The penthouse smelled of bleach and smoke.
By morning, the staff had scrubbed away every trace of last night's blood, but Elara could still feel it—ghosts clinging to the walls, shadows pooling in corners. She sat at the edge of her bed, arms wrapped tight around her body, listening to the muted thrum of men's voices down the hall.
Sleep had been impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, the night replayed—the gunfire, the dead man's face on the floor, Damian's grip on her hand as he dragged her through the chaos. The memory of his thumb brushing her cheek. His vow.
Her stomach twisted.
She hated him. She feared him. But when the bullets flew, she had clung to him like he was her only anchor in the storm.
Because he was.
A knock at the door jolted her.
"Elara."
Not Marco this time. Damian.
Her pulse tripped. She hesitated before opening the door.
He stood there in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, a faint bruise shadowing his jaw. His eyes—gray, sharp, merciless—scanned her quickly, assessing, as if measuring her for damage.
"You didn't eat," he said.
She bristled. "You're keeping tabs on me?"
His gaze hardened. "You think I wouldn't?"
"I'm not hungry."
"You'll eat anyway."
The command lit anger in her chest, sharp and hot. "You can't just—"
"I can," he cut in smoothly, stepping closer until she had to tilt her chin to meet his eyes. "Because if you collapse, if you get sick, if you so much as stumble, you become a weakness. And I don't keep weaknesses under my roof."
Her breath hitched. "Is that all I am to you? A liability?"
His eyes flickered, just for a second. Then his hand closed around her wrist, firm but not cruel, and he pulled her out into the hall.
"You're coming with me."
The dining room was empty when they entered, the table set but untouched. Damian motioned for her to sit. She did, stiffly, watching him pour coffee with the same precision he used for violence.
"Last night wasn't an accident," he said finally.
Her stomach clenched. "Obviously."
"They wanted you rattled. Wanted you to know they can reach you."
The bracelet. The box. The bodies.
Her pulse pounded. "Then they're not going to stop."
"No." His voice was flat, certain.
The chill in her blood deepened.
"So what now?" she asked.
"Now," he said, leaning back in his chair, "we make it clear you're untouchable."
Her laugh was bitter. "Untouchable? They just broke into your fortress. You think hiding me in some locked room makes me safe?"
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "Not hiding. Guarding."
The difference in words didn't soothe her.
She shoved back her chair, standing abruptly. "You can't cage me every time they blink in my direction. I won't survive it."
His voice followed her, low and deadly. "You won't survive freedom, either."
She froze. Slowly, she turned.
He was watching her, unblinking, his hands steepled in front of him.
"You still don't understand," he said. "You are leverage. To them, to me, to anyone who sees you. That makes you more dangerous than any gun I own."
Her throat tightened. "I didn't ask for this."
"I know."
The admission startled her. His eyes softened—barely, like a fracture in steel—but enough to knock the wind from her.
"Eat," he said again, quieter this time.
Her hands trembled, but she sat, forcing herself to swallow a bite of bread, then another. Not because she wanted to obey him. Because she needed the strength.
And because part of her feared he was right.
Later, the penthouse buzzed with movement. Men in suits filled the living room, voices sharp, maps and photos spread across the table. Elara lingered at the edge, unseen, listening.
"The Bratva cell was small," Marco was saying. "But bold. Someone fed them intel."
A murmur rippled through the group. Damian's voice cut through it like a blade.
"Find the leak. Burn it."
Elara shivered.
Her eyes flicked to Damian. He stood at the center, commanding, untouchable again. The man who'd bled in his armchair was gone. The one who had brushed her cheek in the safe room was buried. This was the devil—calculating, cold, unyielding.
And yet, when his eyes swept the room and landed on her, something flickered again. Something only she saw.
"Meeting's over," he said.
The men dispersed quickly, leaving papers scattered. Elara lingered, watching him gather them.
"You're going after them," she said.
"Of course."
"And what if they come again? What if they send more?"
His lips curved, not quite a smile. "Then I kill more."
The casual way he said it made her chest tighten.
"You can't solve everything with blood," she whispered.
His eyes met hers, sharp, burning. "It's the only language they understand."
For a moment, silence. Then his gaze dropped, flicking over her arms, her neck, like checking for wounds.
"You're moving into the east wing," he said suddenly.
She frowned. "Why?"
"Closer to me."
Her heart skipped. "That's not necessary."
"It is."
Her stomach knotted. Living closer to him meant less space, less air. More chances for the line between hate and… something else… to blur.
But his tone left no room for argument.
"You don't get a choice in this," he said softly. "Not anymore."
Her new room was twice the size of her old one, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline. A gilded cage, but a beautiful one.
She stood in the middle, arms crossed, glaring at the city.
The door opened behind her. She didn't need to turn to know it was him.
"Do you always move people like furniture?" she snapped.
Damian's voice was calm, steady. "I move what I want where I want."
Her breath caught. "Including me."
"Yes."
The word rang like a chain snapping shut.
Her chest ached with fury, fear, and something far more dangerous.
"Why me?" she demanded.
He was silent for a long moment. She turned—and froze.
He stood close, closer than he should, his eyes burning with something raw.
"Because," he said finally, "losing you is not an option I will allow."
Her pulse thundered. She wanted to push him away. She wanted to lean into him. Both urges warred inside her until her knees trembled.
He lifted a hand, brushing her hair back, his touch almost tender. "You're safe here," he murmured.
But the way his eyes darkened made her wonder if safety was the last thing she had.
That night, Elara lay awake again in the new room, the city lights painting gold across her sheets.
Safe. Protected. Guarded.
Caged.
And the worst part was, she couldn't decide which word terrified her more.