Three days later, we returned to London on a gray morning that seemed to mirror my apprehension about meeting Damon's family. The private jet touched down at a small airfield outside the city, where a convoy of black Mercedes waited to transport us to what Damon called "the family seat."
During our time on Skye Island, something fundamental had shifted between us. The careful distance we had maintained since our wedding had dissolved into something warmer, more intimate, though we hadn't yet crossed the final physical boundaries that the mate bond demanded. We were learning each other—his preference for strong black coffee in the morning, my habit of reading by the window when I was nervous, the way he unconsciously touched the scar on his temple when he was thinking about difficult problems.
"Tell me about your grandmother," I said as London's countryside rolled past the tinted windows of our car.
Damon's expression grew complicated, a mixture of affection and wariness that I was beginning to recognize as his default response to family discussions.
"Eleanor Silverstone is ninety-three years old and sharper than most people half her age," he said carefully. "She's been the real power behind the Silverstone name since my grandfather died forty years ago. Nothing happens in this family without her approval."
"Including your marriage?"
"Especially my marriage." His smile was grim. "She's been pressuring me to find a suitable mate for the past decade. The fact that I've brought home a wife—even under these circumstances—will either delight her or terrify her, depending on how you handle the introduction."
The Silverstone family estate appeared gradually through the ancient oak trees that lined the private drive—first glimpses of gray stone and tall windows, then the full magnificent sight of a manor house that had clearly been in the family for centuries. It wasn't as dramatic as the Scottish castle, but it possessed a different kind of power—the quiet authority of old money and older traditions.
The house sprawled across manicured lawns like a benevolent giant, its Georgian facade speaking of an era when the British Empire ruled the world and families like the Silverstones helped decide its fate. Ivy climbed the walls in carefully controlled patterns, and every window gleamed with the kind of cleanliness that required a small army of servants to maintain.
"Home sweet home," Damon murmured, but I heard the tension beneath his casual tone.
The car pulled up to a front entrance that could have accommodated a royal procession. Uniformed staff appeared immediately to handle our luggage, moving with the smooth efficiency of people who had been trained to anticipate their employers' needs before they were expressed.
"Mr. Damon," the butler greeted us—a dignified man in his sixties who carried himself with the authority of someone who had served the family for decades. "Welcome home, sir. And this must be the new Mrs. Silverstone."
"Harrison, meet my wife, Seraphina," Damon said, placing a possessive hand on the small of my back. "Seraphina, Harrison has been with the family since I was a boy. He knows where all the bodies are buried."
Harrison's lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "Indeed, sir. Though I prefer to think of it as maintaining the family's confidential affairs."
"Is my grandmother in her usual fortress?" Damon asked.
"Lady Eleanor is in the blue drawing room, sir. She's been expecting you since your plane landed."
Of course she had. I was beginning to understand that nothing happened on Silverstone property without the matriarch's knowledge.
Damon led me through halls that belonged in a museum—oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors, tapestries that had probably witnessed the rise and fall of dynasties, and furniture that spoke of centuries of accumulated wealth and power. Every surface gleamed with polish, every flower arrangement was perfectly placed, and every detail reinforced the message that this was a house where perfection was not just expected but demanded.
"Nervous?" Damon asked quietly as we approached the blue drawing room.
"Terrified," I admitted. "What happens if she doesn't approve of me?"
"Then we'll deal with it together," he replied, squeezing my hand gently. "But Seraphina—whatever she says, whatever tests she puts you through, remember that you're not just some girl hoping for acceptance. You're my mate, my wife, and a future member of this family. Act like it."
The blue drawing room was exactly what its name suggested—an elegant space decorated in various shades of blue and cream, with French doors that opened onto gardens that looked like they belonged on the cover of a magazine. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny fairies.
And seated in a high-backed chair that might as well have been a throne was the woman who ruled this empire.
Eleanor Silverstone was petite but commanding, with silver hair styled in an elegant chignon and sharp gray eyes that missed nothing. She wore a Chanel suit in navy blue that probably cost more than most people's cars, and diamonds sparkled at her throat and ears—not ostentatious displays of wealth, but subtle reminders of the power she wielded.
