present for that?

We touch each other like we’re still alive after war. Like survival itself is foreplay.

I rest my forehead against his, water lapping quietly around us.

I am an expert with guns. An assassin who can steady her pulse before pulling a trigger.

But this—this slow surrender of my guarded heart—

That requires far more courage.

–Alyssa–

I prepared everything. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Our bags were supposed to be light—but I still packed a thick blanket and spare pillows in the car. Specifically for me and Lore. He’s been quietly depressed since the other day. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just... heavy.

And I notice those things.

Now, finally, our well-planned trip is here. We postponed it a week ago, and I made sure every detail was ready in advance.

Lore mentioned that next weekend we’d stay at Liva and Damon’s mansion—the one with that breathtaking indoor garden, where the air smells like fresh blooms and quiet power. We hadn’t returned to the apartment for days, but everything was already prepared and stored in the car.

Ms. Christina certainly didn’t expect us to come home that quickly.

"Okay, babe! Let’s go pick up your friends," Lore said brightly, approaching Aunt Ines to hug her. She handed us carefully packed snacks for the road, as if we were children going on a school trip.

It was adorable.

Lore drove to the rendezvous point and picked up Gina, Patrick, Maris, and Clark. Since I knew the route better, I took the wheel first.

My beloved boyfriend reclined his seat, pillows tucked around him, an eye mask covering those beautiful, exhausted eyes. He looked so peaceful like that. Almost innocent.

The others were either asleep, scrolling through their phones, reading, or quietly chatting.

I played soft music—low enough to keep me awake but not disturb anyone. The road stretched endlessly ahead, golden light brushing over the windshield.

After about two hours, I felt movement beside me.

Lore woke up.

Without saying anything, he placed his hand over my shoulder. I kept driving with one hand, freeing my right hand from the wheel.

He took it gently and pressed a kiss to my knuckles.

I smiled and glanced at him.

"Oh, please," Gina groaned from the backseat. "Your sweetness is making us nauseous."

"You need a boyfriend," Lore replied lazily. "Why not date Patrick?"

"Oh, please! Don’t drag me into this!" Patrick protested, and the car erupted in laughter.

I just smiled to myself.

Let them tease.

I like being loved out loud.