The city slept, but Damian didn't.
Elara could hear him pacing long before dawn, his footsteps heavy against the marble floors outside her room. She lay awake in the half-dark, staring at the ceiling, the echo of the gunshot from the warehouse still sharp in her skull.
Sleep hadn't come. Not after watching a man's life snuffed out like a match. Not after seeing Damian Moretti stand in the center of a blood-soaked floor and declare war with nothing but his voice.
Her chest still ached with the memory of his hand brushing hers in the car. Such a small touch. Too small for the hurricane it had stirred inside her.
She told herself she should hate him. And she did. But hate was no longer clean. It was tangled up with something hotter, something that scared her more than his gun ever could.
A knock rattled her door. Before she could answer, Damian stepped in.
His tie was loose, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. His eyes were rimmed red, exhaustion carved deep into his face. Yet he still looked untouchable, a man carved from steel.
"We're moving again," he said flatly.
Her stomach dipped. "Moving? Why?"
"They hit one of my safe houses last night." His jaw tightened. "Four men dead."
Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God…"
"They're escalating." His gaze cut into her. "Which means so do I."
The way he said it left no room for doubt. It wasn't an if. It was already decided.
The penthouse was chaos. Guards barked into radios. Weapons were checked, bags packed. Elara stood near the doorway, small in the storm of it, watching as Damian directed everything with sharp, clipped orders.
No hesitation. No cracks.
But when his eyes flicked to her, even for an instant, she felt the weight of his choices pressing against her chest.
"Stay with Marco," he told her as they moved toward the elevator.
"I'm not a child," she snapped before she could stop herself.
His eyes narrowed. "You think this is a game?"
"I think," she said, voice shaking but steady, "that keeping me in the dark won't save me."
The elevator doors slid open. For a moment, he just stared at her, his jaw tight. Then, to her surprise, he nodded once.
"Then don't look away."
The convoy moved fast, carving through the streets like a knife.
They weren't headed to another warehouse this time. They stopped at a club in the meatpacking district, its neon sign flickering faintly in the morning gray. It was closed, shutters drawn, but Elara could hear the bass of music bleeding faintly from inside.
Guards pushed the doors open. The smell hit her first—blood, sweat, smoke.
Inside, the floor was chaos. Tables overturned. Bottles shattered. And bodies—Bratva soldiers bound to chairs, beaten but breathing.
Elara froze at the threshold, bile rising in her throat.
Damian walked in like a king entering his throne room, his men parting around him. He didn't look at her. Didn't flinch at the mess.
One of the captives lifted his head, spitting blood onto the floor. He muttered something in Russian, his teeth red.
Damian crouched in front of him, his voice calm, almost conversational. "Where is Petrov hiding?"
The man laughed, a broken, ugly sound.
Damian straightened. Without hesitation, he drew his gun and fired into the man's knee.
The scream was raw, animal. Elara staggered back, her body shaking.
Damian didn't even blink. He turned to the second man, eyes sharp. "You can answer me. Or you can join him."
The second man broke almost instantly, words spilling in rapid Russian. Marco translated in clipped tones: a warehouse near the river, heavily guarded.
Damian nodded once. Then, without ceremony, he raised the gun again—
"Stop!" The word tore from Elara before she could think.
The room stilled.
All eyes turned to her.
Her chest heaved. "He told you what you wanted. You don't have to kill him."
Damian's gaze burned into her. The silence stretched, taut as wire.
Finally, he lowered the gun.
"Get them out of my sight," he ordered his men.
The captives were dragged away, sobbing, blood streaking across the floor.
Damian turned to her, his expression unreadable. "Don't ever undermine me in front of them again."
Her knees wobbled, but she held his gaze. "Then don't make me watch you become something worse than them."
For a long moment, he just stared at her, his eyes like storm clouds. Then, to her shock, he stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
"Do you think I like this?" His words were low, fierce. "Do you think I wanted you to see it?"
"Then why?" Her voice cracked.
His hand lifted, hovering near her cheek, trembling with restraint. "Because if you're mine, you need to know exactly what being mine means."
Her breath caught.
That word again. Mine.
Her body leaned into the space between them before her mind could catch up. His hand finally touched her, cupping her jaw, thumb brushing her skin.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. It was possession, raw and unyielding.
But it was also something else—something desperate, as if he was afraid that if he didn't hold her, she'd vanish.
Her heart thundered. For one terrifying moment, she thought he might kiss her. And worse—she thought she'd let him.
Then he dropped his hand, turning away sharply.
"Take her back," he ordered Marco. "Now."
The ride to the penthouse was silent. Elara sat rigid, her skin still burning where his hand had been.
When she finally reached her room, she collapsed onto the bed, shaking.
She should hate him. She should be plotting her escape. But all she could think about was the look in his eyes when he touched her—not just hunger, not just control, but something closer to fear.
Damian Moretti wasn't afraid of anyone.
Except, maybe, of losing her.
That night, the city burned in the distance. News stations reported explosions near the river, anonymous fires that lit the skyline red.
Elara watched from her window, the reflection of the flames dancing in her eyes.
She didn't know if Damian was out there starting the fires, or putting them out.
All she knew was that the more she saw of his world, the more she understood this truth:
If she stayed, he would destroy her.
If she left, the world outside would destroy her faster.
And so, caught between two monsters, she stood frozen in the middle, burning alive.