The room was too beautiful to belong to her.Elara stood frozen just inside the doorway, water still dripping from her clothes, staring at the space Damian's men had led her to.
The chamber was vast, with high ceilings and windows that stretched to the stormy skyline. A fire burned steadily in the hearth, throwing shadows against walls painted in muted tones of gray and gold. The bed, massive and carved from dark wood, looked like something torn from a dream—or a nightmare.
It was luxury. It was safety.And it felt like a cage.
She turned back toward the hall, expecting the suited guard to still be there, but the door clicked shut before she could speak. She was alone.
Her breath came unsteady as she wrapped her arms around herself. She had been running for weeks, barely sleeping, surviving on fear and scraps. Now she was warm. Dry. Protected. But at what cost?
Elara set her satchel on the dresser, fingers brushing over the worn leather strap. Everything she had left was inside—her last defense against the people who wanted her gone. She couldn't afford to lose it. Not to the men chasing her. Not to Damian Veylor.
She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, its velvet cover swallowing her small frame. For the first time in days, exhaustion pulled at her limbs. But the thought of closing her eyes here, under a stranger's roof, twisted her stomach with unease.
The sound of the door unlocking snapped her upright.
Damian entered without hesitation. No knock. No pause. Just his presence filling the room as if he had every right to it. He had changed—no longer in his rain-soaked suit but in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Power clung to him the way the storm clung to the city outside.
Elara's throat tightened. "You shouldn't just walk in."
He arched a brow, amused. "This is my house. I walk where I please."
The words settled heavy in the air, reminding her of exactly where she stood. Not a guest. Not an equal. A trespasser he had chosen not to throw back into the storm.
He moved toward the fire, slipping his hands into his pockets. "You haven't touched the food."
Her gaze flicked to the small table in the corner. A tray of bread, fruit, and wine sat untouched. She hadn't even noticed it when she entered.
"I'm not hungry," she muttered.
His eyes cut to hers, sharp, unreadable. "You've been running for too long to not be hungry."
Her chest tightened. "How do you know I've been running?"
"Because you look like prey," he said simply. "And because men like me can smell fear. You wear it like perfume."
Heat rushed to her face, equal parts anger and shame. "I don't know what you want from me, but I won't stay here."
He stepped closer, his shadow brushing over her like a second skin. "You already are."
She rose from the bed, fists clenching at her sides. "You don't own me."
The faintest smile curved his lips. "Not yet."
The words wrapped around her like chains. Not a declaration. A promise.
Damian studied her in silence for a moment, as though measuring the edges of her defiance. Then he reached for the glass of wine on the tray, swirling it lazily before setting it back down.
"You'll rest tonight. In the morning, we'll talk. Until then, my men will stand outside this room." His eyes darkened. "No one enters. And you don't leave."
Elara's breath hitched. "So this is a prison?"
His voice lowered, rich with authority. "If you want to call safety a prison, then yes. But remember, Elara—outside this house, danger waits for you. Inside, only I do."
The storm roared beyond the glass windows, as if echoing his words. Elara's heart twisted violently in her chest.
She should hate him. Fear him. And she did. But as he turned to leave, the quiet command in his presence left something else trembling inside her. Something far more dangerous than fear.
Because for the first time, she wasn't sure if she wanted to escape his domain at all.