Damien Vale
I used to believe I was immune to fire.
That no one could light a match close enough to reach me.
Then came Elena.
And now I burn. Quietly. Constantly. Without relief.
I returned to my penthouse at midnight, the city glowing like it was taunting me—millions of lights, and none of them hers.
I poured whiskey into a crystal glass and didn't drink it.
I just watched the liquid still itself, thinking how easily she unsettled me.
She had no idea what it meant when I told her to let me carry her burdens.
No idea what I was willing to carry.
I'd killed for less.
No, not literally. Not yet.
But the thought doesn't scare me anymore.
The man from the café? I'd already had Lucas run a full background check. It took less than three hours to know where he worked, what car he drove, what bar he liked after dark.
He wouldn't be a problem again.
I told myself I was doing it to protect her. But I knew the truth.
It was possession, wrapped in devotion.
Love, corrupted by need.
I stepped into the dark hallway that led to the room I never let anyone see.
The room with walls lined in still frames. Monitors. Notes. Schedules.
Elena's life mapped out in obsessive detail.
I approached the center screen—her apartment's front door. I watched it like a worshipper before an altar. She hadn't left since she got home.
Good.
I opened the drawer below the screen.
Inside was a small velvet box. I hadn't meant to buy it yet. But when I saw it—dark stone, wrapped in antique silver—it reminded me of her. Beautiful. Untouchable. Laced in shadows.
I clicked it open.
Closed it again.
One day.
I sat down in the leather chair I rarely used and leaned my head back, eyes closing, her name breathing through my ribs like a prayer.
Elena Rivers.
I didn't know when it started—this need to be everywhere she was, even if only in spirit.
But now I couldn't stop.
I didn't want to stop.
I would burn every lie she told herself.
Every man she smiled at.
Every door she tried to close.
Because when I wanted something, I earned it.
And I wanted her like a sin I would never confess.
The glass finally tipped in my hand.
Whiskey spilled across the floor.
I didn't notice.
Because I was already gone—lost in the thought of her voice, the curl of her lip when she was angry, the ache in her silence.
And I knew—if it came to it, if the world demanded a price—I would give it.
All of it.
For her.
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