When she saw us enter, those calculating eyes fixed on me with the intensity of a laser, cataloging every detail of my appearance, posture, and expression in the space of a heartbeat.
"Grandmother," Damon said, crossing the room to kiss her cheek. "I'd like you to meet my wife, Seraphina."
"Would you indeed?" Eleanor's voice carried the crisp accent of upper-class British education, each word precisely enunciated. "Come closer, girl. Let me have a proper look at you."
I approached her chair with as much dignity as I could muster, acutely aware that this moment would determine my place in the Silverstone family hierarchy.
"Lady Eleanor," I said, offering a respectful curtsy that I hoped struck the right balance between deference and self-respect. "It's an honor to meet you."
"Is it?" She studied me with those penetrating gray eyes. "We shall see. Sit down, both of you. Harrison, tea for three, and close the doors. What I have to discuss with my grandson's unexpected bride is not for the servants' ears."
We settled into chairs that were beautiful but uncomfortable, clearly designed more for impressing visitors than for relaxation. Eleanor continued to study me in silence until Harrison returned with an elaborate tea service that included enough delicate pastries to feed a small army.
"Now then," Eleanor said once the butler had withdrawn and closed the doors behind him. "Suppose you tell me exactly how you managed to bewitch my grandson into marrying you instead of the Blackwood heiress he was supposed to wed."
The question was delivered with the sharp precision of a blade between the ribs. This was clearly a woman who didn't believe in wasting time on pleasantries.
"I didn't bewitch anyone," I replied calmly. "Circumstances forced me to take my half-sister's place at the altar, and the mate bond formed between Damon and me during the ceremony."
"The mate bond." Eleanor's tone suggested she found the concept less than convincing. "How convenient. And you, Damon—you expect me to believe that you, who has never shown the slightest interest in any of the perfectly suitable women I've introduced you to over the years, suddenly found your destined mate in an illegitimate daughter you'd never met?"
"The bond doesn't lie, Grandmother," Damon said quietly. "You know that as well as anyone."
"What I know," Eleanor replied with ice in her voice, "is that mate bonds can be faked by those with enough knowledge of the old magic. What I know is that your new wife comes from a family with questionable loyalties and even more questionable breeding. What I know is that this marriage could destroy everything we've built if she proves to be a liability."
The words stung, but I kept my expression neutral. Getting defensive would only confirm her suspicions about my suitability.
"You're right to be cautious," I said, surprising both of them. "If I were in your position, I would have the same concerns. A marriage that appeared out of nowhere, involving a woman with no social standing and a family history of serving their own interests above all else—it does look suspicious."
Eleanor's eyebrows rose slightly. "At least you're not naive enough to expect immediate acceptance. Continue."
"But what you're really asking," I continued, "is whether I'm here to build something with Damon or to tear down what you've spent decades creating. The only way to answer that question is through actions, not words."
"Indeed." Eleanor leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. "And what actions do you propose to convince me that you're worthy of the Silverstone name?"
This was it—the test that would determine whether I became part of this family or remained forever an outsider tolerated only because of Damon's protection.
"Give me tasks," I said simply. "Responsibilities. Challenges that will prove whether I have the intelligence, discretion, and loyalty that this family requires. Judge me on my performance, not my pedigree."
Something that might have been approval flickered in Eleanor's eyes. "Very well. Your first test begins immediately."
She rose from her chair with the fluid grace of someone who had never doubted her own authority. "Follow me."
She led us deeper into the house, through corridors lined with portraits of Silverstone ancestors who seemed to watch our progress with painted eyes. We passed rooms that looked like they hadn't been opened in decades, libraries that could have supplied a small university, and finally arrived at a heavy oak door that looked significantly more modern than the rest of the house.
Eleanor pressed her hand to a scanner hidden in the door frame, and electronic locks disengaged with soft clicks.
"Welcome to the family archive," she said, pushing open the door to reveal a climate-controlled room lined with filing cabinets, computer terminals, and security monitors. "Everything the Silverstone family has accomplished over the past two centuries is documented here. Business deals, political alliances, family secrets—all of it."
She gestured to a desk covered with neat stacks of documents. "Your task is simple. Review the files I've selected and provide me with a comprehensive analysis of our family's current position, including potential vulnerabilities and recommendations for future action."
