Stripping For My Devil Ex Husband

The heavy wrought-iron gates of Northwood estate parted in the torrential downpour as the armored convoy swept up the winding gravel drive, its headlights cutting through the midnight mist.

​Inside the grand foyer, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Victoria stood near the marble mantelpiece, her manicured hands clasping a silk shawl tightly around her shoulders as she paced with rigid, high-strung anxiety.

​The heavy double doors swung open, letting in the sharp, chilled night air.

​Damian entered first, his tall, imposing silhouette casting a long shadow across the marble floor. He had his heavy coat unbuttoned, his gait deliberate and rigid as he fought to mask the sheer physical toll the high-intensity deployment had taken on his healing body.

While his stitches hadn’t torn, the hours spent in the tactical post, moving through the concrete stairwells, and hauling Ana out of harm’s way had left his posture visibly stiff, his breathing tight and shallow.

​Victoria rushed forward instantly, her aristocratic composure fraying. "Damian! You have been on your feet for hours downtown when you should have been resting. Look at you... you can barely draw a full breath! Walter, have the clinic physician come up immediately..."

​"No doctors," Damian rasped, his deep baritone rough with exhaustion but leaving no room for argument. He didn’t break his stride as he moved toward the sweeping grand staircase. "I’m exhausted, Mother, not dying. I don’t need a medical circus in the middle of the night."

​"You took three bullets less than four days ago!" Victoria’s voice edged with sharp, maternal frustration, but Damian simply kept moving up the stairs with stubborn, unyielding focus.

​Before Victoria could press further, Valerie stepped quietly out of the lower corridor.

​Having long shed the spiteful arrogance of her past, Valerie’s eyes held none of the venom she had once wielded under her mother’s influence.

She carried a stainless-steel tray stocked with fresh dressings, antiseptic, painkillers, and a glass of water... prepared the moment Walter had radioed the convoy’s arrival.

​Valerie didn’t scold her brother, nor did she make a scene. She walked directly up to Anastasia, whose face was still pale from the lingering adrenaline of the night, and placed the tray gently into Ana’s hands.

​Valerie offered a soft, tentative smile, her eyes filled with quiet remorse and genuine warmth. "He won’t let any of us near him when he’s like this, Ana," Valerie murmured softly, her voice laced with sincere humility. "He’ll only listen to you. Please make sure he actually rests."

​Ana looked down at the tray, then met Valerie’s gentle gaze. The bitter past between them felt completely distant now. Ana offered a small, grateful nod. "Thank you, Valerie."

​Holding the tray, Ana hurried up the staircase, leaving Victoria standing frozen near the mantel.

​Victoria watched the younger woman disappear down the upper hall, her lips parted in silent conflict. For years, she had convinced herself that Richard Vance’s daughter was nothing more than an opportunistic parasite.

But seeing Anastasia’s immediate, instinctive focus on keeping Damian safe and cared for, a heavy, quiet ache of shame settled deep in Victoria’s chest.

​In the master suite, Damian had discarded his heavy coat and unbuttoned his dark linen shirt, sitting heavily on the edge of the sprawling four-poster bed. His jaw was set tight against the dull, throbbing ache radiating across his bruised, heavily bandaged ribcage.

​Ana pushed the door open, setting the tray down on the polished nightstand with careful, steady hands.

​"Take your shirt off and sit back," Ana said, her tone firm despite the exhaustion lacing her voice.

​Damian looked up, his obsidian eyes dark, hooded, and heavy with fatigue. The corner of his mouth twitched into a faint, exhausted smirk. "Getting bossy, my sweet doll?"

​"Someone has to be," Ana murmured, stepping close.

​She carefully helped him slide the fabric off his broad shoulders, inspecting the heavy gauze wrapping his torso. The dressings were intact, but the skin around them was inflamed from strain and exertion.

Ana poured fresh water, handed him the prescribed pain medication, and used a warm, damp cloth to gently wipe the cold sweat and grime from his neck and uninjured shoulder.

​Her touch was soft, meticulous, and feather-light, as if terrified of causing him even a flicker of pain. Every time his breathing hitched slightly from the dull ache, Ana’s brow furrowed with quiet concern.

