The next morning, the penthouse was thick with smoke and tension.
Elara woke not to silence but to the low murmur of men's voices seeping through the walls, the shuffle of boots, the metallic click of weapons being loaded. She rolled from the bed, heart already thudding. The city beyond the windows glowed gray in the dawn, heavy with storm clouds, as if the sky itself knew something violent was about to break.
Her door opened before she could even reach it. Marco stood there, dark circles under his eyes.
"Get dressed," he said curtly.
Her pulse spiked. "Why?"
"Because you're coming with us."
She froze. "With you? Where?"
Marco's jaw tightened. "Damian's orders."
Before she could argue, Damian appeared behind him, a dark force in a black suit, his expression carved from stone. He carried no weapon she could see, but his entire presence radiated danger.
"Ten minutes," he told her. His eyes flicked over her thin nightshirt, then away, hard. "Wear something you can move in."
And then he was gone.
Elara stood in the doorway, stunned. "Move in?" she whispered, but Marco was already striding after his boss.
She dressed quickly, pulling on black jeans and a dark sweater. Her hands shook as she tied her boots. The idea of leaving the relative safety of the penthouse chilled her, but there was a flicker of something else, too—an electric crackle of anticipation.
For weeks, she'd been caged. Now he was taking her with him.
Why?
When she emerged, Damian was waiting by the elevator, flanked by guards in black. The air smelled faintly of gun oil.
Her voice wavered as she asked, "Where are we going?"
His eyes cut to her, cold and unyielding. "To remind my enemies why they should fear me."
Her stomach knotted.
The convoy swept through the city in sleek black cars, windows tinted so dark the world outside looked like shadows sliding past. Elara sat in the backseat beside Damian, the tension between them almost unbearable.
He hadn't spoken since they left. His jaw was locked, eyes fixed on the skyline. The city was his battlefield, she realized. Every street a chessboard. Every building a potential sniper's nest.
Finally, she couldn't take the silence. "Why am I here?"
His gaze turned to her slowly, heavy as a hand on her throat. "Because they need to see you."
Her breath caught. "See me?"
He leaned in slightly, his voice a low growl. "They need to understand what happens when someone touches what's mine."
Her stomach twisted at the word. "I'm not—"
"Yes," he cut in, sharp as a blade. "You are. And that's the only thing keeping you alive."
Her chest ached. She wanted to argue, to scream, but something in his tone told her this wasn't the moment.
The car slowed, then stopped. Guards moved first, scanning the street, before opening Damian's door. He stepped out, commanding the world without a word. She followed reluctantly, the city air biting cold against her skin.
They entered a warehouse, dim and cavernous, the kind of place that smelled of rust, gasoline, and secrets. Men waited inside, lined like soldiers, their eyes darting to her the moment she appeared.
Elara stiffened under their gaze.
Damian placed a hand at the small of her back—light, but firm enough to anchor her. It wasn't tenderness. It was possession, a silent command: Stand tall. Don't flinch.
At the center of the warehouse, two men knelt, hands bound behind them, faces swollen with bruises. Their captors shoved them forward until they landed hard on the concrete.
Bratva, she realized.
Damian stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space. "You thought betrayal was free," he said, his voice carrying across the room, smooth and deadly. "It is not."
One of the men spat blood, muttering something in Russian.
Damian didn't need a translation. He raised his gun and fired once, clean through the man's skull.
Elara flinched violently, her hands flying to her mouth as the body collapsed.
Her heart hammered. The crack of the shot still echoed through her bones.
Damian turned to the second man, who trembled violently, eyes wide with terror. "You live," he said coldly. "So you can carry my message back. Touch her, and I burn your world to ash."
The man nodded frantically, words spilling in Russian. He was dragged away, shaking so hard he could barely walk.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Damian holstered his gun, turning back to his men. "This war ends on my terms."
A murmur of assent swept through the room.
But Elara couldn't look away from the blood spreading across the concrete, seeping into cracks like poison.
Her stomach churned. She turned abruptly, stumbling toward the exit, desperate for air.
She leaned against the outside wall, gulping in the cold. Her hands shook uncontrollably. She wasn't built for this world—blood, executions, the casual ease with which Damian ended lives.
But when the door creaked open, when Damian stepped out, she found herself unable to move.
He stood beside her silently, lighting another cigarette. The smoke curled into the morning air.
"You brought me here to watch you kill a man," she whispered, her voice breaking.
He exhaled slowly. "I brought you here to understand."
"Understand what? That you're a monster?"
His head turned, his eyes burning through her. "That monsters are the only thing keeping you alive."
Her throat tightened. "You want me to thank you for this?"
"No." His jaw clenched. "I want you to see me. All of me. And still stay."
Her breath caught, tears stinging her eyes. "You don't make it easy."
A flicker of something passed over his face—pain, fleeting and raw—before it vanished behind the steel mask.
"Nothing about this is easy," he said.
For a long moment, they stood in silence, the city buzzing faintly in the distance.
Elara hated herself for it, but she felt safer here, with his shadow pressing against hers, than she had in weeks. Safer in the arms of a monster than alone in the world outside.
And that terrified her more than the gunshot still echoing in her ears.
Back in the car, neither spoke. The distance between them was thick, pulsing with things unsaid.
But when the convoy turned toward the penthouse, Damian's hand brushed hers—brief, accidental, maybe deliberate.
Her fingers trembled, but she didn't pull away.
Not this time.