When Damian stepped inside, his gaze instantly zeroed in on Scarlett, huddled in the far corner.
She was curled into herself, arms wrapped tightly around her body. Her top had been yanked down over one shoulder, exposing her skin and the strap of her black bra.
Even though the men had backed off, she kept shrinking back, pressing herself deeper into the wall as if trying to disappear into it.
Damian caught the raw fear in her eyes—a look that hit him like a punch to the chest, stealing his breath for a second.
He turned toward the man with the scar down his face, and his expression went cold, hard. The air around him seemed to drop a few degrees.
Without taking his eyes off Scarlett, he raised a hand toward Brett, who stood behind him. "Take them. Don't let a single one leave."
Then he started toward her, each step deliberate.
Kneeling in front of her, Damian reached out. The moment his fingers brushed her arm, her eyes fluttered shut and she slumped forward.
He caught her before she could fall, pulling her gently against him.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured into her hair, his voice thick. "This is on me. I got here too late."
Every word hung with guilt.
Scarlett didn't respond—she was out cold.
Cradling her, Damian rested his cheek against hers briefly before whispering, "It's okay. Your husband's gonna handle this."
He laid his own jacket on the concrete floor, then carefully placed her on it before covering her with his suit coat.
Once she was settled, he rose slowly.
Behind him, his crew—more than ten deep—had Scarface and his guys pinned against the wall.
Damian walked over until he was looking down at the scarred man. A nod to Brett, and Brett released his hold.
Scarface crouched low, putting on a shaky grin. "Mr. Langley... what's all this about?"
Damian's face was stone—no smile, no obvious rage. He bent slightly, gripped the man's jaw without a word, and squeezed.
The guy winced, groaning through his teeth. "C'mon, Mr. Langley... what're you doing?"

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