​"You should have stayed here," Ana whispered softly, her fingers lingering gently against his uninjured side. "You ran an entire tactical operation and hauled me through a parking garage while your body is still knit together with surgical thread. You push yourself too hard."

​A large, warm hand reached up, his calloused fingers closing gently around her wrist and pulling her lightly toward him until she was standing flush between his knees.

​Damian tilted his head back, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intense, unyielding gravity that made her heart skip a beat.

​"I went out there because you were out there, Anastasia," Damian rasped, his low, gravelly voice rumbling with absolute conviction. "I don’t leave my back line exposed. Especially not when it’s you."

​Ana’s breath caught. Looking down at the fearsome titan stripped of his cold armor, sitting vulnerable under her care, the chaos of Dante Sullivan and the lingering embarrassment in the garage faded into the quiet, electric warmth between them.

_________________________

Downstairs in the private library, the fire in the stone hearth had burned down to a bed of glowing amber coals, casting long, intimate shadows across the mahogany shelves and heavy leather armchairs.

​Clara paced near the tall bay windows, her arms wrapped tightly over her emerald silk dress as rain lashed against the leaded glass. The adrenaline from the downtown decoy was still humming beneath her skin, sharp and volatile.

​A crystal tumbler of neat scotch was suddenly extended into her line of sight.

​"Drink it," Jullian murmured, his aristocratic jacket discarded over the back of a settee, the top buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. "You’ve been grinding your teeth since we cleared the hotel perimeter. It’s making my jaw ache just watching you."

​Clara glanced at the amber liquid, then up at him, her dark eyes flashing with guarded defiance. "I don’t need a drink, Mr. Montgomery."

​"Take the damn glass, Clara," Jullian said softly, stepping closer.

​She exhaled a sharp, frustrated breath, snatching the tumbler from his hand and taking a burning swallow. The alcohol seared her throat, but it did nothing to quiet the chaotic rhythm of her pulse... especially not with Jullian standing mere inches away, his towering frame blocking out the warmth of the room.

​Jullian didn’t step back into his usual flippant, easygoing posture. Instead, his playful charm stripped away, leaving a heavy, dangerous intensity in his hazel eyes that made Clara’s breath hitch.

​"You were reckless tonight," Jullian said, his voice dropping into a low, rough murmur.

​"I did what had to be done," Clara retorted instantly, her chin lifting with customary fire. "I am not fragile, Jullian. I don’t need you hovering like a guard dog."

​"You think this is about you being fragile?"

Jullian asked, taking another slow step forward, trapping her against the edge of the heavy reading table. His large hand came up, resting flat against the dark wood right beside her hip, caging her in with effortless gravity.

"When Dietrich walked out of that dining room and the feed went dark, I wasn’t thinking about Sterling’s security breach. I wasn’t thinking about Dante Sullivan."

​Clara’s heart slammed violently against her ribs. "Jullian..."

​"I’ve been thinking about the kiss," Jullian interrupted, his voice a raw, unvarnished rasp that settled between them like a physical weight. "The night before you were taken to the docks. Before the gunfire and the blood. I’ve been turning it over in my head every single hour of every single day since I pulled you out of that warehouse."

​Clara stared up at him, her lips parting slightly. The memory surged back with electric force... the desperate, bruising heat of his mouth against hers in the shadows of the car inside, the terrifying pull between them right before the world shattered into violence.

​For a single, agonizing second, the fierce armor around her chest cracked.

​"I’ve been thinking about it too," Clara whispered, her voice barely carrying over the crackle of the dying fire.

​A flicker of raw hope flared in Jullian’s eyes, his expression softening as he leaned in, his gaze dropping to her mouth.

​Then, with cold, calm precision, Clara drove the knife straight into his chest.

​"I’ve been thinking about what a colossal mistake it was," Clara said, her voice turning flat, icy, and entirely unyielding.

​Jullian froze, the warmth draining from his features.

​"I was emotional," Clara continued, stepping sideways out of his cage, her posture rigid as she set the half-empty glass down with a sharp clink. "I just came from giving a statement against a powerful heiress, I was scared for my life and my family, everything was falling apart, and I wasn’t thinking straight. That’s all it was, Jullian. A momentary lapse in judgment."

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