Elena hadn't realized how heavy silence could be until the suite door closed behind her.
Hours had passed since the gunfire, yet her heart still raced as if bullets were still flying. Damian's men had swept the building, his commands cutting through the chaos like a blade, and now she was alone. Alone, except for the thought that someone out there wanted her erased.
She sank into the velvet armchair, hugging her knees. Forensic accounting was supposed to be numbers, balance sheets, neat columns of truth. But here she was—shut inside the penthouse of a man who handled violence as easily as breathing.
The door clicked open again, making her jolt. Damian strode in. His tie was gone, his shirt undone at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked like he'd walked out of a battlefield and straight into her prison.
"You're not safe anywhere else," he said before she could open her mouth. His tone left no room for negotiation. "You'll stay here until I say otherwise."
Elena shot to her feet. "You can't just lock me up because you have enemies."
"Because I have enemies, you're alive." His gaze was steel, unflinching. "You don't get to argue with me on this."
Her fists clenched at her sides. "You don't own me."
A slow, almost cruel smile curved his mouth. "Don't I?"
The words stirred that same dangerous heat from earlier. She hated the way her body betrayed her, how his dominance unsettled her yet sent sparks of adrenaline through her veins.
"You're impossible," she muttered, turning away, desperate to put space between them.
Damian moved past her, heading toward the minibar. He poured a drink, the amber liquid catching the low light, then downed it in one swallow. Only then did she notice the bloodstain darkening the cuff of his sleeve.
"You're hurt," she blurted before she could stop herself.
He glanced at the stain, as though it were nothing more than ink. "A scratch."
"You were shot at!" Her voice rose despite herself. "And you're walking around like it's a paper cut?"
Finally, a crack in his armor—a faint, tired laugh. "I've had worse."
Elena's chest tightened. She should hate him. She should stay silent, distant. Instead, her feet carried her forward. She reached for his arm, tugging the sleeve up. A shallow graze across his skin, angry red, seared through the crisp white fabric.
"It needs cleaning," she said softly.
His eyes darkened as he studied her. "You care."
She froze. "Don't twist this. I just don't want blood dripping on the carpet."
But her hands betrayed her words, steady as they searched for the first aid kit tucked beneath the minibar.
Minutes later, he sat in the armchair, his broad shoulders relaxed for the first time, while she cleaned the wound. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips, the steady strength of him impossible to ignore.
"You're reckless," she whispered, taping the bandage in place.
"You're stubborn," he countered, his voice low.
Her gaze flicked up. Their eyes locked, the air between them thickening, sparking with something unspoken. She should pull back. She didn't.
"Elena." His voice was rough, warning, but also wanting.
Her name in his mouth made her heart stumble.
She forced herself to look away, packing the supplies with shaking hands. "Don't think this changes anything. You're still—"
"Dangerous?" he supplied.
She met his eyes again, her breath caught in her chest. "Yes."
"And yet you're still here," he murmured.
The silence stretched, charged. His hand lifted, brushing her cheek. She flinched—not from fear, but from how much she wanted to lean into it.
Then, as if a wall slammed down, she pulled back. "I'm tired. I need sleep."
His smile was faint but knowing. "Sleep, then. The guards will be outside your door. No one gets in without my permission."
The weight of his gaze followed her all the way to the bedroom.
The suite was luxurious—floor-to-ceiling windows, silk sheets, the faint glow of the city far below. But Elena felt none of its beauty. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, every nerve still buzzing.
Why did she feel safer with him than without him? Why did his touch linger on her skin like fire?
She turned, restless, until her eyes caught the faint glow from the desk in the corner. Damian's laptop. He'd left it, careless or confident.
Her breath hitched. If she wanted answers, they were right there.
Slowly, silently, she slipped from the bed and crossed the room. Fingers trembling, she opened the lid.
The screen flickered on, no password prompt—already logged in.
Her heart pounded as she searched through folders. Financial records, acquisitions, coded spreadsheets. Exactly the kind of mess she'd been hired to untangle. But deeper in, she found a hidden file.
Hale – Termination.
Her mouth went dry. Marcus Hale. The missing partner.
With a shaky breath, she clicked.
The file unfolded into a storm of evidence: encrypted transfers, offshore accounts, internal memos signed by Hale himself—until they stopped, suddenly, on the night of his disappearance.
And then—photos. Grainy, distant shots of Hale arguing with Damian outside a private club. Another of Hale entered a car he never returned from.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. The last image froze her completely: Hale, pale and furious, signing a document beneath Damian's watchful eye. The caption read: FINAL AGREEMENT.
"Elena."
She spun around, nearly toppling the laptop. Damian stood in the doorway, shadows draping his tall frame, eyes like sharpened steel.
Her throat tightened. "I—I was just—"
"Spying?" His voice was calm, too calm.
Her legs refused to move. The room seemed smaller with him filling it, his presence pressing down on her like a storm.
"I had to know," she said, forcing the words past her lips.
He stalked closer, slow, deliberate, a predator cornering prey. He braced a hand on the desk beside her, his body caging hers.
"And now you do." His voice was a low growl. "Are you afraid of me, Elena?"
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Fear warred with something hotter, more dangerous. His closeness stole her breath, his scent—dark spice and something purely him—wrapping around her.
"Tell me," he pressed, his lips a breath away from hers. "Are you afraid?"
She swallowed hard, her voice breaking. "I don't know."
The silence crackled. His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingering. For a moment, the world held its breath.
Then, with a curse, Damian pushed back, raking a hand through his hair. "Go to bed. Before I do something neither of us can undo."
Elena's knees threatened to give out.
The laptop screen dimmed behind her, Hale's ghostly face vanishing into black.