The penthouse was too quiet.
Elara sat curled in the armchair by the fire, the orange glow brushing shadows across her face. She hadn't turned on the lights. She didn't want brightness. Not after today.
Her mind replayed the warehouse over and over. The screams. The blood. Damian's hand on her jaw, the rough heat of it burning long after he'd pulled away. She touched her skin absentmindedly, as if some part of him were still there.
She hated herself for missing it.
The elevator dinged. Heavy footsteps crossed the marble floor, measured and unhurried. She knew the cadence before she saw him.
Damian entered the room without speaking. His suit jacket was gone, his shirt sleeves rolled. Blood flecked his cuffs.
She stiffened. "Whose is it?"
He looked down at his hands as though noticing it for the first time. "Not mine."
Her stomach twisted. "That's supposed to comfort me?"
His gaze lifted to hers, sharp, unreadable. "It's supposed to remind you that I do what I have to do."
He moved to the sideboard, poured himself a drink, and swallowed it in one slow gulp. His shoulders stayed tight, the tension radiating off him like static.
For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire.
Finally, she whispered, "Do you ever… stop?"
He glanced at her over his glass. "Stop what?"
"Being this." Her voice cracked. "The gunshots, the orders, the control. Do you ever just… let go?"
His jaw ticked. He poured another drink. "No."
Her chest ached. "Not even when you're alone?"
He didn't answer right away. He set the glass down, walked toward her slowly, every step heavy with something she couldn't name.
When he stopped in front of her, she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. They were darker tonight, shadows pooling in the corners.
"I can't afford to let go," he said, voice low. "Because the moment I do, everything I've built collapses. And you—" His throat worked. "You don't survive."
Her breath caught.
"You think I don't want peace?" His words were harsh but threaded with something raw. "You think I don't wish, every damn night, that I could close my eyes without hearing screams? Without seeing the faces of men I've put in the ground?"
Her lips parted, stunned. She'd never heard him speak like this.
"But peace doesn't want men like me," he finished, softer now.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Elara rose from the chair, heart pounding. She was too close, too aware of the heat between them. But she couldn't stop herself.
"You don't have to carry it all alone," she whispered.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. His eyes locked onto hers, searching, hungry, almost desperate.
Then, slowly, his hand lifted again, cupping her cheek just as he had before. Only this time he didn't pull away. His thumb brushed over her skin, the calloused pad rough but careful.
Her body betrayed her, leaning into the touch.
"Don't say things you can't take back," he murmured.
Her breath trembled. "And what if I don't want to take them back?"
The air between them sparked, heavy and electric. He leaned closer, his breath brushing her lips, his eyes burning into hers.
For one dizzying moment, she thought he would finally close the distance.
But then he let out a sharp breath and tore his hand away, stepping back as though burned.
His voice was hoarse when he spoke. "Go to bed, Elara."
Her chest ached. "You keep pushing me away, but you're the one who keeps pulling me in."
Something flickered across his face—pain, anger, desire, all tangled together. But he didn't answer. He turned and left the room, his footsteps heavy, the sound of a man retreating from his own hunger.
Elara didn't sleep. She lay awake in the dark, heart racing, replaying every second of their almost-kiss, every word he hadn't said.
She hated him. She wanted him. She feared him.
And the most terrifying part was that she no longer knew which feeling was winning.
The next morning, the city woke restless. News of the fires near the river splashed across every channel, though no names were spoken, no blame laid.
Damian stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, his expression unreadable as he listened to Marco's report. Elara hovered near the kitchen, pretending to sip coffee she couldn't swallow, her eyes flicking to him over the rim of the cup.
His voice was low, clipped. "Double the guards. No one moves without my say. If Petrov wants war, he'll choke on it."
He hung up, exhaling slowly, and caught her watching him.
Their eyes locked. Neither looked away.
For a moment, the world outside disappeared—the city, the war, the blood. It was just him and her, two people caught in a storm they couldn't escape.
And Elara realized something dangerous.
She wasn't just surviving him anymore.
She was beginning to want him.