Elara had thought the silence of Damian's penthouse was oppressive before. She hadn't known it could get worse.
The morning after their confrontation in the study, she found herself restless again, drifting from room to room like a ghost. Every corner smelled faintly of him: expensive cologne, leather, smoke. She hated how the air felt claimed, how even the light seemed bent to his will.
By late afternoon, she heard a knock on her door. Not sharp. Not commanding. Just firm.
She ignored it.
The handle turned anyway.
"Elara."
Her stomach sank. "Don't you know how to respect privacy?"
Damian stepped inside as though the word meant nothing to him. He was dressed down for once—black slacks, a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, no jacket. The sight made him look younger, but not softer. Never softer.
"Get ready," he said simply.
Her arms crossed. "For what? Another trip to the docks? Or maybe a shooting this time?"
His mouth twitched—not quite amusement, not quite irritation. "Dinner."
She blinked. "Dinner?"
"With me."
The words landed like a trap snapping shut.
"I'm not hungry," she said.
"You'll eat anyway." His tone left no room for argument. "Half an hour."
He left before she could spit back a reply.
Elara considered refusing. She thought about locking the door, about barricading herself inside. But part of her knew he'd only break the lock, drag her out, and she refused to give him that satisfaction.
So she changed, carefully, stubbornly. Nothing elegant. Just jeans, a plain blouse, her hair tied back. If he wanted to dress her up like one of his trophies, he'd have to fight her for it.
When she stepped into the dining room, she was struck silent for a moment.
The long table was set for two, candles lit, silverware gleaming against dark linen. A bottle of wine waited between the plates, already breathing.
Damian stood at the head of the table, glass in hand. His gaze swept over her once—quick, assessing—and then he gestured for her to sit.
She didn't move. "What is this supposed to be?"
"Dinner," he said again.
"No," she snapped. "I mean, why? You don't do… normal. You don't sit down for candlelight dinners like—like this."
"Perhaps I do tonight." His tone was maddeningly calm.
She finally sat, though her chair scraped louder than necessary against the floor.
The first few minutes passed in silence, the only sounds the clink of silverware, the faint crackle of candles. The food was exquisite—of course it was—but Elara chewed like every bite was a challenge.
"You're quiet," Damian observed eventually.
She glared at him. "What do you want me to say? 'Thank you, Damian, for kidnapping me and forcing me into a romantic dinner'? Because that's not going to happen."
His lips curved faintly. "Romantic?"
Heat climbed into her cheeks before she could stop it. "That's not what I meant."
"I know." His eyes gleamed, catching the candlelight. "But the fact you thought it says more than your words."
She stabbed her fork into her food harder than necessary.
Halfway through, he poured them both wine. She didn't want it, but refusing outright felt too much like letting him win. She lifted the glass, taking a defiant sip. The taste was rich, dark, velvet-smooth.
"I don't understand you," she muttered finally.
He tilted his head. "Good."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get."
Frustration tightened her chest. "Why do this? Why drag me to warehouses, to dinners, into your world at all? You could've left me in that room and I would've been easier to control. So why?"
His gaze held hers, unblinking, unreadable.
"Because I don't want easy," he said quietly.
Her heart stumbled. She wanted to laugh, to call him a liar, but the sincerity in his tone froze her.
The dinner stretched on, the air growing thicker, charged with something neither of them named.
At one point, Damian leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You're waiting for me to break you," he said. "You expect it. Maybe even count on it."
Her throat went dry. "And you won't?"
He shook his head once. "No. Breaking you would be simple. Predictable. But watching you fight—watching you survive me—that is far more interesting."
Her pulse hammered. "You're sick."
"Perhaps." His voice didn't waver. "But I'm also patient."
The silence after that was unbearable. She wanted to scream at him, to throw the wine in his face, but her body betrayed her again—heat pooling low, confusion tightening her chest.
After the plates were cleared by silent staff, Damian stood. For a moment she thought it was over. Then he moved closer, stopping behind her chair.
Her shoulders stiffened as his hand brushed the backrest, close enough to feel his warmth.
"You keep telling yourself you hate me," he murmured near her ear. "But your body remembers everything. The way you watch me. The way you breathe when I'm near."
Her entire body locked.
"That's not—"
He leaned closer, his voice softer than silk. "Lie to yourself if you must. But don't lie to me."
Her chest rose and fell too quickly, breath sharp, uneven. She wanted to stand, to bolt, but her legs felt useless beneath her.
Then, as suddenly as he'd come close, he stepped away.
"Goodnight, Elara."
And he left her sitting there, shaking, her pulse still racing as though he'd touched her.
That night, she lay awake again, his words echoing louder than the city outside.
I don't want easy.
Watching you fight is far more interesting.
Don't lie to me.
For the first time, she wondered if hatred alone was strong enough to protect her.
Because the truth she couldn't say out loud—couldn't even admit fully to herself—was far more dangerous.
Part of her wanted to stop fighting.
And that terrified her more than Damian Moretti ever could.