The east wing was quiet, too quiet.
Elara sat at the window, legs pulled up to her chest, staring at the city lights bleeding across the glass. New York stretched out below her—millions of lives moving freely while she remained locked in her gilded tower.
Her fingers traced the condensation on the pane. Last night's meeting still clawed at her. The way those men had looked at her, like a commodity on display. The way Damian had spoken, staking his claim with such cold certainty. Mine.
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to hate him. She told herself she did. But the truth was murkier, far more dangerous. Because in the instant one of those men smirked at her, she had felt a strange kind of safety in Damian's fury, like he'd wrapped her in invisible chains made of steel and blood.
And now those chains rattled inside her chest, keeping her awake long after midnight.
A knock broke the silence. Not sharp, but firm.
She didn't answer.
The door opened anyway.
Damian entered without hesitation, sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His presence filled the room as if he owned the air itself.
"You're still awake," he observed.
She hugged her knees tighter. "You barged in again."
His gaze flicked to the untouched tray of food on the table. "You didn't eat."
Her jaw tightened. "I wasn't hungry."
"You're making a habit of this."
She glared at him. "Maybe I don't like being treated like a prisoner."
His expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened. "You are not a prisoner."
"Really?" She shot to her feet, heat surging in her chest. "I can't leave. I can't speak in front of your men. I can't even decide when to eat. What else would you call it?"
He sipped his whiskey, maddeningly calm. "Protected."
The word landed like a slap.
Her breath came short. "Protected? You paraded me in front of them like—like property. You threatened a man's life just because he looked at me. Do you even hear yourself?"
The glass in his hand tightened. For a moment, she thought he might shatter it. But instead, he set it down carefully on the dresser.
"You think I enjoy dragging you into this?" he asked, voice low, dangerous in its restraint.
"Yes!" she snapped. "Because it feeds your control. Because it makes you feel powerful."
His gaze pinned her. "No. Because if I don't, you die."
The words hung between them, sharp as broken glass.
Her throat tightened. "Maybe I'd rather die free than live as your possession."
Something flickered in his eyes then—pain, quickly buried under steel. He closed the distance in three strides, stopping inches from her, his presence searing.
"You don't know what you're saying," he said softly.
"I know exactly what I'm saying."
His hand lifted, hovering near her cheek but not touching, trembling with restraint. "You think freedom is walking away from me? Freedom is being torn apart by men who would carve you into pieces just to send me a message."
Her breath caught. His voice was raw now, the polished armor cracking.
"You don't get it, Elara," he whispered. "I don't keep you because I want to. I keep you because the moment you leave my side, you're gone."
Her chest ached.
He finally touched her—just the lightest brush of fingers against her jaw, almost reverent, as if she were made of glass.
And God help her, she didn't pull away.
Her pulse thundered. The room shrank around them until it was just his hand on her skin, his breath brushing her lips, his eyes burning with something dark and unspoken.
She hated him. She feared him. But her body betrayed her, leaning ever so slightly closer.
Then he stepped back, breaking the spell, his hand falling like a blade severing a rope.
"Go to bed," he said roughly, voice hoarse.
Her knees trembled. She wanted to scream, to demand why he pulled away, why he let her drown in this war between hate and hunger. But the words stuck in her throat.
He turned, heading for the door. Before he left, he paused, his back to her.
"You're not a prisoner," he said again, softer this time. "You're the only reason I'm still human."
And then he was gone.
Elara collapsed onto the bed, her chest burning.
She didn't know if she wanted to cry or scream.
But as the city lights glowed against the window, one truth settled heavy in her bones:
Damian Moretti wasn't just her captor. He was becoming her undoing.