The day after the raid dawned gray, heavy with the smell of smoke that clung to Damian's clothes even after he had showered.
Elara stood at the window of her room, arms folded tightly around herself, watching the estate wake. Men patrolled the grounds in pairs now, rifles slung across their shoulders. Extra trucks sat lined at the drive, their engines rumbling like beasts chained and waiting.
The war had reached their doorstep.
She pressed her forehead to the glass, heart pounding. No matter how many guards Damian stationed, no matter how high the walls, she couldn't shake the memory of cold metal against her temple, the weight of death in the air.
They could breach the house once. They could do it again.
And each time, she wondered how much of herself she lost.
Damian found her there hours later.
He didn't knock. He never knocked. He entered like the room belonged to him—as though she belonged to him—and leaned against the doorframe, dark eyes fixed on her.
"You've barely eaten."
Her shoulders stiffened. "I'm not hungry."
"You need strength."
"I need peace," she muttered.
He crossed the room, each step measured, until he stood so close she felt the heat of him against her back. His reflection appeared beside hers in the glass: tall, immovable, a man carved out of shadow.
"You'll never have peace while Petrov breathes," he said quietly.
Her chest tightened. "And you think killing him will change that?"
His gaze didn't waver. "I know it will."
She turned then, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "And what if it doesn't? What if there's always another Petrov waiting in the dark?"
For a heartbeat, something flickered in his expression—a shadow of doubt, quickly smothered. He reached up, brushed his knuckles against her jaw.
"Then I'll kill them too."
Her breath caught. It wasn't the words themselves, but the way he said them—like a vow, like a prayer. As though her survival had become his religion, and he the fanatic willing to burn the world for it.
It should have terrified her.
It did terrify her.
But part of her—a part she hated—felt safer in that madness than she had in years.
By afternoon, the estate felt restless. The men were edgy, whispering in corners, their laughter too loud, too forced. Marco brought reports in and out of the study, his face pale.
Elara lingered near the kitchen, pretending to fetch tea, her ears straining.
"…Petrov regrouping…"
"…a message coming…"
"…he won't let this stand…"
She carried the tray into the hallway, her hands trembling so badly that porcelain rattled. She told herself she didn't care. That Damian's war wasn't hers. That she was only a pawn.
But the lie sat heavy in her chest.
Because she knew the truth.
She wasn't a pawn. She was the board itself.
The message arrived that evening.
A black sedan pulled up to the gates. No men spilled out with guns, no skirmish. Just a single driver, silent, expressionless.
The guard accepted a plain envelope through the glass, his hands stiff with tension, before the car rolled away into the dusk.
By the time Damian opened it in the hall, everyone had gathered.
Inside was a single photograph.
Elara's breath stopped.
It was her.
Not here in Damian's house, not recent. But her, two years ago, walking down a crowded London street, unaware of the camera trained on her.
Another photo followed: her at a café with a friend, her hand lifted mid-laugh.
Another: her leaving work late, shoulders hunched under the evening rain.
The final one—her asleep in her old apartment, curtains drawn but not fully closed, the picture taken from across the street.
She felt the blood drain from her face. Her body went cold.
Someone had been watching her. Long before Damian. Long before any of this.
Petrov hadn't just found her now. He had always known.
Her hands shook as Damian's fingers crushed the photographs, veins bulging at his temples. His voice was deadly calm, but the air around him vibrated with fury.
"He's telling me he can touch what's mine whenever he pleases."
Elara's stomach twisted. She wanted to scream at him, to shake him, to say this wasn't about possession or territory. It was about her life.
But the words lodged in her throat, trapped by fear.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She paced her room, the images burned into her mind. Each photograph was a ghost of her past life, now tainted by Petrov's gaze. How long had she been oblivious? How many times had she walked under a predator's eye, blind to the danger circling her?
The thought made her skin crawl.
When the door opened, she didn't startle. She expected him.
Damian stepped inside, closing the door behind him with deliberate care.
"You should be resting."
"So should you."
He studied her, eyes dark, jaw tense. Then he moved closer, his hands sliding to her arms, steadying her trembling without asking permission.
"He won't touch you," he said, low and sure.
Her laugh broke, bitter. "He already has. Don't you see? He's been inside my life, inside my memories, without me ever knowing. He owns parts of me I can't take back."
His grip tightened. "Then I'll take them back for you."
"You can't." Her voice cracked. "You can't erase what he's already done."
His eyes searched hers, and for once, the mask slipped. She saw not just rage but something rawer: helplessness.
"I can make sure he doesn't do worse," he said, almost pleading.
She swallowed hard, tears stinging her eyes. "And at what cost, Damian? How many bodies until you feel I'm safe?"
"As many as it takes," he whispered.
Her heart fractured. The answer was the same every time. And yet the way he said it—desperate, haunted—made it sound less like a threat and more like a confession.
She should have pushed him away. Instead, she let him pull her into his arms, her cheek against his chest, her body shaking.
For the first time since the attack, she let herself break.
And for the first time, she felt him break too.
But outside, in the rain-soaked dark, a figure watched from the trees beyond the estate wall.
A cigarette flared, briefly illuminating a scarred face and cold eyes.
Petrov flicked the ash, a smile curling at his lips.
"Soon," he murmured.