The rain had thinned by morning, but the sky still carried the weight of the storm. The world outside the estate walls was hushed, as though holding its breath.
Elara woke with a start, her body stiff from the way she had curled against herself in bed. The memories of the night before—Damian's arms around her, the suffocating smell of burning flesh, Petrov's taunt etched on her mind—crowded back all at once. She sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest, listening.
The house wasn't quiet.
It throbbed with activity—boots pounding the floorboards, men's voices low but urgent. The air carried the metallic bite of gun oil and coffee strong enough to sting her nose even from upstairs.
She rose and pulled on a sweater, her hands trembling slightly. Something in the atmosphere had shifted. The estate didn't feel like a fortress anymore. It felt like a siege already underway.
When she stepped into the hall, Marco was there, barking orders at two men who rushed past with rifles strapped to their backs. He caught sight of her, cursed under his breath, and closed the distance.
"You shouldn't be up here alone," he muttered.
"I woke to the noise," Elara said, her voice smaller than she intended. "What's happening?"
He hesitated. The pause itself was answer enough.
"Marco."
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "We found one of the outer gates cut during patrol. Fence wires snapped clean, like someone wanted to prove how easy it was."
Her stomach dropped. "He's here."
Marco didn't deny it. "The boss has men covering every blind spot, but… yeah. Petrov's close. Closer than anyone wants to admit."
Her pulse quickened. "And Damian?"
"In the chapel."
The answer surprised her. She almost asked why, but Marco was already steering her down the hall, his hand hovering at her elbow like she might crumble.
The chapel was dim, lit only by candles burning low in their sconces. Rain tapped against the stained-glass windows, distorting the light into fractured colors.
Damian knelt at the altar.
The sight stunned her. She had never pictured him this way—his broad shoulders bowed, his head lowered, hands clasped loosely before him. Not praying, not in any way she recognized. But there was a stillness in him that was foreign, unsettling.
He looked up when she entered. His eyes were dark, bloodshot, his jaw shadowed with stubble.
"You should be with Marco," he said quietly.
"You should be sleeping," she countered.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but not in amusement. He rose slowly, his presence filling the room as he approached.
"He was here last night," Damian said. "I felt it. Every instinct in me says he was close enough to taste the air we breathed."
Elara's throat tightened. "Then why hasn't he struck yet?"
"Because he wants me restless. Wants me to bleed myself dry before he even touches me." Damian's voice was low, edged with a fury she had never heard before. "But he made one mistake."
Her brows knit. "What?"
Damian stepped closer, his hand brushing against hers for the briefest moment. "He showed me how close he is to you. And now, I'll burn half the city if it means keeping him out of your shadow."
Elara's breath caught. The conviction in his words wasn't romantic—it was dangerous, unhinged. And yet, a part of her clung to it because it was the only shield she had left.
The estate prepared for war. By midmorning, the men were armed, trucks fueled, radios checked. Every corridor buzzed with the scrape of steel and the clack of magazines being slammed into place.
Elara hovered near the windows, watching the courtyard. Damian moved through it like a storm in human form—snapping orders, pointing men to posts, correcting even the smallest details. His voice cut through the chaos, and no one dared hesitate.
It should have made her feel safer. Instead, she felt the opposite.
If Petrov could unnerve Damian Moretti, if he could slip into their walls and leave body parts as gifts, then what chance did any of them really have?
The first shot rang out near noon.
It cracked through the air like lightning. Men shouted, boots thundered across the courtyard, radios hissed alive with sharp orders.
Elara froze where she stood. Her fingers tightened around the windowsill until her knuckles ached. She could see nothing beyond the estate wall but trees shifting in the wind.
Marco was suddenly at her side again, pulling her back. "Upstairs. Now."
"What happened?"
"Test fire." His face was grim. "Sniper round, aimed at the wall. Just to let us know he's watching."
Her knees nearly gave. "He's toying with us."
"Yes," Marco said. "And Damian's not going to let him do it for long."
The day stretched, taut with silence and sudden bursts of noise—men yelling, the crackle of radios, the occasional gunshot into empty woods when shadows shifted the wrong way. Each sound scraped at Elara's nerves until she felt like her skin no longer fit her body.
When she finally found Damian again, he was in the war room with a half-dozen lieutenants, maps spread across the table, red pins marking known Petrov strongholds.
"We move tonight," Damian said flatly.
One of the men shifted uneasily. "Boss, he wants you out there. That's what this is. A lure."
"I know," Damian snapped. "And I'm going to let him think it's working."
Elara's voice cut across the room before she could stop herself. "You can't."
Every head turned.
Damian's eyes narrowed, but not in anger. In warning. "Elara—"
"You think this is what he wants? You walking straight into his trap? That's not strength, Damian. That's suicide."
Silence hung heavy. The men exchanged glances, some wary, some impressed at her audacity.
Damian dismissed them with a flick of his hand. One by one, they filed out until the room was empty.
When the door clicked shut, he turned to her. His jaw was hard, his eyes burning.
"You think I don't know what this is?" he demanded. "You think I can't smell the trap from a mile away? But what do you want me to do, Elara? Sit here and wait until he decides to take you from me? Until he cuts another piece off one of my men and leaves it on our doorstep?"
She flinched at the sharpness in his voice but didn't back down. "There has to be another way. Something—"
"There's not." He stepped closer, his hand braced against the wall beside her head. His breath was hot, his voice ragged. "There's only him and me. And it ends when one of us stops breathing."
Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs. "And if it's you?"
He leaned closer, so close she could see the storm in his eyes. "Then he'll never get the chance to touch you. Because I'll make sure he's already dead."
Her chest constricted. The air between them felt dangerous, electric. Her hands trembled at her sides, not from fear of him but from the weight of the truth.
She wanted to hate him. She wanted to scream that this wasn't protection, it was madness. But all that came out was a broken whisper:
"You're going to destroy yourself for me."
His lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. "I was already destroyed long before you walked into my world. You're the only thing left worth burning for."
That night, as the estate settled into uneasy silence, Elara couldn't sleep. Every creak of the walls, every brush of wind against the windows felt like a hand reaching for her. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the door, waiting for it to burst open.
And in the woods beyond the estate, Petrov watched.
He crouched in the undergrowth, binoculars pressed to his scarred face. Through the lenses, he could see the faint glow of Elara's window.
He smiled, slow and cruel.
"Soon," he murmured, echoing the word he had carved on the note. "Very soon."