The storm came faster than Elara expected.
For hours, the penthouse felt too quiet, like the city was holding its breath. Guards moved through the halls with clipped urgency. Doors opened and shut, radios crackled. Damian vanished into his office, his voice low and sharp whenever she passed the door.
Elara stayed in her room, trying not to suffocate under the weight of waiting. She told herself she wasn't afraid, but her hands trembled when she poured water, and her heart jumped at every muffled sound beyond the walls.
By nightfall, the silence broke.
It began with a buzz—so faint she almost thought she imagined it. Then louder, sharper, the intercom crackling with static. A guard's voice, tense:
"Movement on the cameras."
Another voice answered. "Perimeter?"
"Breached. East side."
Elara froze.
She crossed the room in two steps, pressing her ear to the door. Shouts now, footsteps pounding, the unmistakable sound of guns being readied. Her breath caught.
And then—gunfire.
The sound rattled the walls, sharp bursts that made her flinch. She backed away from the door, heart hammering, her pulse in her throat.
They were here.
The handle twisted before she could think. She staggered back as the door swung open—then sagged with relief.
Damian filled the doorway, a pistol in one hand, his gray eyes burning like steel.
"Stay behind me," he snapped.
She nodded without thinking, stumbling forward. He grabbed her arm, pulling her close, and she felt the heat of his body, the steadiness of him, like a wall she could hide behind.
The hall outside was chaos—guards shouting, the distant echo of more shots. Damian moved fast, dragging her toward the elevator, then swore under his breath when the intercom crackled again.
"Boss! East stairwell compromised!"
"Hold them," Damian barked into his radio. "Buy me time."
He yanked Elara toward the service corridor instead. "We're not staying here.
Her voice shook. "Where—where are we going?"
"A safe room."
She stumbled to keep up, her bare feet slapping against the polished floor. The world had narrowed to noise and speed—the crash of doors, the sting of fear in her throat, the iron grip of his hand around hers.
The service hall twisted in sharp corners. Halfway down, a shadow lunged out.
Elara screamed.
Damian's gun barked before she could blink. The man collapsed, his weapon clattering across the floor. Damian didn't even pause. He shoved her forward, his body shielding hers, his pace relentless.
"Eyes down," he ordered.
But she couldn't. She caught a glimpse of the man's face as they passed—blood pooling beneath him, his eyes wide and empty.
Her stomach lurched violently.
She wanted to stop, to double over, to shut her eyes until it all went away. But Damian pulled her onward, merciless.
"Keep moving, Elara."
Her name in his voice jolted her. Rough, commanding, but alive. It cut through the panic, anchoring her.
She swallowed hard and ran.
The safe room wasn't much—a reinforced steel door at the end of a narrow hall, a keypad glinting beside it. Damian punched in the code with one hand, his other still clutching the pistol.
The lock hissed open.
He shoved her inside first.
The room was bare—gray walls, a small couch bolted to the floor, a shelf with water bottles and medical supplies. No windows. No escape.
The door clanged shut behind them, the lock engaging with a heavy click.
For the first time since the chaos started, silence pressed in.
Elara pressed back against the wall, gasping, her chest heaving.
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Damian stood in the middle of the room, gun still raised, listening intently. His chest rose and fell steadily, controlled, though a faint sheen of sweat glistened at his temple.
Minutes ticked by. Gunfire continued faintly in the distance, muffled by steel and walls. Then it ebbed, voices crackling through his radio in bursts of victory and loss.
Finally, Damian lowered the pistol.
Elara slid down the wall, hugging her knees, her breath still shallow.
"They were here," she whispered. "They—"
"Yes." His voice was clipped, harsh.
"They almost—" Her throat closed. "They almost got us."
"They didn't."
The cold certainty in his tone made her look up sharply. His eyes locked onto hers, steady, unyielding.
"They won't touch you," he said.
Her chest squeezed painfully. "You can't promise that."
"I just did."
The words hung between them, heavy, dangerous.
She shook her head violently. "You're insane. You—you can't control everything. You're just one man—"
His jaw tightened. He crouched down in front of her, close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes, close enough that his presence swallowed the room.
"I am not just one man," he said, low and fierce. "I am the only thing standing between you and a grave."
Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.
He reached out, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone, rough but startlingly gentle. "And I will not let them take you."
For a moment, the world stopped. The fear, the gunfire, the blood outside—it all blurred into nothing but the heat of his hand, the weight of his vow.
She hated that it steadied her.
She hated that she wanted to believe him.
Time passed strangely in the safe room. Minutes stretched, collapsed, blurred. Damian stayed near the door, listening, occasionally murmuring into his radio. Elara curled on the couch, silent, trying to untangle the storm in her chest.
When the intercom finally crackled with Marco's voice—"Boss, perimeter secure. Survivors retreating"—Damian exhaled slowly, his shoulders loosening just slightly.
He holstered his weapon, then looked at her.
"It's over," he said.
She swallowed. "For now."
His lips twitched faintly. "You're learning."
The door hissed open.
The hallway outside was littered with bodies. Guards in black stood over them, weapons still raised, faces grim. The scent of gunpowder and iron hung thick in the air.
Elara's stomach lurched again, but Damian's hand pressed against her back, steady, guiding.
"Don't look," he murmured.
She couldn't help it. She looked.
And the image seared itself into her forever—the price of his empire, the cost of his vow.
That night, when the penthouse had been scrubbed clean and silence returned, Elara lay awake again.
But this time, it wasn't the fear that kept her eyes open.
It was the memory of his hand against her cheek, his voice promising death to anyone who touched her.
And the way a part of her, traitorous and aching, had wanted to believe him.