The morning after the attack, the house felt different.
Not quieter, not calmer. But taut. Like a wire stretched so tight that the smallest touch would snap it.
Elara sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cup she hadn't touched. The tea had gone cold, but she couldn't bring herself to drink it. Her reflection wavered on the dark surface—hollow eyes, pale skin, lips pressed thin.
She hadn't slept. Every time her eyes closed, she felt the press of the gun against her temple, heard the man's guttural voice in her ear. And worse, she saw his body hit the floor. Saw the blood spread in a widening pool, warm on her skin.
She hadn't pulled the trigger. But she felt complicit all the same.
Damian entered without warning, his presence filling the room like a storm front. He wore black, sharp and deliberate, his holster strapped tight, his expression carved from stone.
She didn't look at him. She couldn't.
"Elara," he said.
Her fingers tightened around the cup. "Don't."
He stopped, his jaw tightening. "Don't what?"
Her throat burned. "Don't act like this is normal. Like last night was just another inconvenience. Three men stormed into this house. They put a gun to my head. If Marco hadn't—" Her voice cracked. She forced the words out. "I would be dead."
He crossed the room in two strides, bracing his hands on the table, leaning close. "And you're not. Because I was there."
Her head snapped up, fury flashing through her fear. "You weren't fast enough. You promised me I was safe here. Do you have any idea what it felt like? To know that the only reason I'm alive is because someone else died first?"
His eyes burned, not with anger but something darker. Guilt.
"I know exactly what it felt like," he said quietly.
The words silenced her.
He straightened, raking a hand through his hair, the tension in him sharp enough to cut. "Do you think I don't see their faces? Every man I kill, every body that falls—it doesn't vanish when the gunfire stops. They follow me. They whisper when I close my eyes."
Her chest tightened. For a fleeting second, she saw it—the cracks under his armor, the weight he carried alone.
But the anger surged back. "Then why keep adding to the pile? Why drag me into it? If you know how it feels, why would you let me—"
"Because you're mine," he snapped. The words cut like a whip. "And I don't let what's mine be taken."
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating.
Her heart hammered. She hated the way her body responded—the shiver down her spine, the heat curling low in her stomach. Hated that his possessiveness both repulsed and anchored her.
She forced her voice steady. "You don't own me."
His eyes locked on hers, cold and unflinching. "The moment you stepped into this house, you stopped belonging to yourself."
Her breath caught. "That's not love. That's a prison."
His expression softened just slightly, pain flickering through the steel. "I never said it was love."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the rain hammering against the windows, relentless.
Finally, Damian stepped back, his tone shifting—harder, colder. The man who commanded armies instead of whispered confessions.
"Petrov crossed a line last night," he said. "He came into my home. He put his hands on you. That doesn't go unanswered."
Elara's stomach turned. "So what happens now? More blood?"
His jaw flexed. "Yes."
She shoved the cold cup away, her voice shaking. "And then what? You kill Petrov, someone else takes his place. You burn his empire, another rises from the ashes. How many more wars before you're buried under them?"
He didn't answer immediately. He turned toward the window, staring into the storm as though it held answers. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost resigned.
"As many as it takes to keep you breathing."
Her throat ached. "And if I don't want to live like this?"
His gaze swung back to her, sharp as a blade. "Then that's not your choice anymore."
The finality in his tone broke something inside her. She wanted to scream, to throw the cup, to claw her way out of the house until the rain washed her clean.
But her body betrayed her. She stayed rooted to the chair, her chest heaving, her eyes locked on him as though he were the only anchor in a world gone mad.
That night, the house buzzed with preparation. Men moved through the halls with urgency, carrying weapons, checking vehicles, whispering plans. The air smelled of gun oil and adrenaline.
Elara wandered like a ghost, her presence ignored, her ears catching fragments.
"…warehouse on the docks…"
"…Petrov's lieutenant won't see it coming…"
"…burn it all down…"
She knew what it meant: retaliation. Damian wouldn't rest until Petrov's men paid.
She found him in the study again, bent over the map. His tie was gone, his shirt sleeves rolled, veins tense in his arms.
"Where are you going?" she asked softly.
He didn't look up. "Somewhere Petrov will feel it."
Her chest squeezed. "And if you don't come back?"
He finally raised his eyes, pinning her in place. "Then you'll know I died making sure he didn't touch you again."
Her hands trembled. "Don't do this for me."
His expression twisted, raw. "It's already too late."
Hours later, the convoys rolled out, engines growling into the night. Elara stood at the window, watching the taillights disappear into the storm.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to banish the chill. But no matter how tightly she held on, the truth burned through her.
Damian wasn't just fighting for territory. He wasn't even just fighting Petrov.
He was fighting for her.
And the weight of that devotion—violent, twisted, unyielding—terrified her more than any gun ever could.
The waiting was worse this time.
Every tick of the clock echoed in her skull. Every shadow in the hall made her flinch. The storm outside rattled the windows, lightning casting jagged light across the walls.
She dozed fitfully, curled on the couch in the study, until the sound of engines jolted her awake.
The men returned battered, bloodied, but victorious. Voices rose in triumphant shouts.
Then Damian entered.
He was soaked, streaked with blood, his shirt torn, his hands shaking. But his eyes—his eyes burned with something feral.
"It's done," he rasped.
Her breath caught. "Petrov?"
"Not yet." His smile was sharp, cold. "But his house is ash. His men are scattered. He'll feel this for weeks."
She wanted to scream. Wanted to demand if the cost was worth it. But when she stepped forward, her hands trembled, and instead of words, what left her mouth was a whisper.
"Are you hurt?"
His gaze softened, just for her. "Not enough to matter."
Then his hands were on her, pulling her close, his forehead pressing to hers. His breath was ragged, his body trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion.
"I told you," he murmured. "No one touches you and lives."
Her heart cracked wide open. She hated him. She needed him. And for the first time, she feared she was no longer capable of telling the difference.