The sun rose like an accusation.
Elara hadn't slept. She'd sat on the window ledge, knees to her chest, watching as the sky shifted from black to gray to the faintest pale pink. The city sprawled out below, deceptively calm, as though the night hadn't been painted in gunfire and blood.
Every time she blinked, she saw it again. Damian's shirt torn, crimson seeping through the fabric. The smell of smoke and metal clinging to him. The look in his eyes—vacant one moment, burning the next.
She pressed her forehead against the glass and breathed, slow, shallow, as if the world might collapse if she inhaled too deeply.
The war wasn't outside anymore. It was inside her bones.
A soft knock at the door made her flinch.
"Miss Donovan?"
Marco. His voice carried the gravelly weight of exhaustion.
"Yes?"
"The boss wants you downstairs."
Her stomach clenched. She almost said no. Almost told him she wasn't his messenger boy's puppet, that she wouldn't run to Damian's command like a caged pet. But the words stuck. Because she knew—refusal wasn't an option.
She smoothed her hair with shaky hands and forced her feet to move.
The study smelled of smoke and whiskey. Papers were spread across the desk in a precise chaos, maps dotted with red marks, photographs of men she didn't recognize, lines connecting names and faces like a spider's web.
Damian stood at the center of it, tie discarded, sleeves rolled, gun holstered at his hip. His arm was bandaged where she had wrapped it, the white already smudged faintly with red.
He didn't look at her when she entered. "Close the door."
She obeyed, her fingers trembling on the handle.
Finally, his gaze lifted. "Sit."
She sat, pulse hammering.
"Petrov's doubling his shipments," Damian said, voice clipped, businesslike. "He's moving faster, sloppier. That tells me he's scared. But it also means he's reckless, and reckless men are dangerous."
Elara's throat was dry. "So what do you do?"
"Cut off the head before the body rallies." He tapped the photograph pinned to the center of the map—Petrov, a thick-necked man with cold eyes. "You take out the man, the empire crumbles."
Her skin crawled. "So you'll kill him."
He didn't flinch. "Yes."
Her voice cracked. "And how many more men die before you get to him?"
His jaw flexed. "As many as it takes."
Her chest ached. "Do you even hear yourself? Do you know how terrifying that sounds?"
His eyes sharpened, cutting into her. "Do you think Petrov will spare you because you beg prettily? Do you think the world outside these walls cares about your morals?"
She swallowed hard. "I just know that every time you pull that trigger, I lose a piece of you. And I don't know how much of you will be left when it's over."
The words hit him harder than a bullet. For a heartbeat, his mask cracked. His hand trembled on the desk before he curled it into a fist.
"Elara," he said quietly, almost desperately, "don't look at me like I'm already gone."
Her breath caught. "Then stop becoming the kind of man I can't recognize."
Silence stretched, heavy, suffocating.
He turned away, bracing his hands on the desk, shoulders rigid. She could see the war in him—not against Petrov, but against himself.
Finally, he muttered, "I don't get to choose who I am anymore. The moment my father put a gun in my hand, that choice was gone. All that's left is survival."
Her voice was soft, breaking. "Then what am I here for? A reminder of what you've lost? Or just another pawn in your survival game?"
His head snapped up, eyes blazing. He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed her wrist, pulling her to her feet.
"You're not a pawn," he growled. His grip was iron, his face inches from hers. "You're the only thing keeping me from burning everything down."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "Then why does it feel like you're dragging me into the fire with you?"
His breath came rough, uneven. His hand loosened on her wrist, sliding down until his fingers brushed hers.
"Because I don't know how to let you go."
The words lodged in her chest like a blade.
She should have pulled away. She should have told him he was poison, that every moment near him corroded what little light she had left.
Instead, she stayed.
Her hand trembled in his, her throat tight. "Damian…"
The sound of his name on her lips broke him. His forehead pressed against hers, eyes closed, breath hot.
For one terrifying, fragile moment, he wasn't the devil she feared. He was just a man, bleeding, unraveling, begging for something he couldn't name.
"Elara," he whispered, raw. "You're the only thing I can't kill."
Her chest cracked open. A sob caught in her throat. She hated him. She needed him. She didn't know which truth would drown her first.
Marco's knock shattered the moment.
"Boss," his voice was strained, urgent. "We've got movement on the east side. Petrov's pushing in closer than we thought."
Damian pulled back, the mask slamming back into place. His hand dropped from hers.
"Get the men ready," he barked.
Marco's footsteps retreated.
Elara stood frozen, her skin still burning where he'd touched her, her heart splintering under the weight of everything unsaid.
He holstered his gun, grabbed his jacket. "Stay in this room. Don't move until I come back."
Her voice cracked. "And if you don't?"
He stopped in the doorway. His back stiffened.
"Then pray I do."
And then he was gone.
The house erupted again—men shouting, doors slamming, radios buzzing with static and clipped commands. Elara stood by the desk, staring at the map still littered with red marks.
Petrov's face stared back at her from the center, mocking, promising blood.
Her knees buckled. She sank into the chair, burying her face in her hands.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. But more than anything, she wanted to believe Damian wasn't already lost.
Because if he was, then so was she.
The hours dragged. Gunfire rattled faintly in the distance, carried on the night wind. Elara flinched with every echo.
She thought of her father, of the debts that had chained her to this life. She thought of freedom, a concept so faint now it felt like a dream she'd once had as a child.
And she thought of Damian, stepping into fire again and again, carrying pieces of her heart into the flames without asking.
By the time the door burst open, her eyes were raw from tears she hadn't realized she shed.
Damian stumbled in, bloodied again, but alive. Always alive.
She ran to him before her mind could stop her. Her hands pressed against his chest, his shoulder, as though confirming he was real.
He caught her wrists gently, his eyes softer than she'd ever seen.
"See?" he rasped. "I came back."
Her breath broke. She hated that she believed him.
She hated that it mattered more than anything else in the world.