The night smelled of gasoline.
Elara clutched the leather seat of the car as it rumbled down narrow streets toward the east side. Marco drove, his jaw set, eyes flicking constantly to the mirrors. Two SUVs followed close behind, engines low and hungry.
Damian sat beside her, silent. His suit jacket was gone, shirt sleeves rolled, the veins in his forearms stark beneath his skin. He'd said nothing since they left the penthouse—just issued a short order: You're coming with me tonight.
She hadn't argued.
Maybe she should have.
"Where are we going?" she asked finally, her voice breaking the quiet.
Damian's gaze didn't leave the window. "To remind Petrov that fire cuts both ways."
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to ask more, but the look on his face—the sharp, contained fury—told her to stay quiet.
The convoy slowed, engines purring as they slipped into an abandoned lot near the river. Men spilled out of the SUVs, masked, armed, moving like shadows.
Damian stepped out last. He didn't put on a mask. He didn't need one.
"Elara." His voice was low, commanding. "Stay in the car."
Her pulse jumped. "Why bring me if—"
"Because I want you to understand what it means to stand beside me." His eyes pinned hers, unflinching. "And because I don't trust anyone else to keep you safe."
The door shut behind him before she could answer.
Through the tinted glass, she watched.
They moved quickly, silently, surrounding a warehouse that sagged under rust and broken windows. The Bratva used it as a staging point—Elara remembered overhearing Marco mention it.
Two guards out front didn't stand a chance. Damian's men took them down in seconds, bodies crumpling to the concrete with muffled thuds.
Elara's breath caught. Her fingers dug into the leather.
Then Damian went inside.
Time stretched.
Every second he was gone felt like a blade pressed to her throat. The warehouse windows glowed faintly with movement, shadows crossing, flashes of gunfire lighting the glass. She heard the distant cracks—sharp, quick, merciless.
And then the smell of smoke.
Her chest heaved. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, torn between horror and something darker—an ache she didn't want to name.
Finally, the doors burst open. Damian emerged, his men flanking him, dragging two bodies behind them.
Not corpses. Prisoners.
They dumped the Bratva soldiers onto the cracked asphalt, bloodied and bound. Damian crouched in front of them, speaking low, too quiet for Elara to hear. One man spat in his face.
Damian smiled. Slow. Cold.
And then he broke him.
Not with a gun. Not with a blade. With his bare hands.
Elara slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, every muscle in her body trembling. She should have looked away. She should have closed her eyes.
But she couldn't.
Because it wasn't just violence. It was something primal, something that radiated off Damian in waves—the unshakable certainty that he was judge, jury, and executioner, and the world bent to his will.
The second prisoner screamed, begged, clawed at the ground. Damian didn't stop. He didn't falter. He delivered the message he'd promised: blood for blood.
When it was done, he stood, breathing hard, shirt clinging to him with sweat and stains. His men looked at him not with fear, but with devotion. Wolves to their alpha.
And then his gaze lifted. Found her through the car window.
Elara froze. Her body knew before her mind did—this was the moment. The moment she either recoiled from him forever or admitted the truth she'd been running from.
He opened the car door a minute later, sliding in beside her, the heat of him filling the space. His hands were still red.
Her voice shook. "You didn't have to—"
"Yes." His tone was iron. "I did."
She turned toward him, her pulse wild. "Damian… that wasn't justice. That was—"
"War." His eyes burned into hers. "And war doesn't care what you call it."
The car jolted forward as Marco pulled them away from the warehouse, tires crunching over broken glass. Silence pressed thick between them, Elara's heart hammering so hard she thought he might hear it.
And then, softly, almost broken: "Do you hate me now?"
The question shocked her. Not the words, but the way he asked them—quiet, stripped of armor, as if some small, buried part of him feared the answer.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Because the truth was terrifying.
She didn't hate him.
She wanted him.
Even after everything she'd seen. Especially after everything she'd seen.
Her silence said more than words ever could. Damian's jaw flexed, his gaze dropping to her mouth before flicking away.
Neither of them spoke the rest of the ride.
But the air between them was no longer empty.
It was full of teeth.