The storm hadn't let up.
For two days, rain lashed against the house, hammering at the roof like the sky itself wanted to drown them. Elara sat curled in an armchair near the fireplace, her knees hugged to her chest, staring at the flames.
She hadn't spoken much since Damian's raid. The images she hadn't even witnessed still haunted her—the crates of weapons carried in, the men limping through the door, the blood smeared across Damian's jaw as he declared victory.
It didn't feel like victory. It felt like reprieve.
And reprieve never lasted.
She sensed it before it happened.
That morning, she woke to silence that wasn't peaceful, but tight, expectant. The halls were hushed, men whispering instead of laughing. Radios crackled more than usual. Marco's face was carved with something darker than his normal stoicism.
Damian was gone most of the day, locked in the study with his captains, voices muffled and sharp behind the door. Elara lingered near the stairs, straining to catch fragments.
"…Petrov won't sit on this…"
"…he's moving too fast…"
"…she's the weakness—"
The last words chilled her, though she didn't know if they meant her specifically or someone else. Still, the weight of them pressed against her chest until she could barely breathe.
When the attack came, it wasn't grand or cinematic.
It was quiet. Efficient. Ruthless.
Elara was in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, when the back door shattered inward. Three men in black stormed through, guns raised, boots splashing mud across the tiles.
Her scream caught in her throat.
One of them seized her by the arm, yanking her so hard the mug shattered against the floor. Another pressed cold steel to her temple.
"Found her," one of them growled into a radio.
Her body went rigid with terror. She couldn't move, couldn't think. Her mind flashed images—Damian's face, the map with Petrov's photograph at the center, the endless lines of blood between them.
Now she understood. This wasn't about shipments or routes.
It was about her.
The house erupted.
Gunfire split the air, deafening in the close quarters. Shouts echoed through the hallways. Elara was dragged through the kitchen, her feet slipping on broken porcelain, her ears ringing.
Then Damian was there.
He appeared in the doorway like a shadow conjured by rage. His gun was already raised, his voice like a knife.
"Let her go."
The men stiffened, their grips tightening on Elara. The muzzle dug harder into her temple.
"Drop it, Varga," one of them barked. "Or she dies."
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Damian's eyes locked on hers across the chaos, burning, unblinking. His finger flexed on the trigger, but he didn't shoot.
"Last warning," the man snarled. "Put it down."
Damian's jaw clenched. Slowly—deliberately—he lowered the gun to the floor, his hands lifting in surrender.
Her chest squeezed so hard she thought her ribs might break. He never surrendered.
Which meant he was waiting.
The moment came in a blur.
One of the intruders shifted his weight just slightly, his eyes flicking toward the hall where footsteps thundered closer.
Damian moved like lightning.
He kicked the table over in a single motion, the crash deafening. His gun was back in his hand in an instant, firing two clean shots that dropped the men flanking her.
The third shoved Elara forward as a shield, his arm locked around her throat, dragging her backward.
Damian's eyes went wild. "Don't—"
The man snarled something in Russian and pressed the barrel harder against her temple. Her vision blurred with panic.
Then a crack split the air.
The man's body jerked. Blood sprayed across her shoulder. His grip loosened.
Elara stumbled free just as he collapsed behind her, a bullet through his skull.
She spun, gasping, and saw Marco in the doorway, rifle still raised, his expression grim.
Damian was at her side in seconds, his hands gripping her arms, his eyes raking over her as though searching for wounds.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was hoarse, urgent.
She shook her head, though her whole body trembled. "I—I don't think so."
His jaw tightened, fury radiating from him like heat. He turned to Marco. "Double the guards. Lock every door. I want the perimeter sealed tighter than a coffin lid."
Marco nodded and vanished, already barking orders.
Damian pulled Elara into his chest, his arms wrapping around her so tightly she could barely breathe. His voice shook against her hair.
"They won't touch you again. I swear it."
She clung to him, tears burning her eyes. "But they already did."
The truth hung heavy between them.
That night, the house was a fortress. Extra men patrolled the halls, their boots echoing on the marble. The air reeked of oil and gunpowder, the remnants of violence lingering like smoke.
Elara sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her hands. They were still trembling, hours later. She could still feel the ghost of the gun pressed against her skin, the rough grip on her arm.
The image of the man's death replayed in her mind—his eyes going blank, the blood spraying warm against her shoulder. She hadn't killed him, but the stain clung to her all the same.
The door opened quietly. Damian entered, his shirt changed but his face still shadowed. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the noise of his men.
For a moment, he just stood there, watching her.
Then he crossed the room, kneeling in front of her. His hands covered hers, steadying the tremors.
"I should've been faster," he murmured. "I should've stopped them before they got close."
Her throat ached. "You can't control everything."
His eyes lifted, raw, unguarded. "I have to. Because if I don't—" He broke off, his grip tightening. "If I don't, they'll take you from me."
Her breath caught. "Is that what this is about? Me? Or the war?"
His jaw flexed. "They're the same now."
Her chest constricted, torn between fury and something more dangerous. "You've made me part of this whether I wanted it or not."
His voice was low, rough. "I told you—you were mine the moment you walked into this house. I warned you there was no way out."
Tears welled in her eyes. "And if I don't want to belong to you?"
His hands cupped her face, his forehead pressing to hers. "Then hate me. Curse me. But stay alive. That's all I need."
Her heart cracked. She wanted to push him away, to scream at him for dragging her into his blood-soaked empire. But instead, she leaned into him, her tears soaking into his shoulder, because the truth was unbearable.
She needed him too.
Later, when the house had gone quiet again, Damian stood at the window, staring into the storm. Elara lay in bed, wide awake, watching his silhouette.
She knew then that this was only the beginning. Petrov wasn't finished. The attack wasn't just retaliation—it was a message.
And messages demanded replies.