Chapter 6: Blood On The Silk
968 Words
_3:00am. The Cecil. Suite 404._
Elena didn’t knock.
She walked in because the door was already open.
Damian was standing at the window. Shirt sleeves rolled.
And on his cuff: blood.
Not a lot. Just a smear. Dark against black fabric.
Her stomach dropped.
“Rule 6,” he said without turning. “Don’t ask questions.”
She closed the door. “Too late.”
“Then you break the rule.”
He finally looked at her. Eyes tired. Jaw tight.
“Whose blood is that?”
Damian walked to the table. Poured two glasses of wine. Didn’t drink.
“Marco’s man came to the warehouse before us. He didn’t leave.”
Elena’s throat went dry. “You killed him?”
“I handled it.”
That was worse than yes.
He slid one glass to her side of the table.
“Sit.”
She didn’t.
“Elena.”
“I’m not sitting.”
He set the glass down. Hard enough that wine rippled.
“You want to know what I am?” He stepped closer. “Fine. I’m the man who keeps your sister alive by being worse than the people hunting her.”
The room felt too small.
“Show me the proof,” she said. “Show me Maya’s alive right now.”
Damian pulled out his phone. Dialed. Put it on speaker.
It rang. Once. Twice.
A sleepy voice: “Hello?”
Maya.
“Maya?” Elena’s voice broke.
“Elena? What— where are you? I’m okay. I’m at—”
The call cut.
Damian was already looking at the screen. “Jammer. Marco’s close.”
He pocketed the phone. “She’s alive. That’s all you get tonight.”
Elena slammed her hand on the table. “That’s not enough!”
“I know.”
“Then do more!”
“I am.” He was in her space now. Not touching. “Every night you show up, she gets another day. You want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
Silence. The only sound was the hum of the city 40 floors down.
Damian sighed and rolled his sleeve up. The blood was smeared across his forearm too. Under it, the snake tattoo.
He grabbed a cloth from the bar and wiped it off. Slow. Methodical.
“You’re scared of me,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“But I’m more scared of what happens if you’re not here.”
That made him stop wiping.
He looked at her. Really looked.
“You think I like this?” he said quietly. “90 nights. Watching you. Wondering if tonight’s the night you run or the night you break.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“Neither did I.”
He tossed the cloth away. The blood was gone. But she could still see it.
“Rule 6 is broken,” he said. “So here’s your consequence.”
Elena braced.
“Tomorrow night, you come early. 2am. And you cook.”
“What?”
“Cook. For me. In my kitchen. No guards. Just you and me and knives.”
Her pulse jumped. “That’s a trap.”
“Probably.” A ghost of a smile. “Don’t cut yourself.”
He walked to the door and held it open.
“Go home, Elena. Sleep. You look like hell.”
She walked out. In the elevator she realized her hands were shaking again.
---
_7pm. Damian’s Penthouse. Next Night._
It was glass and steel and way too quiet.
Kitchen was bigger than her whole apartment.
He was already there. Apron on. Over a black shirt.
“You cook?”
“I eat,” he said. “You cook.”
Ingredients were laid out. Pasta. Tomatoes. Garlic.
“Rule 6b,” he said. “No talking about Marco.”
She started chopping. The knife was sharp.
He leaned against the counter and watched.
“You’re good with that.”
“Prison kitchen.”
“I figured.”
Minutes passed. Only the sound of the knife.
Then: “Why me?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Damian didn’t answer at first.
“Because you didn’t beg,” he said finally. “At the club. Everyone begs. You ordered a drink and stared me down.”
She stopped chopping.
“And now?”
“Now I’m wondering if I made a mistake.”
He stepped behind her. Not touching. Just close.
“Knife down.”
She did.
His hand covered hers and guided it away from the blade.
“You’re bleeding.”
She looked. A small cut on her thumb.
“I didn’t feel it.”
“I did.”
He turned on the tap. Ran her hand under cold water. His fingers were careful.
Then he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her thumb.
His thumb pressed against the bandage for a second too long.
Elena looked up. He was staring at her mouth.
The air went thick.
His phone buzzed. He didn’t check it.
Another buzz.
He swore and pulled away.
“Marco,” he said, reading the text. “He wants to meet. Tonight. Neutral ground.”
“Are you going?”
“I don’t have a choice.”
He grabbed his jacket.
“Food’s done. Eat. Stay here. Guards outside.”
“I’m not your prisoner.”
“No,” he said at the door. “You’re worse. You’re my responsibility.”
The door shut.
Elena stood in his kitchen, in his shirt, with his bandage on her hand, and a plate of pasta getting cold.
And for the first time, she wasn’t sure who she was more afraid of:
Marco.
Or the man who just touched her like she might break.
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