The glowing message pulsed on the laptop screen, each word like a strike to Elena's chest.
Walk away. Or disappear like the last one.
Her pulse thundered so hard she could hear it. She looked up at Damian, expecting shock, maybe fear. But his expression was unreadable—jaw set, eyes narrowed, his whole body radiating control.
"You're too calm," she whispered, her voice trembling despite herself.
"I've been warned before," Damian replied smoothly, as though anonymous threats were routine.
"Well, I haven't," she shot back, her fingers trembling against the desk's edge. "And I didn't sign up for—"
"You signed exactly what I put in front of you," he cut in, his tone sharp as a blade. "You're mine to protect. And mine to command."
The word mine lodged in her chest, sending heat and fury clashing inside her.
Damian closed the laptop with a decisive snap. "This changes nothing."
"Nothing?" she repeated in disbelief. "Someone out there wants me gone—wants me dead—and you think that changes nothing?"
He stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. "It only means we're closer to the truth."
Her throat went dry. His presence filled every corner of the room, suffocating yet magnetic. She wanted to shove him away—and wanted to grab onto him just as much.
"You're insane," she whispered.
"Perhaps," he said, a faint smile tugging his mouth. "But you'll live."
Before she could reply, the lights flickered. Once, twice. The hum of electricity shuddered, then the office plunged into darkness.
Elena's breath caught. The only sound was her quick inhale and the slow, deliberate sound of Damian pulling something from inside his jacket.
A gun.
Moonlight bled faintly through the glass door, glinting off cold steel.
"Stay behind me," he ordered.
The command struck something in her—fear, yes, but also an undeniable rush of security. She hated herself for it.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Heavy, measured, growing closer.
Elena's heart climbed to her throat.
The door creaked open, shadows stretching across the room. A figure stepped inside, face masked, body clad in black. The glint of a weapon in his hand caught the moonlight.
Elena's blood turned to ice.
Damian moved first. In a single fluid motion, he shoved her down behind the desk and raised his gun. The sharp crack of gunfire exploded in the room, deafening, acrid smoke filling the air.
Elena flinched, pressing herself against the cold marble floor, trying not to scream. The masked man staggered, then fled back into the corridor.
Damian chased, swift and silent as a predator.
The gunfire ceased as quickly as it had begun. Silence draped the office once more, broken only by Elena's ragged breathing.
Minutes—or was it seconds?—later, Damian returned. His shirt was rumpled, his breathing sharp but controlled. His gun hung at his side, smoke curling from the barrel.
"Gone," he said.
Elena pushed herself up from the floor, her legs shaky. "Gone? That's all you have to say? Someone just tried to kill us!"
His eyes burned into hers. "No. Someone tried to kill me. You were collateral."
Her stomach twisted at the word. Collateral.
Damian holstered his gun, then crossed the room to her. His hands cupped her face, tilting it up until she couldn't look anywhere but into his eyes.
"They will come again," he said quietly, his voice a vow and a warning. "And you will stay close to me."
Her lips parted, a protest forming, but the look in his eyes stilled her. Cold fire burned there, relentless, but beneath it—something else. A flicker of possession.
"You don't own me," she whispered.
His thumb brushed her cheek, lingering far longer than necessary. "Don't I?"
The tension snapped between them like a live wire. Heat flushed through her, a betrayal of her body against her will. She shoved his hands away, stumbling back.
"You're dangerous," she said hoarsely.
"And you're still here," he replied.
The door slammed open before she could respond. Two men in dark suits stormed in, guns drawn, eyes sharp. Security, she realized, but not the uniformed kind. These were professionals—silent, lethal.
Damian's demeanor shifted instantly, the mask of power sliding back into place. "Sweep the building," he ordered. "Full lockdown. Find the rat who let him in."
The men nodded and vanished.
Elena swallowed hard. "Your life is a warzone."
He turned back to her, expression unreadable. "And you just became a soldier in it."
Her stomach knotted. "I didn't ask for this."
He stepped closer again, lowering his voice until it vibrated against her skin. "Neither did I. But here we are."
Later, alone in the guest suite Damian insisted she use, Elena stared at the ceiling, sleep impossible. Her mind replayed the night in fragments—the anonymous message, the gunfire, Damian's hand against her cheek.
Danger had found her.
But the truth was worse.
So had a desire.
Her body still remembered the heat in his touch, the rough timbre of his command. She hated him, feared him, but something deep inside refused to let go of the way he made her feel. Alive.
She pressed her palms to her face, groaning. "God, what's happening to me?"
Outside, footsteps passed in the hall—guards patrolling, shadows shifting. And somewhere beyond the walls, whoever had sent that message was still out there, watching. Waiting.
Elena closed her eyes, one thought anchoring itself in her chest like a brand she couldn't erase:
Damian Voss wasn't just her captor.
He was her only protection.
And maybe, just maybe… her greatest danger.