The storm refused to let go of the sky. By evening, the estate had become a fortress carved in shadow and rain. The stone walls glistened with rivulets of water, and the windows were smeared with streaks of gray. Inside, the air was heavy—wood smoke from the chapel's hearth mixed with dampness and something more oppressive, a tension that clung to the walls and pressed into every breath.
Elara sat at the edge of her bed, staring at the half-packed bag Damian had demanded she prepare. She had folded three dresses into it, then stopped, her hands gone slack in her lap. The leather case gaped open like a wound. She couldn't bring herself to fill it, because packing meant admitting she could leave, that there was somewhere to run. But Petrov's photographs still haunted her—the childhood snapshots, the stolen glances—and she knew no corner of the earth was safe.
The knock at her door came sharp, urgent.
"Elara." Marco's voice, strained, almost brittle. "You need to come downstairs."
Her chest tightened. She rose, her palms damp, and opened the door. Marco stood rigid, his eyes avoiding hers, his jaw clenched. He didn't explain. He just gestured down the hallway, and when she hesitated, he placed a hand gently at her back and guided her forward.
The great hall was thick with silence when they entered. Damian's men filled the space, their bodies tense, their expressions carved in stone. No one spoke. No one even shifted.
At the center of the table sat a box.
Small. Wooden. Stained in patches darker than rainwater.
Damian stood over it, his hands resting on the table's edge. His shoulders looked broader than usual, drawn tight as though barely containing the violence beneath his skin.
Elara froze on the threshold, every nerve screaming at her to turn back.
"Damian?" she whispered.
He didn't look at her. "Stay there."
But she couldn't. Her feet moved of their own will, carrying her forward in slow, halting steps. The men parted silently as she passed, their eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
When she reached the table, her stomach dropped.
The box was open.
Inside, on a folded scrap of cloth, lay a severed finger.
The flesh was pale, tinged blue, the joint ragged where it had been hacked off. A gold ring clung to it still, smeared with dried blood.
Elara staggered, her breath catching in her throat. The hall tilted around her, her vision swimming. She gripped the back of a chair, bile rising fast.
"Oh my God," she gasped, her voice cracking.
Damian unfolded the slip of paper that had come with it. The sound of the paper rasping between his fingers was unbearably loud in the silence.
One word. Scrawled in jagged black ink: Soon.
Elara's knees gave out. She sank into the chair, hands trembling violently.
"Whose finger is that?" she demanded, her voice sharp with panic.
No one answered.
Her eyes darted around the room, wild. "Whose is it?"
Finally, Marco spoke, his throat working. "Viktor. He was on patrol last night. Didn't come back."
Elara squeezed her eyes shut, but the image wouldn't vanish. She remembered Viktor's soft smile in the kitchen one morning, the way he had wordlessly offered her a mug of coffee when her hands were too tired to pour. A man, alive and whole. Now reduced to a grotesque message in a box.
She doubled forward, pressing a hand over her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.
Damian dropped the note onto the table. His hand curled into a fist so tightly his knuckles cracked.
"Burn it," he said.
Marco blinked. "But—"
"Burn it," Damian snapped. His voice cut like a blade.
Two men obeyed immediately, lifting the box and carrying it out into the storm. Minutes later, the acrid smell of burning flesh seeped back into the hall through the open doors, curling in Elara's nostrils, coating her tongue.
She swallowed hard against the taste of ashes, her whole body trembling.
After the men dispersed, the hall felt cavernous, empty except for her and Damian. He stood motionless, staring at the dark ring on the table where the box had rested, as though the wood itself had been scarred.
Elara pushed herself shakily to her feet. "You think burning it will erase what he did?" she whispered.
Damian turned, his eyes like obsidian. "I won't let Petrov leave his filth in my house."
"He already has." Her voice shook, but she forced it out. "Not just here. In my head. In yours. That's what he wanted. And it's working."
His jaw flexed, rage tightening every line of his face. He stepped closer, the storm's light catching in his eyes. "He wants me rattled. Wants me reckless. He doesn't understand that I don't break."
Elara's throat burned. "Everyone breaks, Damian."
For a heartbeat, his expression wavered, as if the words had struck deeper than he would admit. Then his mask dropped back into place.
"Not me," he said. His voice was low, deadly. "Not while you're still breathing."
Her chest ached, not from fear but from something heavier, more dangerous. The conviction in his voice was brutal and unyielding, and though it should have terrified her, it pulled at her in ways she couldn't name.
Hours later, she sat again on the edge of her bed, staring at the bag she still hadn't finished packing. The storm still beat against the windows, and her thoughts ran circles until she wanted to scream. She didn't hear Damian enter until his shadow stretched across the floor.
"You didn't listen," he said softly.
"Where do you expect me to go?" Her voice was hoarse. She lifted her head, meeting his gaze. "Tell me where in the world is safer than here, if Petrov already knows everything about me. He sent photographs, Damian. From years ago. He's been watching me longer than I've even known your name. Don't you see? He's already inside my life. There is no running."
He came closer, his presence filling the room. His face was hard, but his eyes—those betrayed something else. Something raw.
"Then I'll erase him," he said. "Every trace. Every shadow. I'll burn down his world until there's nothing left."
Her lips trembled. "And when there's nothing left of me, too?"
He flinched. Barely, but she saw it. His hand hovered inches from her cheek, aching to touch but holding back.
"I'd rather you hate me alive than love me dead," he murmured.
Her heart stuttered painfully. She turned away, blinking back tears. "You think this is love?"
His silence stretched. And silence was louder than any answer.
Near midnight, unable to breathe within her walls, Elara wandered the halls. The estate hummed with activity—men cleaning rifles, muttering about blood debts, preparing for war. The air vibrated with violence waiting to be unleashed.
She stopped outside the study, the door cracked open. Inside, Damian sat at his desk, the map before him littered with pins and notes. But his head rested in his hands, his body heavy, his shoulders bowing under an invisible weight.
For once, he didn't look like the Devil of the underworld. He looked like a man suffocating in his own kingdom.
Elara slipped inside before she could think better of it.
"You should be asleep," he said without looking up.
"So should you."
He laughed, sharp and humorless. "Sleep is for men who can afford it."
She moved closer, her hand brushing the edge of the desk. "You're burning yourself alive."
His gaze lifted, locking onto hers. "If that's what it takes to keep you breathing, then let me burn."
Her throat constricted. "I don't hate you," she whispered, the words dragged out of her against her will. "And that terrifies me more than anything Petrov could do."
His chair scraped back suddenly. He rose, closing the distance in two strides. His arms wrapped around her, fierce and desperate, his mouth pressing into her hair.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender. It was possession and desperation and something he couldn't name.
And for the first time, she let herself cling back.
Outside the estate, the rain thinned to a mist. In the trees beyond the walls, a figure smoked in silence. The glow of the cigarette illuminated a scarred face.
Petrov exhaled, watching the estate through narrowed eyes.
"Hold her tight, Moretti," he murmured to the storm. "The closer you keep her, the sweeter it will be when I take her away."
The cigarette hissed as he flicked it into the wet earth. Then he melted back into the shadows.