The dining hall felt too large for two people.
A chandelier glittered above, scattering light across polished mahogany and crystal glasses. The table stretched nearly the length of the room, but Damian sat at the far end, waiting, while Elara was ushered into a chair by one of his silent staff.
The distance was absurd. He could have been a mile away. Yet somehow, she still felt the weight of his gaze.
"Eat," he ordered softly once the silver lids were lifted, steam curling from porcelain plates.
Elara's stomach twisted. She hadn't eaten since morning, but the idea of lifting her fork under his scrutiny turned her appetite into ash.
She hesitated.
Damian leaned back in his chair, one arm resting across the carved wood. "Do you think I poisoned it?" His lips curved faintly. "If I wanted you dead, Elara, I would not use food."
The words slithered down her spine. She forced herself to pick up the fork, cutting a delicate bite of roasted chicken. When she tasted it, warmth spread across her tongue—rich, seasoned, delicious. Her hunger betrayed her, and she took another bite, then another.
Damian watched, silent, drinking red wine as though he were measuring every twitch of her mouth, every flicker of hesitation.
Finally, she set the fork down. "Why are you doing this?"
His head tilted. "Doing what?"
"Keeping me here. Dressing me like this. Sitting me at your table as if I belong to you." Her voice cracked with frustration. "I'm not yours."
The air between them thickened. For a heartbeat, she thought she'd gone too far. But Damian only smiled, slow and unreadable.
"You are under my roof," he said. "That makes you mine."
Her chest tightened. "I didn't choose this."
"You chose to run," he countered smoothly. "You chose to step into my path. Every decision has a consequence."
Elara's hands curled into fists in her lap. "So this is punishment?"
"No," Damian said. His eyes glinted like storm clouds. "This is protection. You just don't understand the price yet."
The tension crackled until a servant entered quietly, setting down a crystal decanter beside Damian. Without looking, Damian waved him away.
"Tell me about the man on the street," he said suddenly, the softness gone from his tone. "The one watching you earlier."
Elara froze. Her fork clinked softly against the plate. "I told you, I don't—"
His fist struck the table—not violently enough to break it, but enough to make the glasses rattle. The echo shot straight through her chest.
"Don't insult me with lies," he snapped. His composure fractured for the first time, and it was terrifying. His voice dropped, darker. "You looked at him as if you'd seen a ghost. Who. Was. He."
Her pulse pounded in her ears. The truth clawed at her throat, but she forced it down, whispering, "I can't tell you."
The silence that followed was worse than his anger. Damian's jaw flexed, his eyes cold as obsidian.
Then, to her surprise, he chuckled—low, humorless. He lifted his glass, swirling the wine lazily before taking a sip. "You're stubborn. I almost admire it."
Her shoulders sagged in relief—too soon.
His smile sharpened. "But understand this, Elara. Secrets won't save you. They'll bury you. And I won't let your enemies dig my house into a grave."
Her breath hitched.
He rose from his chair at last, moving down the length of the table. Each step echoed like a drumbeat in the cavernous hall. When he stopped beside her, she couldn't bring herself to look up.
His hand brushed her jaw, tilting her face toward his. His touch was almost gentle, but the command behind it was absolute.
"You will eat at my table. You will sleep under my roof. And you will tell me what I want to know." His thumb grazed her lip, lingering. "The only choice you have is when."
Elara's heart hammered wildly. He leaned closer, his voice a whisper against her ear.
"And remember, little runaway—time is running out."