I approached the desk and picked up the first file, scanning its contents quickly. Financial records, competitor analyses, political connections—the kind of sensitive information that could destroy the family if it fell into the wrong hands.
"How long do I have?" I asked.
"Twenty-four hours," Eleanor replied. "Damon will show you to your room when you're ready to rest. Meals will be brought to you here. You are not to discuss what you learn with anyone—including my grandson—until you present your findings to me tomorrow afternoon."
"And if I fail this test?"
Eleanor's smile was sharp as winter ice. "Then you'll discover exactly why the Silverstone family has survived for eight centuries while our enemies have not."
After she left, Damon and I stood alone in the archive room that felt more like a war room than a library.
"She's testing more than my analytical abilities, isn't she?" I asked.
"She's testing whether you can handle family secrets without breaking under pressure," he confirmed. "Some of what you're about to read will be disturbing. Some of it will be frightening. All of it is the truth about what we've done to maintain our position."
I picked up another file, noting the family crest embossed on the cover. "And you? Are you comfortable with me learning all your secrets?"
Something dark crossed his expression. "There are things in those files that I've never told anyone. Things about our family's history, about my childhood, about why I became the man I am today."
"Your mother," I said, remembering his mention of her during our conversation on the island.
"Among other things." He moved to stand behind me, his hands resting gently on my shoulders. "My mother, Lady Catherine Silverstone, was murdered when I was twelve years old. Not killed in an accident, not dead from illness—murdered. By enemies who wanted to send a message to my father about the price of crossing them."
I leaned back against his chest, offering what comfort I could. "I'm sorry."
"She was everything this family should be," he continued, his voice rough with old pain. "Intelligent, compassionate, strong enough to stand up to anyone who threatened the people she loved. Her death nearly destroyed my father, and it taught me that loving someone makes you vulnerable in ways that can get them killed."
I understood why he was telling me this now, before I dove into the family archives. "You're afraid that being with you makes me a target."
"I'm afraid that what I feel for you makes me weak," he corrected. "And weakness in this family gets people killed."
I turned in his arms, studying his face in the soft light of the archive room. "Then we'll have to make sure we're both strong enough to survive whatever comes next."
His answer was to kiss me, hard and desperate, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of my lips before sending me into battle.
"I'll be back to check on you in a few hours," he said when we broke apart. "If you need anything..."
"I'll be fine," I assured him. "I've been preparing for tests like this my entire life."
After he left, I settled at the desk and opened the first file with hands that were steadier than I felt. Whatever secrets the Silverstone family had buried, whatever dark truths they had hidden from the world, I was about to become keeper of them all.
The first document was a genealogy chart that traced the family back to the fourteenth century, showing marriages, births, deaths, and—disturbingly—several mysterious disappearances that corresponded with periods of political upheaval.
The second file contained financial records that revealed the true scope of the Silverstone empire—holdings in dozens of countries, investments in industries ranging from technology to defense contracting, and bank accounts with balances that made my head spin.
But it was the third file that made my blood run cold.
It was labeled "Family Security: Threat Assessment and Response Protocols," and the first page contained a list of names under the heading "Eliminated Threats: 1995-Present."
Lady Catherine Silverstone's name was third on the list.
Below it, in neat handwriting that I recognized as Eleanor's, was a single line that changed everything I thought I knew about the family I had married into:
"Eliminated by Adrian Cross Sr. in retaliation for the Silverstone acquisition of Cross Industries' Asian holdings. Response: Complete destruction of Cross family business interests over seven-year period. Collateral damage: acceptable."
I stared at the page until the words blurred, understanding finally flooding through me like ice water.
Adrian Cross—my former lover, the man who had threatened Damon and me just days ago—was the son of the man who had murdered Damon's mother.
And the Silverstone family had spent seven years methodically destroying his father's empire in revenge.
The mate bond suddenly made perfect sense, as did Damon's immediate, violent reaction to Adrian's threats. This wasn't just about protecting his new wife—this was about a blood feud that had been simmering for over two decades.
I was not just Mrs. Damon Silverstone now.
I was a weapon in a war that had been raging since before I was born.
End of Chapter 5