The safehouse was barely standing. Mold crept along the ceiling, the door had more cracks than wood, and the couch sagged like it wanted to die. But for now, it was four walls between them and the rest of the world.
Elena sat on that couch, knife resting across her thighs. Her pulse hadn't slowed since the tunnels. Rage and exhaustion fought inside her chest, but the rage was winning.
Damian stood by the counter, shirt peeled away. His torso was streaked with sweat and blood, muscles tight as he cleaned the graze on his ribs with whiskey and a rag. His jaw was locked, silent as stone.
Elena's voice sliced through the silence.
"Tell me about the fire."
The rag stilled in his hand. He didn't look at her.
That pause was enough. Elena let out a sharp laugh, bitter and jagged. "Unbelievable. You'll bleed with me, kill with me, but when it comes to the truth—you go mute."
Damian's gaze finally met hers, shadowed, unreadable. "Elena—"
"Don't," she snapped, knife tip digging into the couch cushion. "Don't you dare say my name like it still belongs in your mouth."
Something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe sorrow. Or maybe she was just imagining it.
"The fire," he said quietly, "wasn't supposed to touch you."
Her chest constricted. "You knew."
He didn't deny it.
Fury propelled her to her feet. In two strides she had the blade at his chest, pressing right over his heart. Her voice shook with rage. "You ruined me."
He didn't flinch. Didn't lift a hand to stop her. His voice came low, raw: "Then finish it. Put the knife in. But the truth won't die with me. It's bigger than either of us."
Her grip faltered. Her hand trembled, torn between hate and something dangerously close to mercy. The look in his eyes held her there—steady, unafraid, almost daring her.
With a strangled cry, she let the knife fall. It hit the floor with a metallic crack that echoed in the silence.
Elena shoved past him, pacing like a trapped animal. "You took everything. You burned my life to the ground."
Damian wrapped the bandage tighter, blood seeping through. His expression didn't shift. "And yet," he said, quiet but steady, "you're still here."
She spun on him, fury blazing. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm here for answers, not you."
For the first time, his mouth curved—faint, bitter, not quite a smile. "Stay alive long enough, and maybe you'll get them."
Her chest ached, heat and anger twisting together. She hated him. She needed him. And the worst part? Somewhere deep down, the fire he lit in her had never gone out.