The ride through the city blurred into silence, broken only by Elena's ragged breathing and the muted hum of the engine. Sirens howled in the distance, faint against the glow of fire flickering in the rear window.
Her back pressed against the cold leather seat, grounding her as she tried to steady her pulse. Her fingers still clenched the gun Damian had forced into her hand. It felt heavy, foreign, like proof she'd crossed a line she could never uncross.
She hadn't let go since she fired it.
The memory replayed in sharp fragments—the flash of the masked man's eyes, the jolt in her arms, the shattering sound of her own shot. Her stomach twisted, torn between nausea and disbelief.
Beside her, Damian was silent. His tuxedo was ruined, his shirt streaked with soot, tie hanging loose. The polished billionaire mask was gone, and what sat next to her was something rawer, darker—violence made flesh.
"Give me the gun," he said finally, his voice low, steady.
Elena's fingers tightened around it. "No."
His eyes cut to her, dark and unreadable. "You don't want that on you when the police pull us over."
Her chest tightened. "So you can hide it? Add it to whatever arsenal you keep stashed in your office?"
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He reached slowly, deliberately, as though she were a cornered animal. His fingers brushed hers—warm, steady, unyielding. "You're shaking. You'll hurt yourself."
Her breath caught. She should resist. Should cling to the gun as proof of her survival. But when his hand closed over hers, steady and sure, her grip faltered. The weapon vanished into the dark folds of his coat, leaving her strangely exposed.
Silence fell again.
Neon blurred across the window, casting fractured light on his profile. Her chest burned with the question she couldn't keep inside.
"Who were they?" Her voice was harsh in the hush. "Those men in the garage—who sent them?"
His gaze didn't move from the road. "The kind of people who don't leave witnesses."
Her pulse skipped. "And why are they after you? What did you do?"
At that, Damian looked at her. His eyes were shadows and steel. "Exactly what you think I did."
Her throat closed. The weight in his tone was too heavy to dismiss as a scare tactic. It was a confession disguised as a warning.
"You could have told me," she whispered.
"I couldn't afford for you to run," he replied flatly. "Not until I knew if I could trust you."
Rage and something far more dangerous tangled in her chest. She hated him—his secrets, his control. But the image of his body shielding hers from gunfire, his voice steady while the world shattered—that image branded itself on her, fierce and unshakable.
The car slowed, turning onto a street lined with warehouses. A rusted gate creaked open, swallowing them into shadow.
When the engine cut off, Damian got out first, scanning the perimeter with the sharpness of a man who never stopped expecting ambush. He opened her door, extending his hand.
She ignored it, climbing out on her own. Her knees threatened to buckle, but pride wouldn't let her lean on him.
The building ahead looked abandoned—cracked brick, boarded windows, peeling paint.
"What is this place?" she asked.
"Safehouse," Damian said, guiding her toward the heavy steel door. "Off-grid. Secure."
Inside was no penthouse. No luxury. Just reinforced walls, blackout curtains, sparse furniture. A war table covered in maps, files, and weapons dominated the center.
Elena's throat tightened. "This isn't a safehouse. It's a bunker."
"Semantics," he muttered, shrugging off his ruined jacket.
Her eyes scanned the papers and photos pinned to corkboards. Offshore accounts. Shell companies. Faces she knew—board members she'd shaken hands with. Her blood chilled.
"Why are they here?"
Damian poured water, his movements maddeningly calm. "Because they're not who they claim to be. And neither am I."
Her stomach twisted. "Jesus. You're laundering money."
His gaze snapped to hers. "I'm keeping us alive."
"That's not survival—that's corruption." Her voice cracked. "You're the CEO of one of the biggest firms in the city. You could've walked away. Sold everything. Vanished. Why—why this?"
He leaned against the table, folding his arms. Shadows cut across his jaw, his storm-carved face. "Because walking away paints a bigger target."
Her breath caught. "Debt to who?"
His silence was its own answer.
The tension pressed down until she could hardly breathe. She should run—call the FBI, escape into the night. But her body stayed rooted.
Because the truth terrified her more than his secrets: she had felt safer under his arm, in the middle of gunfire, than she had in years.
Damian studied her with unnerving focus, reading every flicker across her face. Then, softer: "You did well tonight."
Her head jerked up. "I shot someone."
"You saved yourself," he corrected. "And you didn't hesitate when it mattered."
Tears stung her eyes. "I don't want to be that person."
His expression darkened, voice low. "Neither did I."
The words lanced through her, threading a connection she didn't want but couldn't sever.
He turned, pulling a clean shirt from a drawer. When he stripped off the ruined one, scars mapped his chest and shoulders—old and new, pale and raw. Survival etched into skin.
Elena's breath faltered. She tore her gaze away, but the image lingered, unsettling in ways she didn't want to name.
"You should rest," Damian said without looking at her. "There's a room down the hall. Lock it from the inside. No one will touch you there."
Exhaustion dragged at her bones. She moved toward the hallway, every step feeling like surrender.
At the doorway, she paused. He was bent over the maps, shadows making him look untouchable, inhuman—and yet painfully real.
Her voice was barely a whisper. "What happens now?"
He didn't look up. "Now? We wait for them to make their move. And when they do, we hit first."
Her stomach twisted. She turned away, locking herself in the spare room. But even as she sank onto the thin mattress, her mind wouldn't quiet.
Because beneath the fear and fury, one truth had taken root:
She wasn't sure what terrified her more—Damian Voss himself, or the dangerous gravity of needing him.