You barely made it through the front doors of Wayne Manor before you felt it—the blade of his gaze slicing across the room.

Damian stood there, arms crossed over his narrow chest, posture stiff with disgust so palpable it was practically a second shadow behind him.

“So,” he said, voice sharp and clipped, “Father has officially lost his mind.”

You smiled—sweet, practiced, a little mocking—because Bruce had warned you of his youngest son’s antics. What he’d try to do.

Break you. Test you. Find the weakness he could gut you through.

He stalked closer, chin lifted in defiance, green eyes gleaming like polished knives.

“You are not my mother,” he hissed, low and furious, “and you never will be. Don’t think wearing a ring makes you worthy of standing beside him. It doesn’t.”

You leaned down, meeting his hatred without flinching, and said in a voice just low enough for him to feel the weight of it:

“Good. I didn’t marry him to mother you.”

For a fraction of a second—just one—he faltered. You saw it. That tiny flicker of uncertainty. The one no assassin training could hide.

But he masked it fast, pulling his walls back up so hard it almost hurt to watch. He turned away from you sharply, spitting over his shoulder:

“Keep your distance. I don’t take kindly to leeches.”

And with that, he disappeared into the cavernous halls of the Manor— leaving you standing there.

Bruce walked into the foyer looking almost apologetic, or as apologetic as Bruce Wayne could look.

Wrapping an arm around you, he kissed at the top of your head gently. “He’ll warm up to you, give him time.”