Elara couldn't scrub it off.
She tried—standing in the bathroom long after dawn had broken, water so hot it seared her skin, soap lathering over and over again until her arms were red and raw. Still, she couldn't wash off the smell of cigar smoke, the sticky perfume clinging to her dress, the sharp memory of too many eyes sliding over her like hands.
By the third rinse, she realized it wasn't on her skin at all. It was under it.
The night had sunk its claws too deep.
She wrapped herself in a towel and stared at her reflection. Her face looked the same—pale, wide-eyed, jaw tight—but she didn't recognize herself. She saw the dress crumpled on the floor behind her, black fabric gleaming faintly, and she wanted to tear it to pieces. But destroying fabric wouldn't change what had happened. Wouldn't erase the way Damian's hand had rested against her back like a brand. Wouldn't silence the whisper that maybe, just maybe, he'd been right.
She hated that thought most of all.
By the time she emerged from her room, the penthouse was alive with quiet movement. The housekeeper glided through the hall, a tray balanced on her arm. One of Damian's guards lingered by the elevator, hands clasped in front of him like a statue.
They all looked the same—polite, professional, faceless. None of them would speak to her. None of them would help her.
But they watched. Always watched.
Elara padded barefoot into the kitchen, tugging a sweatshirt over her damp hair. She yanked open a cabinet, searching for coffee. Anything bitter to burn away the taste of last night.
"Already made," a voice said.
She froze.
Damian stood by the counter, a mug in his hand, as casual as if he belonged to mornings. His tie was gone, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing strong forearms inked with the edges of black tattoos. He looked less like a kingpin and more like a man who had simply woken early.
But Elara knew better.
Her fingers tightened on the cabinet door. "Do you watch me even when I sleep?"
His gaze lifted, cool and unreadable. "Do you want the truth?"
"No," she muttered, slamming the door shut.
He set his mug down with deliberate calm. "Then don't ask questions you don't want answered."
She busied herself with pouring coffee, pretending her hands didn't tremble. Pretending the heat of his presence wasn't crawling up her spine.
For a few minutes, silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the faint buzz of the city below.
Finally, Damian spoke. "Last night was necessary."
Her laugh was sharp, bitter. "Necessary? For what? To humiliate me? To parade me like a—"
"Stop."
The single word cut through her fury like a knife. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Last night," he said evenly, "was to show you the truth. You wanted to believe you could escape me. That you could run. Now you know what waits outside these walls."
Her chest heaved. "You mean vultures like you?"
His jaw tightened. A flicker of something dangerous passed across his face before he mastered it again.
"I'm the devil you know," he said softly. "And believe me, Elara, the others are worse."
Her throat ached with unshed words. She wanted to tell him she didn't care, that she would take her chances with wolves. But the memory of those eyes in the club—the way they had stripped her bare, marked her as prey—froze her tongue.
Damian saw it. She knew he did. And the quiet satisfaction in his gaze made her want to smash her mug against the wall.
Instead, she turned and stormed back toward her room, heart hammering.
She didn't speak to him the rest of the day. She stayed in her room, pacing, reading, writing scraps of thoughts on hotel stationery and tearing them up seconds later. But no matter how she tried to drown it out, her mind kept circling back to his words.
The devil you know.
It was true, wasn't it? Last night had been a stage, a carefully constructed display of power and danger. And it had worked. He hadn't needed to chain her—he'd simply shown her the world outside was worse than his cage.
It was brilliant. And it terrified her.
By evening, she was restless again. She wandered the penthouse halls, half expecting to find Damian waiting in some corner like he always seemed to be. But this time he wasn't.
Instead, she found the library.
It was smaller than she expected—dark wood shelves, a leather sofa, a heavy desk—but the sight of rows and rows of books made something loosen in her chest. She hadn't realized how badly she needed them until now. Stories that weren't hers. Words that didn't belong to him.
She trailed her fingers along spines until she found one battered enough to suggest it had been read, not just displayed. A novel. Ordinary. Human.
Curling onto the sofa, she opened it and began to read.
For the first time in days, she felt almost herself.
Hours later, she was deep into the story when the air shifted. That strange, heavy awareness prickled her skin.
She looked up.
Damian leaned against the doorway, his tie gone again, his eyes unreadable.
"You found it," he said.
Her pulse jumped. "What?"
"The library. I wondered when you would."
Her throat tightened. "Why—why does it matter to you?"
He stepped inside, slow and deliberate, his presence filling the room. "Because I need to know what you'll do when you're given freedom. Even small freedom."
Her fingers tightened around the book. "And what do you think this proves? That I'll curl up like some docile pet and read until I forget I'm your prisoner?"
A flicker of something—amusement? admiration?—crossed his face.
"No," he said softly. "It proves you're looking for escape. Even if it's in someone else's words."
Her chest ached. She hated that he saw her so clearly.
He moved closer, stopping just beside the sofa. "Books won't save you, Elara. Not here. Not with me."
She lifted her chin, defiant. "Then maybe they'll save me from myself."
For a long moment, silence hung between them, taut and heavy. His gaze locked on hers, unblinking, searching.
Finally, he spoke, voice low. "Be careful with that fire."
Then he turned and left, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing in her chest long after he was gone.
That night, Elara lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.
The world outside was a nightmare. Damian's world was a cage.
And she was caught between them, pressed tighter every day by his calm, relentless control.
But as much as she hated him, as much as she wanted to scream and fight and tear down the walls around her, one truth curled into her chest like smoke:
Part of her wasn't just surviving anymore.
Part of her was adapting.
And that terrified her more than anything.