Sleep had become a luxury Elara could no longer afford. Every time her eyes closed, her mind replayed the sound of glass shattering, the fury in Damian's voice, the blood on his knuckles.
She sat by the edge of the bed, clutching the satchel against her chest like a lifeline. It had been days since she'd dared open it, but tonight, her nerves refused to let her rest until she checked.
Her trembling fingers tugged at the zipper. Inside, beneath a few clothes and a battered sketchbook, lay the true reason she had been running. A slim black ledger, its cover unmarked, its pages filled with names, dates, and numbers. Every entry was a noose around someone's neck.
She ran her finger over the spine, bile rising in her throat. She hadn't meant to take it—it had been an act of survival, a desperate move in a night of chaos. But now she understood: this was worth killing for.
And Damian, with his empire of shadows, would see its value instantly.
Her thoughts scattered when the door creaked open. Elara's heart slammed against her ribs as she shoved the satchel beneath the blanket.
Damian stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the faint light of the hall. His presence filled the room, as if the walls leaned toward him.
"You're still awake," he said softly, though his voice carried the weight of command.
"I… couldn't sleep."
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His eyes, sharp even in the dim light, swept over her. "You've been restless since dinner. Since you followed me downstairs."
Elara's breath caught. "I didn't—"
"You watched." His tone was even, but dangerous in its certainty. "You saw me lose control."
She said nothing. Silence was safer.
But then his gaze drifted to the satchel, half-hidden beneath the blanket. The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but something darker.
"You cling to that bag as if it's worth more than your life." He took a slow step closer. "What's in it?"
Elara's throat dried. "Clothes. That's all."
Damian crouched before her, his face so close she could see the faint cut along his jawline from the earlier fight. His hand reached out, brushing the blanket where the satchel lay hidden.
"Clothes don't keep a woman awake at night," he murmured.
Her pulse hammered. If he opened it, if he saw—
Summoning what little courage she had left, Elara shifted her gaze to his, forcing strength into her voice. "Some things are mine, Damian. Even you can't own them."
For a heartbeat, silence crackled between them. Then he laughed—low, dangerous, amused.
"You think I want ownership, Elara?" His fingers trailed over the blanket, deliberate, taunting. "No. What I want… is truth."
He stood, his shadow looming over her. "But I'll wait. For now."
Her chest rose and fell, ragged with relief and dread, as he walked toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, glancing back at her.
"Secrets have weight," Damian said softly. "And eventually, they crush the ones who carry them."
The door shut behind him, leaving Elara trembling, the satchel pressed to her chest once more.
She had escaped before. She could do it again. But this time, she wasn't running from nameless men. She was running from Damian Veylor himself.
And he was far harder to escape.