Elara had promised herself she wouldn't think about his touch.
Not the brush of his hand at her back in the club. Not the way his fingers had tilted her chin in the car, cold and certain. And yet when she woke, the memory of it lingered, clinging to her skin as though she hadn't washed him off.
She shoved the blanket aside and went straight to the balcony. Morning light bled over the skyline, sharp and silver. The city looked infinite from this height, like she could step off and fall forever.
She gripped the railing hard. She wasn't weak. She wasn't some fragile thing meant to be molded. She would not bend to him.
The door slid open behind her.
She didn't need to turn. The air shifted in that way it always did when Damian entered a room—dense, alive, threaded with tension.
"You'll freeze out here," he said. His voice was quiet, unhurried, but it wrapped around her like smoke.
"I'd rather freeze than talk to you."
A pause. She could feel him watching her, weighing whether to push. Then, instead of leaving, he stepped closer, his shoes silent on the marble.
"Last night unsettled you."
She laughed sharply. "You think you're a mind reader now?"
"I don't need to be." His reflection joined hers in the glass—taller, darker, his gray eyes steady. "You wear your fear openly."
Her grip on the railing tightened. "I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
The words were soft, not shouted, and somehow that made them worse.
She turned then, anger spiking hotter than her fear. "Is that what you want? For me to cower every time you walk in? For me to look at you the way your men do—in terror?"
Something flickered in his eyes. Not pride. Not anger. Something sharper, more complicated.
"No," he said at last. "I don't want your fear. I want your honesty."
She blinked, thrown. "My honesty?"
"Your rage. Your defiance. Your fire." His gaze held hers, unblinking. "It's the only thing in this house that doesn't bore me."
The words landed like a blow. Heat surged to her cheeks, unwanted, confusing.
"You're insane," she whispered.
His mouth curved—just slightly. Not a smile, but close. "Perhaps."
He left her then, retreating inside as though the conversation hadn't carved something jagged between them. Elara stayed on the balcony until her hands were numb.
When she finally returned inside, Damian was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, pouring himself coffee. He looked maddeningly ordinary.
The silence stretched, heavy. She busied herself with the fridge, pulling out an apple just to have something to do.
"You didn't eat yesterday," he said casually.
She froze. "You keeping a ledger now?"
"I notice things." He sipped his coffee. "If you starve yourself, you won't have the strength to fight me. And I'd find that disappointing."
Her chest tightened. The words weren't kind, but they weren't cruel either. They were… observant. And that made them worse.
She bit into the apple hard, the crunch filling the silence.
The day dragged, heavy with unsaid words. Elara tried to bury herself in the library again, but every page blurred with thoughts of him. She hated how he lingered in her mind, how every word he spoke replayed itself until she couldn't tell if she despised him or feared the way he saw her so clearly.
By evening, she couldn't sit still. She wandered the penthouse halls, restless, pacing like a trapped animal.
When she reached his study, the door was half open. She should've kept walking. Instead, curiosity pulled her closer.
Inside, Damian sat at his desk, papers spread before him, phone pressed to his ear. His tone was low, clipped, but not angry. Business. Always business.
She hovered in the doorway, half-hidden, listening.
"… handled by tomorrow. No excuses. If anyone interferes, deal with it quietly."
A pause. Then, "Yes. And make sure word doesn't reach the Bratva. Not yet."
Her stomach tightened. Bratva. Russian mafia. The word alone sent a chill through her.
Damian ended the call, setting the phone down with deliberate care. Then his eyes lifted.
"You enjoy spying, Elara?"
Her heart jumped. She hadn't realized how openly she'd been watching.
"I wasn't spying," she muttered.
He leaned back in his chair, studying her. "Then what do you call it?"
Her throat tightened. "Curiosity."
"Dangerous habit."
"I'm already in danger," she shot back. "Or have you forgotten?"
He stood, slow and deliberate, moving toward her with the quiet certainty of a predator who knows the prey won't bolt.
When he stopped in front of her, the space between them crackled.
"You think danger only lives out there," he murmured. "In warehouses, in men with guns. But it's in here too. With me. With you."
Her breath caught. "You're threatening me again."
"No," he said softly. His gaze dropped briefly—to her lips, then back up. "I'm warning you."
Her pulse hammered. She hated the heat rising in her chest, hated the way his nearness scrambled her thoughts. She wanted to shove him away, scream in his face. But her body betrayed her, frozen under the weight of his eyes.
"Why me?" she whispered before she could stop herself. "Out of all the women you could have, why me?"
His jaw tightened. For once, his mask slipped. Something raw flashed in his eyes—dark, hungry, dangerous.
"Because you don't break easy," he said at last.
Her chest ached. She couldn't breathe.
And then, just as suddenly, he stepped back, leaving her cold in the doorway.
"Go to bed, Elara," he said. His voice was calm again, mask restored. "Tomorrow will be worse."
She lay awake long into the night, staring at the ceiling, his words echoing in her skull.
You don't break easy.
She should have felt strong. Instead, she felt like glass—fragile, transparent, one crack away from shattering.
And Damian Moretti was the hand poised above her, deciding whether to crush or to keep her whole.