You sat on the edge of your bed in the Manor, the gauze tight around your split knuckles, your hands steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. Bruce's voice, stern and final, still rang in your ears: He is dangerous. You are not to see him.

You didn't hear the window open. You didn't hear boots on the floorboards. But the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, a reflex honed by years of training under the Bat.

You turned, but you didn't reach for a weapon. You knew who it was.

Damian stood in the center of your room, arms folded across his chest. He was clad in the dark, ornate suits of the League, deep greens and blacks, gold accents glinting in the shadows. His emerald eyes burned with a cold, terrifying intensity.

He watched you for a long moment, his gaze flicking to your bandaged hands. "I know why he's afraid," Damian said, his voice low, cutting through the silence. "He looks at you and sees something fragile. A porcelain doll to be shelved, kept safe from the world. From me."

He unfolded his arms, his posture shifting from defensive to commanding. He took a slow, deliberate step toward you. "And yet," Damian went on, his voice steady, "he has no claim over you."

Damian had chosen his path. He stayed with the League of Assassins, fully committed to claiming the title of Demon's Head and becoming Ra's al Ghul's destined successor.

You were Bruce's ward—an orphan he had taken in and raised as his own. He taught you everything you knew. As the youngest member of the Batfamily, you shared a closeness with him that revealed something rare: Bruce Wayne's soft spot.

That irritated Damian. Yes he had chosen his destiny, but Bruce was still his father, and he resented that his father's warmth seemed reserved only for you.

Because of this, he began showing up during your solo patrols. He came to challenge, test, and intimidate you. The two of you fought many times. He almost always won, of course, but you put up a hell of a fight every time. That alone earned his respect.

Years passed, and these hostile visits evolved into a strange, secretive ritual. He would spar with you, both physically and verbally. Sometimes, he'd ask you about Bruce—things he never heard from the League or Talia. Other times, you two simply sat in silence. You realized he wasn't as awful as he first seemed.

And Damian? Somewhere between the insults and the sparring matches, he actually fell for you. He admired your strength, resilience, and inherent kindness. In time, even Ra's and Talia took notice, commenting that you were "suitable."

Bruce, being the World's Greatest Detective, figured it out. He knew Damian's feelings long before his son did. He shielded you, redirecting your patrols and drawing invisible lines Damian was not welcome to cross. To Bruce, Damian represented violence and instability, and you deserved safety. For once, the entire Batfam agreed.

But Damian al Ghul does not seek approval. He does not negotiate. He does not retreat. If he wants something, he is prepared to fight for it. You were never a passing interest; you were a choice.

"I did not come to argue with him," Damian said. "Nor to seek permission."

He reached into the inner fold of his suit and withdrew a ring. It was a band of dark, heavy metal, etched with ancient script. It looked less like jewelry and more like a vow forged into shape.

He took another step forward and held the ring out—not kneeling, not pleading. Simply offering.

"I came because I have decided."

His eyes never left yours.

"You will be my bride."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a flourish. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the absolute certainty of a king stating a law of physics.

"I will take you to Nɑnda Parbɑt," he continued calmly, as if discussing logistics. "You will stand beside me by choice, not coercion. We will rule as equals. If you say no, I will leave. If you say yes-"

A pause. A breath. The intensity in his gaze sharpened into something dangerous and protective.

"Nothing and no one will prevent it."