The knife felt too heavy for its size, the handle slick against her trembling palm. Elara's knuckles whitened as she tried to steady her grip, but the more she tried, the more it shook. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out everything but the sound of her own fear.
The man in the chair was watching her—really watching her—with one swollen eye. His lip was split, dried blood crusting at the corner of his mouth, yet his stare was fierce. Not the gaze of a victim, but of someone who refused to be broken. His voice cracked, but the words struck sharp.
"Don't do this. Don't let him make you like him."
Behind her, Damian's presence loomed larger than the room itself. He hadn't raised his voice. He didn't need to. His silence was an order in itself. When he finally spoke, the words slid across her skin like silk and barbed wire.
"Do it," he murmured near her ear, his breath warm against her neck. "Prove you belong to me."
Elara's throat constricted. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Her vision blurred with tears, the room spinning around her. The chains rattled as the captive thrashed against his bonds, fighting her, fighting Damian, fighting the entire damn situation.
Her heart twisted violently. I can't. I can't.
But Damian's calm seeped into the cracks of her panic. He stepped closer, and his hand brushed hers, steadying the trembling blade. His touch was deceptively gentle, his grip sure, like a teacher guiding a child's hand.
"Just one cut," he said softly, almost lovingly. "A single drop of blood, and you prove you are not weak. That you are mine."
The words slid under her skin, filling her with a cold dread. Mine.
Her phone buzzed once in her pocket. A short, sharp vibration that jolted her to her core. She didn't dare move, didn't dare reach for it, but she knew who it was—the stranger who had warned her not to come with Damian. The timing was too exact, the pulse too deliberate. Someone was watching. Someone wanted her to resist.
The captive strained harder, ropes digging cruelly into his wrists. His face contorted with pain, but his voice cut through, hoarse yet fierce.
"You're not like him. You don't have to do this. Fight him."
Elara's hand shook so violently that the knife tip nicked the captive's skin, a tiny bead of red blooming like a warning. She gasped, jerking back, but Damian's fingers tightened on her wrist, guiding her closer again.
"No," Damian whispered. "Don't hesitate. Hesitation is death in my world."
His voice wasn't raised, but the steel beneath it was unyielding. He wasn't asking. He was commanding.
The guards shifted, their looming shadows pressing in, suffocating. The man in the chair thrashed once more, his chair screeching against the concrete floor. "If you do this, you'll never forgive yourself," he said, his words strangled but urgent. "He's making you into his weapon."
Elara's breath trembled. Her chest rose and fell in short, panicked bursts. Her thoughts were a storm: If I obey, I lose myself. If I refuse, he'll break me. There is no escape. No choice.
Damian's voice cut through her spiraling fear, low and measured. "You want freedom, Elara? It begins here. Pain is freedom. Power is freedom. Do this, and no one will ever use you again. Not even me."
The contradiction struck her like a blow. Not even me. But wasn't he using her now? Wasn't he the one chaining her?
Her tears blurred everything, but she felt the cold edge of the knife against the captive's skin, pressed there by Damian's hand.
"One cut," Damian repeated. His lips brushed her ear. "And you'll never be prey again."
The captive's chest heaved, his eyes wild with desperation. "Don't! Please, don't let him own you like this!"
Her sob broke free, raw and helpless. The knife quivered in her grip.
And then something inside her snapped.
With a strangled cry, she slashed downward.
The blade kissed skin.
The captive's scream ripped through the air, jagged and agonizing. Blood welled instantly, seeping through the torn fabric of his shirt, dripping down his chest in a vivid, damning crimson. The metallic scent filled the room, sharp and sickening.
Elara staggered back as if she'd been cut herself. The knife slipped from her hand, clattering against the floor, the sound echoing in the silence that followed the man's cry.
Her stomach lurched. She stumbled until her back hit the cold wall, her hands shaking violently, crimson smeared across her palm. Tears blurred her vision, and a sob tore through her lips.
Damian's lips curved into something between a smile and a smirk. He moved toward her slowly, deliberately, until his shadow swallowed her whole. He cupped her chin, lifting her face to meet his gaze.
"There," he said, his tone rich with satisfaction. "It wasn't so hard, was it?"
His touch was soft, but his eyes were not. They gleamed with triumph, with ownership, with something that made her insides twist in both fear and a dangerous heat she didn't want to acknowledge.
Elara's knees buckled, but Damian held her upright, his grip unyielding. His voice was silk again, stroking her raw nerves. "You're mine now, Elara. And everyone will know it."
The captive slumped forward, groaning in pain, his breaths shallow. Through the haze of agony, his glare still burned into her, accusing and sorrowful all at once. His voice was barely a whisper, but the words cut deep.
"He's turning you into a monster."
Elara's chest fractured, torn between horror and something darker she couldn't name. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him he was wrong—but deep down, she feared he wasn't.
Damian pressed a kiss to her forehead, a mockery of tenderness, before letting her go. The warmth of his lips seared like fire against her skin.
And in that moment, Elara realized the truth:
No matter what she had chosen, blood was always going to be spilled tonight.
And the worst part? It wasn't just the captive's.
A piece of her own soul had bled with it.