The gunfire tore through the ballroom like a storm, shredding the glittering façade of wealth and elegance in seconds. Crystal chandeliers rattled, glasses shattered, and guests scrambled in every direction, their screams slicing through the haze of panic.
Damian didn't hesitate. One arm locked around Elena's waist, pulling her hard against his chest, while his other hand shoved a table over, flipping it into makeshift cover. Bullets thudded against the thick oak, splinters exploding across the marble floor.
"Stay down," he ordered, voice calm, almost too calm, as if chaos were something he breathed.
Elena's heart slammed against her ribs. She ducked low, clutching her clutch bag like it could shield her from death. "You knew this was going to happen," she hissed, anger burning even louder than the gunfire.
Damian's gaze snapped to hers, dark and sharp. "Later."
"No—"
"Later," he cut her off, pressing his palm against the back of her head, forcing her lower as glass rained down around them. His body curved over hers, shielding her with a possessive, unyielding strength.
Elena's fury tangled with something she didn't dare name. Even as the ballroom shattered around her, even as she despised his arrogance, her body betrayed her—her pulse steadying under his weight, her breath catching at the heat of him so close. She should have hated the way he claimed her safety as if it belonged to him. Instead, it felt like oxygen in the middle of fire.
Security men materialized, returning fire. The music had stopped, but the echoes of violence played louder than any symphony.
"Move!" one of the guards barked.
Damian hauled Elena to her feet, his grip unyielding. They ran, weaving between overturned tables. Her heels slipped, but his arm tightened, carrying her momentum like her resistance meant nothing.
They burst into a side corridor, its walls lined with gold frames that looked obscene against the sound of bullets. Damian shoved open a service door, pulling her into a stairwell.
"Who are they?" she demanded, breathless.
"Enemies."
"That's not an answer!"
"It's the only one you get right now." His tone was pure steel.
The arrogance of him, the certainty—it should have infuriated her. But her anger blurred with fear, blurred with the insane realization that she still trusted him to keep her alive, even while hating every reason she had to.
They broke into the underground garage, where a black sedan waited. The driver leapt out, holding the door open.
"Inside," Damian ordered.
Elena froze, rebellion clawing up her throat. He had dragged her into this, he had lied, he had used her—but the screech of tires behind them, the shadows spilling into the garage, made the choice irrelevant.
Damian pushed her into the back seat, sliding in after her as the car peeled away.
For a moment, silence pressed against the windows, broken only by the slap of tires on asphalt. Elena's chest heaved, her skin burning with adrenaline and rage.
She turned on him, voice shaking. "You bastard."
His head snapped toward her, eyes dangerous. "Watch your mouth."
"You brought me there as bait. You knew they'd come for you. And you—" Her voice cracked, but she forced the words out. "You used me as cover."
His jaw flexed. "I used you to throw them off balance. There's a difference."
She laughed, bitter and sharp. "That's not a difference. That's manipulation. I could have died."
"You didn't," he shot back, voice final, like survival itself was proof she had no right to complain.
Her hands balled into fists. She wanted to hit him. To scream. But the truth she couldn't admit burned hotter—she had felt safer in his arms than she ever had in her own skin.
The car jolted violently. Elena was thrown against Damian's shoulder, his arm instantly bracing her, pinning her to him.
Headlights flared in the rearview mirror. A black SUV roared behind them.
"Hold on," the driver barked, swerving hard.
The SUV rammed their bumper, jolting Elena forward. She gasped, clutching the leather seat, and Damian's hand caught hers, crushingly tight. His grip was too steady, too certain.
"Stay down," he ordered, forcing her against his chest. His heartbeat thudded hard and fast beneath her ear, proof he wasn't as calm as he pretended.
Another SUV cut across their path, boxing them in.
Damian's hand slipped into his jacket. Steel gleamed in the dim light—a gun.
Elena's breath caught. He wasn't just a CEO playing soldier. He carried violence like it belonged to him.
He didn't look at her. His eyes were locked on the SUVs, predator-calm. "They won't take you."
Not us. You.
Her chest squeezed, her fury colliding with something reckless, something hungry. She should have pulled away, but instead, her fingers still tangled with his.
The SUVs screeched to a halt, doors slamming open. Masked men advanced, guns raised.
Damian chambered a round. The sound cracked through the car, lethal and final.
He finally looked at her then, his expression stripped bare of charm, of lies, of armor. His voice was low, lethal, intimate.
"Stay behind me."
And then the gunfire began.