The silk clung to her skin like a secret.Elara tugged at the hem of the pale dress Damian had ordered her to wear, her cheeks burning as she caught her reflection in the gilt-edged mirror. It wasn't indecent, but it wasn't hers. Nothing about it belonged to her—neither the fabric, nor the house, nor the man who had placed her here.
Still, when she descended the sweeping staircase, she saw Damian waiting at the base like a king in his throne room. His gaze traveled up slowly, taking her in with a silence that felt heavier than words.
"You clean up well," he said, voice low.
Her fists tightened around the fabric. "This isn't me."
"Perhaps not," he admitted, offering his arm. "But it's who you are in my house."
She hesitated. The last time she had touched him, he hadn't given her a choice. This time, though, he simply waited, patient and immovable. Against her better judgment, she slipped her hand through his arm.
He led her not to a dining room, but to the front doors. When they opened, the morning light spilled across the marble floor. Elara froze.
"Outside?" she asked sharply.
"You wanted freedom," Damian said. "Consider this a lesson."
Two black cars idled at the curb. Four men in suits stood nearby, scanning the street with eyes sharp as knives.
Elara's pulse quickened. She expected bustling city traffic, but the street was unusually empty. Too empty.
Damian guided her down the steps, the guards shifting immediately into formation. Their hands hovered near their jackets—not casual, but ready.
As they reached the car, Elara's eyes caught movement across the street. A figure. Hooded, lingering in the mouth of an alley. Watching.
Her blood ran cold. She knew that posture. That stillness. The same kind of shadow that had been trailing her since the night she ran.
The figure tilted their head, just slightly, as if confirming she was there.
Elara's grip on Damian's arm tightened before she realized it. His eyes flicked down to her hand, then across the street.
He saw them too.
Without a word, Damian guided her into the car. The moment the door shut, his guards moved—two crossing the street, two flanking the vehicle.
The car eased forward, and Damian leaned back against the leather seat, studying her with unnerving calm.
"You know them," he said. Not a question.
Elara's breath shook. "I—no, I—"
His hand shot out, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. The motion wasn't brutal, but it was firm, unyielding.
"Do not lie to me, Elara." His voice was quiet steel. "You recognized that man. Who is he?"
Her heart thundered. She wanted to tell him everything. She wanted to tell him nothing. If she confessed, he'd know too much. If she stayed silent, he'd tear the truth from her anyway.
Finally, she whispered, "They've been following me. Since before I came here."
Damian released her, leaning back with a slow exhale. His expression darkened, though his voice remained steady.
"And why?"
Elara pressed her hands together in her lap. "Because of what I carry."
"The satchel," he murmured. His eyes flicked briefly to the leather bag she refused to part with. "What's inside that they would kill for?"
She shook her head quickly. "I can't tell you."
For a long moment, silence stretched thick between them. Then Damian's lips curved into a smile that wasn't warm—it was sharp, dangerous.
"You'll tell me," he said softly. "Whether with words, or when your hunters leave me no choice but to rip the truth out of them."
The car stopped at a light. Outside, Elara caught another glimpse of movement—another shadow watching from across the street. This city wasn't safe. It was a hunting ground.
And the only thing standing between her and the wolves… was the monster she now sat beside.
Damian's hand brushed against hers, deliberate, claiming.
"Understand this, Elara," he said. "They won't touch you. Not while you're under my domain."
His words should have soothed her. Instead, they left her wondering which was more dangerous—those hunting her, or the man who had already caught her.