Elara dreamed of fire.
Flames licking the walls of the penthouse, smoke filling her lungs, Damian standing at the center of it all—untouched, calm, while she burned. She woke with her chest heaving, sheets tangled around her legs, heart racing like she'd actually been running through smoke.
The morning light spilled through the curtains, too soft, too indifferent to match the nightmare. She pressed her palms over her face, forcing herself to breathe. It was just a dream. Just her mind trying to make sense of him.
But the taste of smoke wouldn't leave her tongue.
She expected Damian to summon her again, but the day unfolded in uneasy quiet. No knock on the door. No clipped orders through the hall. The silence should've been a relief. Instead, it made her restless.
By evening, her nerves were frayed. She left her room and wandered the penthouse like a trespasser, careful of every step. She found him eventually, in the study again.
Only this time, the door wasn't half-open. It was wide, voices spilling into the hall.
She froze.
Three men stood around his desk, their suits sharp but worn, eyes darting, shoulders tense. Damian leaned against the edge of the desk, unhurried as ever, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked like the only man in the room who wasn't carrying the weight of something dangerous.
"… Bratva are pushing further west," one of the men said, his voice tight. "They've got docks lined up. They're cutting into our shipments."
Her blood went cold. Bratva. She'd heard the word before, last night, whispered into his phone. But hearing it here, watching the way it made even these men sweat—it felt real now.
"Let them push," Damian said calmly, swirling the whiskey. "A tide that rises too fast always drowns its own."
"With respect," another man said, voice trembling just enough for Elara to hear it, "if we don't respond soon, they'll think we're weak."
Damian's gaze flicked to him. Just once. Sharp enough to silence the man instantly.
"They know I'm not weak," Damian said. "And if they've forgotten, I'll remind them."
His voice wasn't raised. But the way he said it—the certainty, the cold promise—made the hairs on Elara's neck stand up.
She thought about slipping away before anyone noticed her, but the movement of her shadow must've betrayed her.
"Elara," Damian said suddenly, eyes cutting toward the hall.
The three men turned. Their gazes landed on her like weights—surprise, confusion, curiosity. One of them smirked faintly, the same way that man in the warehouse had.
Heat rushed to her face. She hated that she felt exposed, hated even more that she froze.
"Come in," Damian said.
Her body resisted, but his tone left no room. Slowly, she stepped inside, every eye following.
"This," Damian said smoothly, as if presenting something valuable, "is Elara Donovan."
One of the men arched a brow. "Didn't think you entertained guests, Moretti."
"Not a guest," Damian corrected, his gaze steady on them. "Mine."
The word sent a shiver through her, hot and cold at once.
The men didn't question it. They wouldn't dare. But their looks lingered—assessing, amused, maybe envious. She wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
Damian dismissed them not long after, each leaving with stiff nods. When the door shut and silence fell again, he turned to her.
"You shouldn't lurk," he said.
She folded her arms, defensive. "I wasn't lurking. I was… walking."
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he let it go. "Now you've heard. The Bratva are pushing."
"And that's… bad?" she asked carefully.
"Bad for them," he said.
The way he said it made her stomach twist.
Later that night, she found herself on the balcony again, city lights blinking like restless eyes below. The air was sharp, the wind tugging at her hair. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to shake the unease that clung since the study.
Damian joined her quietly, no sound but the soft brush of his shoes. He stood beside her, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the skyline.
"You're quiet," he said.
She gave a humorless laugh. "What am I supposed to say? 'Good luck with your mafia war'?"
His mouth twitched faintly. "You're learning."
She glared at him. "This isn't a joke."
"No," he agreed. "It's survival."
She turned fully then, anger sparking. "And what about me? Where do I fit in your little war? Am I supposed to be another pawn? A prize you dangle in front of your enemies?"
His gaze cut to her sharply. "You're not a pawn."
"Then what am I?"
The silence that followed was unbearable. His eyes held hers, unreadable, but heavy with something that made her chest ache.
"Mine," he said finally.
Her breath caught.
She hated the word. Hated the claim. And yet—part of her hated the way her body reacted even more.
Before she could speak, his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening.
"They've moved faster than expected," he muttered. Then, to her: "Stay here."
Her heart pounded. "Where are you going?"
He was already moving toward the door. "To remind them who they're dealing with."
The door shut behind him, leaving her on the balcony with the city humming below, her chest tight with something she couldn't name—fear, anger, and, worst of all, the sinking realization that she wanted him to come back.
She stayed awake long after midnight, curled in the living room, waiting for the sound of the elevator. When it finally came, her body jolted like she'd been caught.
Damian stepped inside, shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled, a smear of blood at the edge of his cuff.
She shot to her feet. "You're hurt—"
"Not mine," he interrupted.
The words should've chilled her. Instead, they made her knees weak.
He poured himself a drink, downed it in one swallow, then set the glass down with deliberate care.
"Go to bed, Elara," he said. His voice was calm again, but his eyes—sharp, burning—told her something had cracked.
She didn't move. She couldn't.
For the first time, she realized the cracks weren't just in his world. They were in him.
And if he broke, she wasn't sure if she wanted to run… or fall with him.