side story damiens early days with the bloodbriars and von reichsins

Damien D’marco had faced men with guns, judges with agendas, and negotiations where a single misplaced word could cost millions.

None of that prepared him for dinner at the Bloodbriar manor.

He arrives precisely on time.

Of course he does.

People like him don’t survive long by being careless with timing.

The gates open before he even announces himself. Subtle. Controlled. Expected.

Inside, the manor looms—not in a threatening way, but in the way something old and self-assured does. Like it doesn’t need to prove anything.

Terry greets him first, effortless as always.

“You’re early,” she says.

“I’m on time.”

She smiles. “Exactly.”

The first thing Damien notices isn’t the wealth.

It’s the lack of noise.

No shouting. No chaos. No forced laughter.

Just… presence.

People existing without trying to dominate each other.

It’s deeply unnatural.

And immediately disarming.

Dinner begins without ceremony.

Diana is already seated, flipping a page in what Damien quickly realizes is… girls’ love manga.

She doesn’t look up.

“Sit,” she says.

He does.

Across from him, two children stare.

Unblinking.

Evaluating.

“…You must be Persephone and Hades,” Damien says.

“Yes,” Persephone replies.

“You are attempting to make a good impression,” Hades adds.

Damien pauses.

“…Is it working?”

“No,” they say in unison.

Terry snorts softly into her drink.

Beckett is not present.

Damien notices this immediately.

He’s heard about him. Everyone has, in fragments:

“Where’s your brother?” Damien asks Terry.

“Sleeping,” she replies.

“It’s evening.”

“He keeps his own hours.”

Diana finally looks up.

“He’ll appear when necessary,” she says. “Or when thirsty.”

Damien isn’t sure if that’s a joke.

He decides not to ask.

Dinner proceeds.

It should feel tense.

It doesn’t.

Instead:

And through it all—

Diana occasionally reaches over and adjusts an empty chair beside her.

Not absentminded.

Expectant.

Halfway through dinner, it happens.

Footsteps.

Soft. Measured.

Damien turns.

And for a brief, disorienting second—

He thinks something has appeared, not walked in.

Beckett stands in the doorway.

Black coat. Gloves. Mask. Glasses catching just enough light to obscure his eyes.

Still.

Completely still.

“…You weren’t exaggerating,” Damien mutters.

“No,” Terry says calmly. “We never do.”

Beckett walks in without acknowledging anyone.

Not out of rudeness.

Out of disinterest.

He moves like someone conserving energy for things that matter.

He reaches the table.

Pours a glass of water.

Drinks.

Only then does he glance up.

His gaze lands on Damien.

There’s no curiosity in it.

No challenge.

Just… awareness.

“You’re the new variable,” Beckett says.

Damien exhales a quiet laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

Silence.

Then Beckett nods slightly.

“Acceptable.”

He sits.

Next to Diana.

Of course.

Dinner resumes like this is normal.

Because to them, it is.

At one point, Diana hooks a finger into Beckett’s scarf and pulls him slightly closer as she continues reading.

He doesn’t resist.

Doesn’t react, really.

Just adjusts subtly to accommodate her.

Damien watches this.

Files it away.

This isn’t dominance in the way he’s used to.

It’s… choreography.

Mutual. Practiced. Understood.

Later, after dinner, Damien finds Beckett alone in the kitchen.

Reorganizing the counter.

Not cleaning.

Aligning.

“…You do that often?” Damien asks.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It prevents irritation.”

Damien nods slowly.

Fair enough.

He leans against the counter.

Offers, “Drink?”

He produces a small, expensive bottle.

Beckett doesn’t even look at it.

“No.”

“Not your thing?”

“I’ve seen what it does to people who don’t stop.”

Simple. Final.

No elaboration.

Damien puts it away.

“…Tea?” he tries instead.

A pause.

“…Acceptable.”

That’s how it starts.

Days pass.

Then weeks.

Damien keeps coming back.

Not out of obligation.

Because he wants to.

The contract is the first thing that truly unsettles him.

Not because it exists.

Because it works.

“You’ve had enough sugar today,” Diana says one afternoon.

Beckett, without looking up from his tablet: “I disagree.”

“You signed the terms.”

“I was coerced.”

“You were informed.”

A pause.

Beckett sighs—quiet, resigned.

Reaches for the herbal tea instead.

Damien watches this exchange.

“…You could just ignore her,” he says later.

Beckett finally looks at him.

“I could,” he agrees.

He takes a sip of tea.

“I don’t want to.”

That lands harder than anything else.

The boundary incident comes next.

Damien pushes—just slightly.

A probing question. A subtle test.

Beckett goes still.

Then:

“I’m no longer interested in this interaction.”

And he leaves.

No anger.

No escalation.

Just absence.

Diana appears in the doorway moments later.

“You won’t do that again,” she says.

Damien meets her gaze.

Understands immediately.

“…No,” he agrees. “I won’t.”

And he doesn’t.

The night it happens is unremarkable.

Which is why it matters.

Damien arrives late.

The manor is quiet.

Lights low.

He steps inside—

And freezes.

Beckett stands at the end of the hallway.

Backlit.

Motionless.

For a split second, Damien genuinely believes—

Not that he’s in danger.

But that he’s witnessing something other.

“…Am I interrupting something?” Damien asks carefully.

“I was getting water,” Beckett replies.

Of course he was.

Damien exhales.

“…Right.”

As Beckett turns—

It happens.

Brief.

Accidental.

The mask shifts.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

Pale skin. Sharp lines. Soft, almost delicate features that don’t match the ominous silhouette at all.

A contradiction.

Gone as quickly as it appeared.

Beckett adjusts the mask without comment.

Continues walking.

Damien stands there for a moment longer.

Processing.

“…That’s new,” he mutters.

From the shadows, Diana’s voice:

“Yes,” she says softly. “It is.”

There’s something in her tone.

Not warning.

Not quite pride.

Something quieter.

More possessive.

“Consider it a courtesy,” she adds.

After that, things settle into something… steady.

Damien stops trying to understand everything.

Starts accepting what is.

He and Beckett sit in silence more often than they speak.

Tea replaces alcohol.

Respect replaces curiosity.

One evening, as the family gathers in the living room, Terry leans against Damien.

“You’re still here,” she says.

“I am.”

“Regrets?”

He looks around.

At the quiet.

At the strange, unfiltered, unapologetic way this family exists.

At Beckett, seated beside Diana, her hand lightly hooked into his scarf as she reads, his presence calm and unbothered.

At the children, sketching something ominous and brilliant.

At the absence of performance.

“…No,” Damien says finally.

Terry smiles.

“Good.”

Later, on the balcony—

“You fit,” Beckett says.

Damien glances at him. “That a compliment?”

“It’s a statement.”

“I’ll take it.”

A pause.

“…You’re not what I expected,” Damien admits.

“Most people aren’t.”

“…You don’t care what people think of you, do you?”

Beckett considers that.

“I care about very few things,” he says.

A beat.

“They’re all inside this house.”

Damien nods.

Understands.

And just like that—

He’s no longer an outsider.

Not fully.

Not completely.

But enough.

Enough to stay.