Elara didn't sleep.
Not after seeing him walk in with blood on his sleeve, not after the calm way he'd swallowed his drink and dismissed her like she was nothing more than a shadow in his house. She'd lain awake in her room, every nerve buzzing, waiting for some sound, some proof that he wasn't as invincible as he pretended.
When morning came, the penthouse was silent. No movement. No Damian.
She should've felt relief. Instead, the silence pressed on her chest until she couldn't stand it anymore.
She left her room barefoot, creeping down the hall toward his. The door was closed. For a long moment, she hovered, her hand raised to knock, then hesitated.
It was none of her business. She didn't care. She shouldn't care.
But her knuckles tapped anyway.
No answer.
Her pulse quickened. She pushed the door open.
The curtains were drawn, muting the light. Damian sat in the armchair by the window, still in the clothes from last night, though his jacket was draped carelessly over the armrest. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, his tie gone.
He wasn't asleep. His eyes were open, gray and sharp even in the shadows. But there was something different. Something… dimmed.
For the first time since she'd met him, he looked human.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice low, rough.
Her throat tightened. "You're hurt."
His gaze flicked down to his sleeve, faintly stained, then back to her. "Not badly."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get."
The sharpness in his tone should've driven her out. Instead, it made her step closer.
"You bleed," she said quietly. "Like everyone else."
A faint curve touched his mouth, but it wasn't amusement. It was something darker. "Disappointed?"
"No," she whispered. "Relieved."
The silence that followed was heavy, electric. His eyes held hers, unblinking, and she hated the way her chest tightened under the weight of it.
Finally, he stood, slow and deliberate. The motion was controlled, but she saw the faint stiffness in his shoulder, the way he favored his side. He tried to hide it. He couldn't.
"You should eat," he said, brushing past her.
She caught his arm before she could think better of it.
"Stop pretending," she snapped. "You're not made of stone. You're not untouchable. And one day, you're going to get hurt worse than this. What then? Do you think your empire will care? That your men will bleed for you the way you bleed for them?"
His head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied her grip on his arm. "You care?"
Her chest seized. "No."
"Liar."
She let go of him as though burned, stepping back, her face hot. "I care because I don't want your blood on my hands. I didn't ask to be here. I didn't ask to be part of this."
For the first time, his expression cracked—not much, but enough for her to see something raw underneath. Not anger. Not arrogance. Weariness.
"You're already part of it," he said quietly.
The words struck like chains snapping shut.
Later, the penthouse hummed with movement—guards in and out, calls answered in low voices, tension sharp enough to slice. Damian disappeared into meetings, leaving Elara restless, pacing the halls, caught between fury and unease.
She ended up in the library again, staring at the rows of books without reading a single word. The image of him in that armchair wouldn't leave her. The stiffness in his movements. The blood. The weight in his eyes.
And worse—the flicker of vulnerability he'd let slip, just for a second.
She should've clung to her hatred. Instead, her mind betrayed her with questions. What did he look like when no one was watching? Who had he been before this empire hardened him into steel? Did he ever regret anything?
She shook the thoughts away violently. This wasn't her business. He wasn't hers to unravel.
And yet, she couldn't stop.
That night, the storm broke.
She heard it before she saw it—raised voices near the elevator, the slam of the door, the heavy tread of boots. Damian entered the penthouse with three of his men, his shirt stained again, his expression harder than iron.
"What happened?" one of the guards asked.
"The Bratva sent a message," Damian said flatly. "I sent one back."
Elara stood frozen at the end of the hall, her heart hammering. His eyes caught hers across the room. For a moment, everything else faded—the guards, the blood, the tension. Just him and her.
He dismissed the men quickly, his voice sharp, efficient. When the door shut behind them, silence fell again.
"You're hurt again," she said before she could stop herself.
His jaw tightened. "I told you. Not badly."
"Stop saying that," she snapped. "Stop pretending like you're invincible. You're not."
He moved toward her slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on hers.
"Why does it matter to you?" he asked.
Her breath caught. "It doesn't."
His hand came up, brushing her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. His touch was firm, not cruel, but enough to still her completely.
"Then say it," he murmured. "Say you want me dead. Say you'd rather see me broken, bleeding on the floor."
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Because she couldn't.
She hated him. She feared him. But the image of him broken, bleeding—it twisted something deep in her chest in a way she couldn't name.
His eyes darkened. "Exactly."
He let her go then, stepping back, his mask sliding into place again.
"You're in this now, Elara," he said. "Whether you like it or not. And the sooner you accept that, the easier it will be."
She stood frozen, her chest heaving, her body trembling with anger and confusion.
Because for the first time, she wasn't sure if the battle she was fighting was against him… or against herself.
That night, when she finally collapsed into bed, the dream returned.
Flames licking walls. Smoke in her lungs. Damian standing in the center, untouchable, watching her burn.
But this time, when she reached out, he reached back.
And that terrified her more than the fire ever could.