The city was quieter the next morning. Almost like it knew what had happened the night before and was holding its breath.
Elara stood by the massive windows in her apartment above the club, wrapped in one of Damien's oversized button-downs—one he'd left on the back of her chair without saying a word. It smelled like him. Expensive cologne and something darker. Something she couldn't name.
She hadn't seen him since their late-night exchange in the booth.
She didn't know if she wanted to.
Not because she was angry. Because she wasn't.
And that terrified her more than bullets ever could.
She found Lucy in the back lounge, barefoot, sitting on a velvet couch with a glass of red wine and no intention of moving.
"Elara," Lucy greeted without looking. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."
Elara dropped onto the couch beside her. "I'm trying to figure out if Damien's a demon or just emotionally constipated."
Lucy laughed into her wine. "Oh, babe. Those aren't mutually exclusive."
They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that didn't need filling.
"You ever get the feeling like you're being watched?" Elara asked softly.
Lucy tilted her head. "By him or the walls?"
"Does it matter?"
"Not in this place."
Elara exhaled, fingers gripping the hem of her shirt. "I can't tell if he's trying to protect me or claim me."
Lucy's gaze flicked toward her. "Why not both?"
Elara didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
That evening, she was helping Tali stock the bar again—despite Damien's protests, despite Rafe's warning.
"I'm not staying locked up," she had said. "I'm not a damn hostage."
Now she was balancing a bottle of Grey Goose on her hip and trying not to let her nerves show.
"Back to work already?" came a familiar voice behind her.
Elara turned to find Damien leaning against the bar, sleeves rolled, tie loose, looking far too good for someone who barely showed emotion.
She straightened. "Someone's got to make sure your overpriced vodka is in stock."
His mouth twitched into the ghost of a smirk. "I could've had someone else do it."
"I needed the distraction."
His eyes scanned her face, lingering a little too long. "From what?"
She didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
He stepped around the bar without permission, closing the distance.
"You're still shaken."
"No, I'm—"
But her voice cracked, just enough.
And that was all it took.
Damien reached out slowly, giving her a moment to pull away. She didn't.
His fingers grazed the side of her face. A small cut near her temple. She'd forgotten it was even there.
He frowned. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." His voice was low. "Not to me."
She looked up at him then. Really looked.
And for once, he wasn't guarded. His expression wasn't cold or hard. It was… quiet. Careful.
He looked at her like she was something fragile. Something breakable.
And Elara didn't know what to do with that.
Ten minutes later, they were in his office. Not for paperwork. Not for orders.
He was cleaning the cut himself.
It was nothing—just a graze from a shard of glass. But the way he dabbed at it, slow and focused, made it feel like something sacred.
"You don't have to do this," she said softly.
He didn't answer. Just kept going.
When he was done, he sat back and looked at her.
"I've had people bleed for me," he said quietly. "People die. That's part of this world."
Elara swallowed.
"But seeing you bleed?" His eyes met hers. "That was different."
She didn't know what to say to that.
Didn't know how to breathe.
He stood, walking to the far side of the room like distance would help.
"I was raised to be unbreakable," he continued. "To put business above everything. Loyalty. Power. Control."
He looked over his shoulder.
"But then you walked in. And suddenly I'm not sure I know the rules anymore."
Elara stood, slowly. "I didn't ask you to feel anything."
"I know," he said. "That's the worst part."
They stared at each other, the space between them heavy and electric.
She moved first. A step closer. Then another.
He didn't stop her.
But when she was close enough to touch, he said, "You should walk away from me."
"I know."
"You won't survive this, Elara."
"Maybe I'm already too far gone."
Their lips almost met. Almost.
But she pulled back first.
Because the truth was, if he kissed her now, she wouldn't survive it either.
Later, Elara stood outside the club, cool air brushing her skin like a warning.
She needed time. Distance. A moment to remember who she was before him.
But she didn't get the chance.
A car pulled up.
Sleek. Black. Windows tinted.
The door opened—and someone stepped out she didn't recognize.
Tall. Sharp suit. Eyes like a knife.
"Elara Hayes?"
She froze.
"Yes?"
"I've been sent to deliver a message."
She took a cautious step back. "From who?"
The man smiled, cold and wrong.
"From someone who thinks Damien's gotten too soft."
And just like that, the softness shattered.