The penthouse stretched around Elara like a labyrinth—long halls, velvet curtains, polished marble floors that reflected the soft glow of chandeliers. Luxury so thick it should have felt intoxicating. Instead, it felt like a prison made of silk and gold.
Days blurred together. Meals delivered, guarded walks on the balcony, books left like offerings on her nightstand. The world shrank to walls she could not breach. And all the while, Damian hovered at the edge of her existence—sometimes near, sometimes far, always watching.
She needed air.
Real air. Not recycled, conditioned, filtered through his fortress.
That night, when the guards changed shifts, she tested the door to the east stairwell. To her surprise, it opened with only the faintest click. Her pulse roared.
Barefoot, she slipped inside.
The stairwell was cold and industrial, nothing like the gilded cage she'd been kept in. Metal steps wound downward, lit by dim emergency bulbs. Each creak beneath her weight made her heart jolt, but she kept going, clutching the railing until her palms ached.
Freedom. Just a few more flights.
At the ground floor, she pushed open the door into a deserted service corridor. She followed the hum of the city until another door opened onto the back alley.
Cool night air rushed against her skin.
She froze, drinking it in. The scent of rain on concrete, the faint tang of car exhaust, the hum of traffic blocks away—it was real.
For the first time in weeks, she was outside Damian's shadow.
Her eyes lifted toward the street, but before she could take a step, a voice cut through the night.
"Going somewhere?"
She spun.
A man leaned against the alley wall, cigarette glowing between his fingers. Not one of Damian's guards. His suit was cheap, his smile cheaper. His eyes dragged over her like knives.
"Well, well," he drawled. "The princess found a hole in her tower."
Fear slammed into her chest.
She stepped back, but he pushed off the wall, advancing. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll take real good care of you. Moretti won't even have time to miss you."
Her blood iced. She turned to run—
A shadow dropped from the rooftop above.
In a blur, Damian was there, slamming the man against the brick wall. The cigarette tumbled to the ground, sparks scattering.
The man choked out a curse, but Damian's forearm pressed hard into his throat. His voice was lethal calm. "Who sent you?"
"I—I was just—"
The crack of bone silenced him. The man slumped, lifeless, before sliding to the ground.
Elara's breath caught in her throat. She stumbled back, her hands trembling.
Damian turned, his eyes burning like storm clouds.
"You think this is a game?" His voice was low, shaking with fury.
Her knees weakened. She wanted to shout, to argue, but all she could whisper was, "I just wanted air."
He closed the distance in a heartbeat, gripping her arm—not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to command. His breath was sharp against her face.
"You step one foot outside my protection, and this is what waits for you." He jerked his chin at the body cooling against the wall. "You think I lock doors because I enjoy it? I do it because the second you leave them open, they will come for you."
Her eyes stung. "So what? I'm supposed to just—just rot in that gilded cage forever?"
His grip faltered. For a second, pain flickered across his face, raw and unguarded. Then he exhaled, letting her go.
"You don't understand," he said hoarsely. "It's not a cage. It's the only place I can keep you alive."
They rode the elevator in silence, the hum of machinery filling the space between them. Elara's pulse hadn't slowed. The image of the man's neck snapping echoed in her head, looping endlessly.
When the doors opened, Damian didn't let her retreat to her room. He steered her into his study instead—a dark space lined with shelves, maps, and weapons glinting under dim light.
"Sit," he ordered.
She shook her head. "No."
His eyes flared, but she stood her ground.
"You can't just—kill someone like that."
His laugh was bitter. "You think mercy survives in this world? You think I could let him walk away and whisper your name into the wrong ear?"
She hugged herself, shivering. "You didn't even blink."
His jaw tightened. "Because if I blink, you die."
The words cracked something inside her.
"Why me?" she asked, voice breaking. "Why am I worth this? Why not just cut me loose and let them take me?"
For the first time, Damian looked shaken. He braced his hands on the desk, eyes burning into hers.
"Because you're mine," he said. Not with arrogance this time, but with something desperate.
Her chest clenched. She wanted to scream that she wasn't, that she never would be. But the look in his eyes stopped her.
It wasn't just possession. It was fear.
Raw, bone-deep fear.
She sat slowly, her body trembling. He watched her like a man drowning, like her next word might be the rope that saved him.
But she couldn't give him what he wanted. Not yet.
The days that followed shifted something unspoken. Guards doubled around the penthouse. Her door was no longer left unlocked. And Damian—Damian became a storm contained in flesh.
He moved through rooms like a predator pacing a cage, phone pressed to his ear, words sharp in Italian, Russian, English. Names she didn't recognize. Threats, deals, warnings. The air crackled with impending violence.
One night, Elara found him in the study again, hunched over a map of the city, pins marking territories like scars across skin. His hair was mussed, his sleeves rolled, his tie discarded. A gun sat beside his hand as casually as a pen.
She lingered in the doorway.
"You don't sleep," she said softly.
His eyes flicked up. "Neither do you."
Her lips twitched. Fair.
She stepped inside. The papers scattered across his desk were covered in names, dates, coded numbers. "They're still coming for me, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"Then why not send me away?"
His gaze sharpened. "Where?"
She hesitated. "Anywhere. Somewhere they won't find me."
He leaned back, folding his arms. "You think they wouldn't? They'd tear the world apart to get to you. You are leverage, Elara. The only way to protect you is to keep you where only I can touch you."
Her throat tightened. "That's not protection. That's control."
His eyes burned. "It's both."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and dangerous.
Finally, he stood, moving around the desk. He stopped in front of her, too close, his presence suffocating.
"You hate me for this," he said quietly.
She swallowed. "Yes."
"But you're alive."
Her chest ached. The worst part was, she couldn't argue with him.
He lifted a hand, brushing a strand of hair from her face. This time, she didn't flinch.
"You can curse me all you want," he murmured, voice rough. "But I will never let them take you."
Her pulse thundered. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. Her body leaned in, betraying her again.
But he stepped back, jaw tightening, dragging the air out of the room.
"Go to bed," he said.
She turned away quickly, hiding the storm in her chest.
That night, lying in her too-soft bed, Elara stared at the ceiling.
Damian's words echoed in her head.
Because you're mine.
But the truth was harder, sharper, more terrifying.
It wasn't just that Damian claimed her.
It was that, little by little, she was starting to believe him.