The corridors of the Veylor estate seemed to hum with tension that night. The air was heavy, not with silence, but with the kind of brittle stillness that warned of an oncoming storm.
Elara had been pacing her room, restless and haunted by Damian's words at dinner, when the sound reached her—raised voices echoing from somewhere below.
Her pulse quickened. For days, he had been all smooth control and sharp-edged words, a man carved from discipline. But now… now she heard something else.
She pushed the door open just enough to slip into the hall. Shadows from the sconces clung to the walls as she followed the sound, bare feet silent on the marble.
The voices grew louder—men arguing. Then his voice cut through, deeper and sharper than she had ever heard.
"You lost her?"
Elara froze.
Another voice stammered. "We—sir, we tracked the courier, but he slipped—"
The crack of glass shattering against the wall silenced him. Elara flinched, her breath catching in her throat.
"You had one task," Damian roared, the mask of calm utterly shattered. "Do you understand what that means? What's at stake?"
The man's reply was garbled, desperate.
Damian's footsteps thundered across the room. "Do you think they won't notice? Do you think they won't try to take what's mine?"
A sickening thud followed—flesh against wood or stone. A choked cry.
Elara's stomach knotted. She pressed herself against the wall, torn between fleeing back to her room and listening, drawn in by the raw violence of his fury.
When Damian spoke again, his voice was lower, but far more dangerous. "Clean this mess. Find him. If you fail again…"
Silence. Then footsteps, scattered, as if men fled like rats.
Elara held her breath. She should run. She should not be here. But the moment she shifted, the air shifted with her.
"Come out," Damian said.
Her blood turned to ice.
She stayed frozen, pressed into the wall, hoping—praying—he meant someone else.
"Elara." His voice was quieter now, but sharp, a blade in velvet. "I know you're there."
The hall seemed to close in on her. She forced her legs to move, stepping into the faint light. Her throat was dry.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his knuckles smeared red, a shattered tumbler glittering on the floor behind him. His control, so carefully constructed, was cracked wide open.
He studied her, chest rising and falling, eyes burning like an untamed fire. For once, he looked less like the calculated predator and more like a man dragged to the edge of himself.
"You heard too much," he said at last.
She swallowed hard. "I wasn't—"
"Don't lie to me."
The words struck like a whip, but beneath them was something stranger, something she couldn't name. A plea? A warning?
She lifted her chin, surprising herself with the steadiness of her voice. "Then maybe you should stop hiding things behind locked doors."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. His gaze locked on hers, unreadable. Then, slowly, impossibly, a smile curved his mouth. It was not kind—it was dangerous, twisted with the thrill of being challenged.
"You're going to ruin me, Elara," Damian murmured.
And with that, he turned, walking past her, leaving the scent of smoke and wine in his wake.
Elara's knees nearly gave out. She pressed her back to the wall, her breath shaky.
She had just seen Damian Veylor bleed, not from his body, but from the cracks in his soul.
And somehow, that was more terrifying than the blood on his hands.