Elara had always thought silence was peace.
But inside Damian's penthouse, silence was suffocating.
The walls hummed with restrained energy—guards shifting in the halls, muted phones buzzing with news she wasn't allowed to hear. Every door she passed was locked, every window reinforced, every smile from the staff strained. The air itself felt watched.
And at the center of it all was him.
She hadn't seen Damian since he'd moved her into the east wing. Meals appeared outside her door. Books too. Always delivered by Marco or one of the silent men in black. Not once had he come himself.
It should have been a relief. Distance meant breathing room. Yet she found herself straining at every sound in the corridor, wondering if it was his footsteps.
When the door finally opened without warning, her heart lurched.
Damian filled the frame, dressed in charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt, cuffs undone, throat bare. He carried no weapons in sight, but she knew better. He was a weapon.
"Get dressed," he said, his tone even but unyielding.
Her fingers curled into her robe. "For what?"
"You're coming with me."
Every instinct screamed to refuse, but the look in his eyes told her it wouldn't matter.
"To where?" she pressed.
His jaw flexed. "You'll see."
The car was black, sleek, and armored. She slid into the back seat beside him, her pulse hammering as the doors locked with a mechanical click. Marco drove in silence, the city lights painting streaks of neon across the windows.
Elara kept her eyes forward, refusing to look at Damian. He didn't speak either, though she could feel his gaze—sharp, dissecting, as if peeling back the layers she tried so desperately to hide.
Finally, she broke. "Why am I here?"
He answered without hesitation. "Because the men we meet tonight need to see you."
Her chest tightened. "See me?"
"They need to know you exist. That you are mine."
The words scorched her ears.
"I'm not yours," she whispered.
His head turned slowly, his eyes catching the faint glow of streetlights. "You are until I say otherwise."
Her throat ached. She wanted to scream at him, claw at him, but the weight of his voice, the steel in it, made her fold inward.
They stopped at a building she didn't recognize—tall, dark glass gleaming under the moonlight. Guards lined the entrance, armed and rigid, bowing their heads as Damian strode past with Elara at his side.
The elevator ride was silent, but her pulse filled the space, louder than any machine.
When the doors opened, the smell of cigar smoke and expensive whiskey hit her. A wide room sprawled before them, dimly lit, with leather chairs, polished oak tables, and men in sharp suits leaning close in conversation. Mafia, every one of them—danger written in the hard lines of their faces, the casual way their hands hovered near holsters.
The room went still as Damian entered.
"Elara," he said softly, leaning close enough that only she heard. "Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't leave my side."
Her hand trembled, but she nodded.
He placed it on his arm, guiding her forward like a man escorting a queen into court. But she knew better. She wasn't a queen. She was the message.
Eyes tracked her, sharp and assessing. A few glances lingered too long, and Damian's jaw tightened. She felt the tension in his arm beneath her fingertips, the quiet storm gathering beneath his calm exterior.
A tall man with silver hair and a scar across his cheek rose from a chair at the center table. "Moretti," he greeted, his voice low and gravelly. "You brought… company."
Damian's lips curved faintly. "Consider her a declaration."
The man's gaze flicked to Elara. "And what exactly are you declaring?"
"That she is untouchable," Damian said, his tone cold, final. "Anyone who lays a finger on her, anyone who so much as looks at her wrong, declares war on me."
The words struck like thunder in the room. A murmur rippled through the men, some intrigued, some clearly displeased.
Elara's skin burned. Untouchable? She felt anything but. Her hand shook against his arm, but Damian didn't falter. He was a fortress, shielding her with words sharper than knives.
The silver-haired man chuckled. "A dangerous vow, Moretti. You've never been one for sentiment."
Damian's eyes hardened. "Don't mistake possession for sentiment."
Something in his tone made Elara's breath hitch.
The meeting spiraled into business—territory disputes, alliances, whispers of betrayal. Elara stayed silent, but she absorbed every detail: the way Damian's voice commanded the room, the way men twice his age bent under his authority, the way his eyes never strayed too far from her.
At one point, a younger capo leaned back in his chair, smirking at her. "Pretty little thing you've got there, Moretti. Where'd you find her?"
Her stomach dropped.
The room hushed.
Damian's gaze sliced through the man like a blade.
"Careful," he said softly. Too softly.
The capo's grin faltered.
Damian leaned forward, voice like poison wrapped in velvet. "One more word, and I'll remove your tongue and feed it to you. Do you understand?"
Silence. Then a shaky nod.
The conversation resumed, but the air never fully recovered.
Elara's pulse roared in her ears. He'd threatened murder for her. Not kindness—control. Yet it stirred something dangerous in her chest. A part of her wanted to believe it meant more.
Hours later, they slipped back into the car. The city loomed dark and endless outside the windows. Elara kept her gaze down, her hands knotted in her lap.
"You didn't have to do that," she whispered.
Damian's eyes stayed forward. "Yes, I did."
"He was just talking—"
"He was disrespecting."
Her throat tightened. "To you."
His head turned sharply. "To you. Which is worse."
Her chest ached.
"You made me a pawn tonight," she said.
His expression flickered, sharp lines softening for a breath. "No. A queen."
Her laugh was brittle. "Queens have power. I have none."
His gaze burned into her. "You have me."
The car rolled on, heavy with words unsaid.
Back at the penthouse, she retreated to her room, every nerve frayed. She expected Damian to leave her be. Instead, he followed, stepping inside before she could close the door.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, voice raw.
His answer was quiet, almost dangerous in its softness. "Because if they believe you are mine, they will think twice before touching you. It is the only shield I can give you."
Her breath caught.
"And if I don't want to be yours?"
His hand rose, fingers brushing her jaw, tilting her face to his. His eyes were fire and steel, restraint and hunger.
"Then fight me," he whispered.
Her pulse thundered. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But her body betrayed her, leaning ever so slightly into his touch.
He let his hand fall, stepping back, voice turning cold again. "Lock the door."
And then he was gone.
Elara stood in the silence, heart racing, the ghost of his touch burning her skin.
She didn't know which was more terrifying—Damian's enemies outside the walls, or the war he was igniting inside her chest.