The night was heavy with rain.
It drummed against the windows, steady as a heartbeat, soaking the courtyard below where Damian's men were loading crates into black vans. The engines purred, headlights slicing through the mist. From her perch by the window, Elara watched the silent preparation unfold like a ritual. Weapons were checked, magazines clicked into place, radios crackled with curt voices.
And at the center of it all—Damian.
He moved through his men with cold efficiency, giving clipped orders, his presence anchoring the chaos. Even from a distance, she could see the weight in his posture, the shadows under his eyes. His shirt clung damply to his skin from the drizzle, but he didn't seem to notice.
He was preparing for war.
Elara pressed her hand to the glass, her chest tight. She hated that she was watching. Hated that a part of her wanted him to look up, to see her, to give her something—anything—that made her believe he hadn't drowned entirely in blood.
But he never looked.
The door creaked open behind her.
"Elara."
She turned. Marco stood there, water dripping from his jacket, his expression carved from stone. He carried a rifle slung over his shoulder, his other hand flexing restlessly.
"He wants you downstairs," Marco said.
Her stomach sank. "Why?"
"He didn't say. But don't keep him waiting."
She hesitated, her eyes darting back to the courtyard. Damian was now bent over the hood of a car, a map spread out, men crowding close.
"What if I don't want to be part of this?" she whispered, almost to herself.
Marco's gaze softened just slightly. "Want's got nothing to do with it."
The study smelled of leather and steel. A lamp cast sharp light over the desk, highlighting the gun laid across it. Damian was there, sleeves rolled, tie discarded, veins taut in his forearms as he adjusted the safety on the weapon.
He looked up when she entered. For a moment, the room felt smaller, the air tighter.
"Elara." His voice was low, deliberate. "Come here."
She froze in the doorway. "Why?"
His eyes narrowed. "Because I asked you to."
Something in his tone left no room for refusal. Slowly, she crossed the room.
He gestured to the chair opposite his. "Sit."
Her knees felt weak as she obeyed.
"Petrov thinks he can choke me out," Damian said, pacing behind the desk. "He's been buying loyalty with cash and fear, poisoning my routes, bribing the same men who used to bleed for me. But tonight—" He stopped, hands braced on the desk, his stare burning into her. "Tonight, we remind him why my name still makes men cross themselves."
Elara's throat tightened. "And how many people will have to die for that reminder?"
His jaw flexed. "As many as it takes."
She flinched. He caught it, his expression softening for just a breath.
"You think I enjoy this?" he asked, quieter. "You think I don't count every body, don't feel every drop of blood on my hands? But Petrov doesn't leave me a choice. If I don't take him down, he will bury us both."
Her voice cracked. "And where do I fit in this, Damian? Am I a hostage? A witness? Or just… collateral?"
He leaned across the desk, his face close, his words rough. "You're the reason I'm still fighting. Don't ever call yourself collateral again."
Her heart twisted painfully. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe there was a man left inside the monster. But belief was dangerous.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
His eyes searched hers, dark and desperate. "I want you to stay alive."
By the time midnight fell, the house was nearly empty. The men had rolled out in convoys, engines growling into the storm.
Damian was the last to leave. He adjusted the strap of his holster, grabbed his jacket, and paused in the doorway where Elara stood clutching the frame like it might hold her upright.
"Stay here," he said. "No matter what you hear, no matter how long I'm gone—stay."
Her breath hitched. "And if you don't come back?"
His gaze hardened. "Then pray you never meet the man who takes my place."
The door slammed behind him, leaving her alone in the echo.
The raid was swift, brutal, and merciless.
Later, Elara would hear pieces of it from Marco, hushed fragments spoken over the kitchen table with a glass of whiskey. How Damian had led his men into Petrov's warehouse under the cover of rain. How they'd torn through the guards like shadows, guns whispering death in the dark. How Damian himself had cornered one of Petrov's lieutenants, pressing a blade to the man's throat until he spilled every route, every shipment, every plan.
But in the moment, Elara only knew the waiting.
She paced the empty halls, the silence suffocating, broken only by the faint patter of rain. She pressed her ear to the radio Marco had left behind, catching static, then fragments of sharp commands. Her imagination filled the gaps—gunfire, blood, Damian's face carved in fury.
Every second stretched like wire pulled too tight.
And then—distant explosions. The ground seemed to shiver beneath her feet.
She sank to the floor, her hands over her ears, whispering prayers she wasn't sure anyone would hear.
Hours later, the door burst open.
Damian stumbled inside, soaked, streaked with blood—some his, most not. His men followed, battered but alive, dragging crates and weapons behind them. The house filled again with noise, boots thudding, voices raised in sharp victory.
But all Elara saw was him.
She rushed forward before she could stop herself. "Damian—"
He caught her by the shoulders, steadying her even as his own knees threatened to give. His eyes locked onto hers, wild but alive.
"It's done," he rasped. "Petrov won't recover from this."
Her hands trembled against his chest. She could smell the iron tang of blood, the smoke clinging to him.
"At what cost?" she whispered.
His expression faltered. For the first time, she saw the cracks—the exhaustion, the weight of every life taken.
But then his hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, pulling her closer. His forehead pressed to hers, his voice raw.
"At the cost of keeping you safe."
Her chest broke open. She wanted to shove him away, to scream that safety built on corpses wasn't safety at all. But instead, she stayed pressed against him, her tears soaking into his shirt, because the truth was terrifying—she needed him alive as much as he needed her to believe in him.
Later, when the house quieted and the men drifted off to lick their wounds, Damian sat alone in the study. The map was still on the desk, now stained with rain and blood.
Elara lingered in the doorway, watching him. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand, his other hand trembling against the armrest. His eyes were distant, haunted.
She stepped inside, her voice soft. "How many?"
His jaw clenched. "Enough."
Her throat ached. "And will it ever be enough?"
He looked at her then, his stare sharp and broken all at once.
"No," he admitted. "But it's all I know how to do."
She crossed the room, her hand brushing his. For once, he didn't pull away.
The silence between them was heavier than words.
That night, Elara dreamed of fire. Of Damian standing in the flames, reaching for her with bloodied hands. She reached back, knowing the fire would consume her too.
And when she woke, trembling, he was beside her in the dark. His arm draped over her waist, his breath steady against her hair.
She lay there, wide awake, her heart torn.
Because she finally understood—she wasn't trapped by chains anymore.
She was trapped by him.