The morning light was deceptive.
Elara stood at the window, the city sprawling beneath her like a beast stretching after sleep. Cars slid down streets in thin ribbons of silver. Office towers glinted. A normal world existed out there—people with jobs, with families, with ordinary problems like rent and groceries.
It mocked her.
Behind her, the penthouse was too quiet. Damian hadn't come back to his room the night before. She'd lain awake again, half expecting footsteps outside her door, half afraid of them. When dawn finally bled into the sky, she got up, restless, and found herself staring out over a city that felt impossibly far away.
She touched the glass with her fingertips, imagining what it would be like to just… leave. Walk out, take a subway, vanish into the crowd. Pretend none of this had happened.
But she knew better. She wasn't invisible anymore. Damian's world was wrapped around her like barbed wire.
And barbed wire didn't let go.
The knock on her door was sharp, abrupt. She jumped, spinning.
"Elara," came Marco's voice.
She hesitated before answering. "What is it?"
"The boss wants you in the dining room."
Her pulse kicked. Damian rarely summoned her for meals. Usually he ate with his men or alone, the sound of laughter or arguments drifting through the walls while she picked at food in silence upstairs.
She opened the door slowly. Marco stood there, his expression unreadable, a pistol tucked casually at his hip.
"He's waiting," he said.
Her stomach knotted, but she followed.
Damian sat at the head of the long dining table, a glass of black coffee in front of him. The table itself was spread with breakfast—eggs, pastries, fruit. It would've looked inviting if the man at the end hadn't radiated such cold command.
"Sit," he said, without looking up from the papers in his hand.
She did, sliding into the chair nearest him. For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and brittle.
Finally, he lowered the papers and studied her.
"You've been restless," he said.
Her throat tightened. "You've been watching me?"
"Always."
The word should have terrified her. Maybe it did. But it also stirred something else she hated—an awareness that wherever she went, his gaze followed, sharp and unyielding.
"I'm not a child," she muttered.
His lips curved faintly. "No. You're a complication."
Before she could respond, Marco entered again, holding a small black box in his hand. He set it on the table before Damian.
Damian's eyes flicked to it, then to Elara. "Eat."
But she couldn't—not with that box sitting there like a snake coiled and waiting.
Damian opened it slowly. Inside was a folded slip of paper and something metallic, gleaming under the light. He pulled the paper free, scanned it, then set it down carefully.
The object he lifted next made Elara's stomach lurch.
It was a bracelet.
Her bracelet.
The one she'd lost weeks ago, the night her father's debts caught up to her. She hadn't thought of it since—just a trinket, something left behind in the chaos. But seeing it in Damian's hand now made her skin crawl.
"Where did that come from?" she whispered.
Damian's eyes were flat. "The Bratva."
Her blood went cold.
"They found it," she said slowly. "How?"
"They don't need to find," he said. "They watch."
The words landed like a stone in her chest. If they'd been close enough to take something as personal, as small, as hers…
"They know about me," she breathed.
"Of course they do."
Her chair scraped as she stood abruptly. "Then why am I still here? Why am I sitting in your damn penthouse like a sitting duck while they—"
His hand shot out, slamming flat against the table. The sharp crack silenced her instantly.
"You think running would save you?" His voice was soft, but lethal. "You step one foot outside this building without me, and you're theirs within an hour."
Her pulse thundered. "So what, I'm bait now? Another piece on your board?"
His gaze locked onto hers. "You've been a piece from the beginning."
The admission hit her like a slap. She wanted to scream at him, to throw something, to claw her way free. Instead she sank slowly back into her chair, trembling.
The bracelet glinted on the table between them, cruel and delicate.
A message. A warning.
A promise.
The rest of the day passed under shadow. Guards doubled at the doors, the elevator locked down. The usual rhythm of the penthouse—the hum of voices, the occasional laugh from the men—vanished. Silence ruled.
Elara drifted through it, restless, brittle, her thoughts circling like vultures. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the bracelet. Her bracelet. Not stolen by accident. Placed in that box with purpose.
They knew her name. Her face. Where she belonged.
She curled up on the library couch, hugging her knees to her chest, trying not to shake.
Night fell heavy. She didn't hear Damian enter until his shadow stretched across the carpet.
"You're afraid," he said quietly.
She didn't look at him. "Shouldn't I be?"
"Yes."
The honesty in his tone startled her. She lifted her gaze reluctantly. He stood by the window, the city glowing faintly behind him, his face carved in sharp lines of light and shadow.
"They'll come for me," she whispered.
"Yes," he said again. "But not while I breathe."
Her chest clenched painfully. "That's supposed to comfort me?"
"It's the truth."
She laughed bitterly. "You're one man against an army."
He crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until he stood over her. "I'm not one man. I am an empire. And now, so are you."
Her pulse tripped. "I don't want this."
"It doesn't matter what you want."
The words stung. But his hand brushed her jaw then, unexpectedly gentle, tilting her face up. His eyes searched hers, not cruel, not mocking—something else. Something raw.
"You matter," he said softly. "More than you should."
Her breath caught.
And then, just as quickly, he pulled back, the mask sliding over him again.
"Stay in your room tonight," he ordered. "Double guard outside. You don't leave, you don't answer the door unless it's me."
She wanted to argue, to spit in his face, to prove she wasn't his caged pet. But the memory of the bracelet silenced her.
So she nodded once, sharp.
And for the first time, when the door shut behind him, she didn't feel trapped.
She felt hunted.