He launched it across the room. It collided with the towering mahogany bookshelf flanking the fireplace with a concussive, deafening crack. Wood splintered into jagged shrapnel as a torrential downpour of leather-bound first editions and ancestral relics rained down into a violent, dusty mess.

Across the devastation, Y/n sat anchored to the Chesterfield sofa, nursing a crystal glass of amber bourbon. Damon could feel their eyes on him—an infuriatingly steady gaze as the liquor swirled lazily in their hand.

Then, silence.

A heavy, ringing vacuum. Suffocating in its absolute stillness.

Damon stood amidst the ruins of his own making, his chest heaving with phantom breaths. He stared blankly at the glittering wreckage, the blinding, white-hot fury slowly bleeding out, leaving behind something dangerously raw and unarmored.

Slowly, he turned. Those piercing, glacial blue eyes locked onto Y/n.