The mansion emptied like veins drained of blood.
Engines thundered down the drive, headlights slashing through the darkness as one black car after another peeled away into the night. Guards hustled with weapons slung across their shoulders, radios squawking, boots pounding on stone. The whole house seemed to pulse with urgency, as though it too had been thrown into the war Damian had declared.
Elara stood in the shadow of the front door, arms wrapped tight around herself. She hadn't asked if she could come. She hadn't begged to follow. She'd seen his face—stone, sharp, unreadable—as he climbed into the lead car. He hadn't told her to stay. He hadn't told her anything at all.
The last flash of his eyes lingered like smoke in her chest.
And then he was gone.
The silence left in the convoy's wake was deafening.
She wandered back into the house, barefoot, each step echoing too loudly. Without the men, the mansion was an empty shell, stripped of its menace, stripped of its false safety.
She passed the study. The desk was still littered with folders and photographs, whiskey glass abandoned with a smear of amber left clinging to the side.
She touched the rim. It was still warm.
Elara pulled back her hand as though burned.
She went upstairs, pacing the bedroom like a caged animal. Minutes stretched, then hours, the clock ticking too slowly. Every time a car horn blared in the distance, every time the wind shifted against the window, her stomach lurched.
What if he didn't come back?
What if the next knock on her door was Marco, telling her Damian Moretti had bled out on concrete?
Her heart clenched so hard it hurt. She hated him. She feared him. But the thought of him gone twisted her insides until she could barely breathe.
She curled onto the bed, nails digging into her palms.
God, what had he done to her?
The phone rang just after two a.m.
She shot upright, lungs collapsing. Marco's voice came through, clipped and strained.
"He's alive. Stay awake. We'll be back soon."
Then the line went dead.
Alive. That was all he'd given her.
Her body sagged with relief and fresh terror.
She didn't sit. She couldn't. She paced the room until headlights finally swept across the window, washing the floor in pale light.
The convoy had returned.
By the time she reached the hall, the front door had swung open. Damian entered first. His suit jacket was gone, shirt stained dark across the shoulder, collar open, hair damp with sweat. His knuckles were raw, skin split and crusted with blood that wasn't all his.
The guards flanked him, some limping, some bleeding, one carried between two others. The stench of gunpowder and gasoline clung to them like another layer of clothing.
Elara froze on the stairs, staring.
Damian's eyes lifted and caught hers. For one terrifying heartbeat, she saw nothing human there. Just fire. Just blood.
Then, slowly, the blaze dimmed.
"Elara." His voice was rough, scraped raw.
She came down the stairs without realizing her legs had moved. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
But it wasn't nothing. His shirt was torn, crimson spreading across the white cotton, dripping sluggishly from his arm.
She reached him. Her fingers brushed his sleeve, sticky with blood. "This isn't nothing."
His hand shot up, gripping her wrist. His skin was hot, trembling. His eyes searched her face, desperate, like he was anchoring himself to the only thing left standing.
"I told you to trust me," he rasped.
She swallowed hard. "And I did."
The words broke something in him. His grip loosened, his shoulders sagged. He let her guide him through the chaos, past the wounded men, into the quiet of the study.
She made him sit. He didn't argue, which scared her more than if he had.
Her hands shook as she grabbed the first-aid kit from the cabinet. "Take off the shirt."
He smirked faintly, weakly, but obeyed. The fabric peeled away, sticky with blood, revealing muscle marred with bruises, cuts, a long gash across his arm.
Elara pressed a cloth to it. He hissed.
"Hold still," she snapped, sharper than she meant to.
His lips twitched, almost a smile. "There's the fire."
Her throat tightened. She pressed harder than necessary, just to shut him up.
Minutes stretched as she cleaned and wrapped the wound. Silence hung heavy, broken only by his shallow breaths and the rustle of gauze.
Finally, she couldn't hold it in anymore. "What happened?"
His jaw tightened. "We burned their shipment. They won't recover from that loss easily."
"That's not what I meant." Her voice cracked. "I meant—how many?"
He didn't answer.
Her hands stilled. "Damian."
His eyes lifted, dark and endless. "Enough to make Petrov bleed."
Her stomach twisted. She wanted to scream, to shake him, to demand why he was dragging her down into this abyss. Instead, she kept wrapping his arm, each layer of gauze a chain binding her tighter to him.
When it was done, she sat back, exhausted.
He watched her in silence.
Then, quietly, "You shouldn't look at me like that."
She blinked. "Like what?"
"Like you're afraid. Like you're already mourning me."
Her voice broke. "Then stop giving me reasons to."
The air between them was thick, electric, dangerous.
His hand lifted, hesitated, then cupped her cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen.
"Elara," he whispered, voice breaking for the first time.
She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch despite every part of her screaming not to.
For a heartbeat, the world outside ceased to exist.
Then Marco's voice shattered it from the hall.
"Boss—we've got another problem. Petrov's not backing down. He's doubling his men."
Damian's hand dropped. His face hardened, the softness gone.
He stood, bloodied shirt hanging loose, and reached for his gun.
Elara grabbed his wrist. "Stop. Just for tonight. Please."
He looked at her, conflict raging in his eyes. For once, he didn't answer immediately.
Finally, with a sharp exhale, he set the gun back on the desk.
"Just for tonight," he said.
And though she knew the war was far from over, Elara allowed herself to believe it. Just for tonight.
The house eventually quieted, wounded men tended to, weapons cleaned, the war pushed temporarily into the dark where it belonged.
Elara sat by the window long after Damian disappeared into his room, watching the night bleed slowly into dawn.
Her chest ached, her hands still smelled of blood, and her soul was tethered to a man who had just dragged her deeper into hell.
But when she closed her eyes, she saw his face—not the monster who pulled the trigger, not the boss who spilled blood at the docks, but the man who had whispered her name like it meant something.