The night was too quiet.
Elena lay restless on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Every muscle ached with exhaustion, but her mind refused to shut down. His words still echoed in her skull: I don't want your death, Elena. I want your surrender. She hated him for saying it, hated herself more for trembling under his gaze.
A sound cut through the silence.
Not the familiar turning of his key. Something else.
A thud, faint but heavy, followed by a muffled cry. Elena sat up sharply, her heart pounding. She crept toward the window, pressing her face to the glass. The guards were gone. The gates stood ajar.
Her stomach dropped.
Another crash downstairs—louder this time. Voices barked orders, harsh and unfamiliar. She stepped back from the window, panic flooding her chest. Whoever was here, it wasn't him.
The door to her room burst open. A man in a ski mask stormed inside, rifle raised. Elena froze, her scream caught in her throat.
"There she is!" he barked in accented English. "Take her!"
Two more men rushed in, grabbing her arms before she could run. She thrashed, kicking, biting, clawing, but they dragged her easily. Her nails raked down one man's arm, drawing blood. He snarled, striking her across the face. Her vision blurred, pain exploding across her cheek.
"Boss will want her alive," the first man snapped. "Move!"
Elena's lungs screamed as she tried to yell for help. For him. But her voice drowned under the chaos erupting in the mansion below—gunfire, shouts, bodies crashing into furniture. The entire house was under siege.
They dragged her into the hall, toward the staircase. Her eyes darted wildly, searching for escape. And then—
A shadow moved at the end of the corridor.
Him.
The Don stood there, his suit jacket gone, a pistol in one hand, a knife in the other. Blood streaked across his shirt, his jaw set like stone. His eyes locked on Elena—and the men holding her.
Time froze.
Then all hell broke loose.
The Don fired twice. The first bullet tore through the skull of the man holding her left arm. He collapsed instantly, dead weight dragging her down. The second shot hit the man behind her in the throat. He dropped, choking on his own blood.
The last man shoved Elena forward, raising his rifle to fire. But the Don was already there, a blur of motion. He slammed into the man, the knife flashing once, twice, three times. Blood sprayed across the wall. The man crumpled, twitching.
Elena staggered back, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face. Her cheek throbbed from the blow, her arms bruised from their grip. She pressed against the wall, shaking.
The Don turned slowly, his chest rising and falling, his knife dripping red. His eyes found hers, and in that moment, she saw it clearly: the monster everyone feared, the reason men whispered his name like a curse. He wasn't just dangerous. He was death in flesh.
And he had killed for her.
"Elena," he said, his voice low but sharp. "Come here."
She shook her head violently, backing away. "Don't—don't touch me."
His jaw tightened. Another explosion rocked the mansion, glass shattering below. He strode toward her, grabbing her arm before she could flee. His grip was iron, unyielding.
"They came for you," he growled. "Do you see now? You are mine. And anyone who tries to take you from me dies."
Her voice broke, raw and hoarse. "I never asked for this! I never asked for you!"
His hand cupped her bruised cheek, forcing her to look at him. His eyes burned with fury and something darker, something twisted and unshakable. "And yet, here you are. Still breathing. Because of me."
Tears spilled down her face. She shoved weakly at his chest, her voice trembling. "I hate you."
He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear, his words a vow written in blood. "Hate me. Love me. Fight me. It doesn't matter. You belong to me, Elena. And I'll kill anyone who forgets it—including you."
Gunfire cracked again below. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her down the hall, dragging her through the chaos. Men lay dead across the marble floors, blood painting the walls. His soldiers fought furiously, but the invaders were many. The air stank of smoke and iron.
They burst into his private study. He shoved her behind the heavy desk, his pistol raised. "Stay here."
"I'm not—"
"Stay." His voice cut like a blade, final, absolute.
The door crashed open, more masked men flooding in. The Don moved like fire—gunshots exploding, bodies dropping, his knife a blur when the bullets ran dry. Blood streaked his arms, his face, his chest. He was unstoppable, merciless, brutal.
Elena crouched behind the desk, hands over her ears, tears streaking her face as the carnage unfolded feet away. Her body shook, her heart threatening to tear itself apart.
And then—silence.
She peeked over the desk. The room was a graveyard. He stood among the corpses, chest heaving, eyes blazing. His shirt was torn, blood splattered across his skin. He looked like a god of war, terrible and magnificent.
His gaze found hers. He stepped forward, reaching out a hand. "Come."
She didn't move. Couldn't.
"Elena," he said again, his voice softer now, though still commanding. "It's over. You're safe."
She stared at him through tears, shaking her head. "Safe? This is safe?" She gestured to the bodies, to the blood soaking the carpets. "You call this protection?"
His jaw clenched. He crouched before her, gripping her trembling hands in his bloodstained ones. "You're alive. That's all that matters. They came for you, and I destroyed them. That's what I'll always do. Until you understand—you are mine."
Her breath broke into sobs. "I don't want to be yours."
His eyes darkened, his voice low and final. "You don't get a choice."
He pulled her into his arms, ignoring her weak struggles. His embrace was suffocating, iron-clad, drenched in blood. She pressed her face against his chest, sobbing, her body trembling in his hold.
Outside, sirens wailed faintly in the distance. The war wasn't over. But one truth was carved in blood tonight:
She could never escape him.