The penthouse was suffocating.
Elara lay awake long after dawn had painted the sky in bruised pinks and grays, staring at the ceiling. Sleep hadn't come—not after what she'd seen last night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Damian's hands slick with blood, his eyes sharp as a blade, the sound of bones breaking under his grip.
She should have recoiled. She should have run. But instead, her body remembered the heat of him when he slid into the car, the way his voice had fractured—Do you hate me now?
She didn't hate him. And that terrified her more than the blood.
A knock rattled her door.
"Elara," Marco's voice came, muffled.
She sat up, heart skipping. "Yes?"
"Boss wants you in the study. Now."
Her chest tightened. She tugged on a sweater over her nightshirt, shoved her feet into slippers, and followed the hall toward the one room Damian kept locked whenever he wasn't inside.
The door was open now.
He sat behind the desk, shirt fresh, hair damp from a shower, the sharp scent of cologne cutting through the stale air. But the exhaustion in his eyes betrayed him. He'd slept less than she had, if at all.
Marco stood near the wall, arms folded, face grim. A third man she didn't recognize slouched in a chair opposite the desk, wrists bound, lip split and swollen.
Elara froze in the doorway.
Damian's gaze lifted, finding her instantly. "Come in."
She hesitated. "What's—"
"Inside." His tone brooked no argument.
Her feet carried her forward before her brain caught up. She perched on the edge of a leather chair, pulse hammering.
The bound man spat blood onto the floor. "You think you can scare me, Moretti?" His accent was thick Russian, his glare hateful.
Damian's fingers drummed once against the desk before stilling. "Petrov knew the dock schedules. He knew when and where to hit. That doesn't happen without someone feeding him." His eyes narrowed. "And I don't tolerate traitors."
The man smirked, blood-stained teeth flashing. "Maybe you should ask the woman you keep in your bed if she whispers in the dark."
Elara's breath caught, shame and fury colliding hot in her chest.
Damian didn't flinch. He rose, walked around the desk, and crouched before the prisoner, voice dropping to a near whisper. "You just signed your death sentence."
The man spat again, this time near Damian's shoe.
Before Elara could process, Damian's fist snapped forward, a crack echoing through the study as the man's head jerked back, blood spraying.
Her stomach lurched. Not from the violence—she was getting dangerously used to that—but from the cold precision in Damian's face.
He stood, wiped his hand with a cloth Marco handed him, and spoke without looking back. "Take him downstairs. Get the truth out of him. Then end it."
Marco nodded. Two guards appeared to drag the man away, his curses fading down the hall.
The door clicked shut. Silence.
Elara's pulse thundered. She wanted to demand answers, to scream that this wasn't justice, it was butchery—but the words lodged in her throat when Damian finally turned to her.
"Do you believe him?" His voice was low, dangerous.
Her brows furrowed. "What?"
"The accusation. Do you believe it?"
Her breath hitched. "No!" Too fast, too desperate. She shook her head, forcing calm into her voice. "I may not trust everything about you, Damian, but I'm not your enemy."
He studied her like he could peel back her skin and see the truth beneath.
"I don't doubt you," he said finally. His voice softened, though only slightly. "But I needed you to hear it. To understand what it means, the second doubt is planted."
Her throat tightened. "You brought me in here just to… test me?"
His gaze didn't waver. "To remind you that this world doesn't forgive weakness. Not in me. Not in you."
Elara rose from her chair, anger trembling through her. "I'm not weak."
His lips twitched in something close to a smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "No. You're not."
The tension stretched, heavy and sharp. She wanted to move toward him, to push against the wall between them, but she stayed rooted to the spot.
Hours later, she found herself in the kitchen, hands trembling as she tried to make tea. The simple act felt foreign, her fingers clumsy against the porcelain cups.
Damian entered quietly. No footsteps, no warning, just his presence filling the space until her chest tightened.
"You haven't eaten," he said.
She startled, nearly dropping the kettle. "I'm not hungry."
"That's not an answer."
She turned, snapping before she could stop herself. "Why do you care? You've got men bleeding in the streets, traitors in your circle, Russians burning your docks—why do you care if I eat breakfast?"
Silence.
Then, quietly, "Because I do."
Her breath stilled. She searched his face, looking for the trap, the manipulation. But all she saw was exhaustion, shadows under his eyes, something fragile he refused to name.
She looked away first. "You scare me, Damian."
His jaw flexed. "Good."
Her eyes snapped back. "That's what you want?"
"No." His voice dropped, raw. "But it's what keeps you alive."
Her throat ached. She wanted to scream at him, to claw at the walls he'd built, to make him admit what simmered between them. But the words tangled.
Instead, she whispered, "What if I don't want to be scared of you anymore?"
For a long moment, he said nothing. His hand lifted slightly, as if he might reach for her, but he stopped himself. His restraint was its own violence.
Finally, he turned and left without another word, leaving her alone with the sound of the kettle shrieking.
That night, Damian stood on the balcony, city lights glittering like broken glass beneath him. A glass of scotch dangled from his fingers, untouched.
Elara joined him, though her body screamed at her not to.
"Marco found something," Damian said without turning. His voice was low, dangerous. "One of my men has been meeting with Petrov's lieutenants. Quiet meetings. Cash exchanged."
Her chest tightened. "Who?"
His jaw clenched. "Someone who's been with me for years. Someone I trusted." He downed the scotch in one gulp, the glass clinking hard against the railing. "Loyalty is the only currency in my world, Elara. And it's running out."
She moved closer, though her pulse raced. "What are you going to do?"
He finally looked at her. His eyes burned, the fire inside him barely contained. "What I always do."
Her heart hammered. She wanted to beg him not to. To ask him to spare at least one life, to draw one line in the sand and refuse to cross it. But she knew better.
Instead, she whispered, "And what if that's the thing that destroys you?"
For the first time all night, his face shifted—something flickered there, raw and fleeting.
"Elara," he said softly, like it was the only word that mattered.
And in the silence that followed, she realized they were both teetering on the edge of something neither of them could stop.