Chapter 8
681 Words
Elena
She didn’t leave the room that morning.
Didn’t eat. Didn’t speak. Barely moved.
The hours bled together like watercolor on damp paper, soft edges, blurred lines, nothing solid to hold on to.
The silence wasn’t comforting anymore.
It was suffocating.
Her body was free. No chains. No locks. No cold hands dragging her through steel doors.
But her mind...
God, her mind was still in a cage.
She stared at the ceiling like it held answers. Like maybe, if she stared long enough, something would click into place and this whole twisted story would make sense.
But it didn’t.
It never did.
A soft knock broke through the fog in her head.
Once.
Then again.
She didn’t move.
“Elena.” His voice was quiet—almost gentle. “Can I come in?”
She hated how her stomach reacted to it. Hated the part of her that wanted him to come in. That part was dangerous. That part didn’t remember what he’d done—only how he looked at her like she mattered.
The door opened before she could answer.
She didn’t turn to face him. Just kept staring at the ceiling, like it was the only safe place left to look.
“I brought you something,” he said.
His footsteps were slow, careful. Not the kind that came with control or command. The kind that came with guilt.
She glanced over—just enough to see the plate in his hand.
It was toast. And fruit. And tea.
It smelled like honey.
Elena didn’t reach for it.
“You think food’s going to fix this?” she asked, voice low.
“No,” Damiano said, setting it on the nightstand. “But starving won’t either.”
She hated that he was right.
God, she hated that he always sounded right.
He stood there like he didn’t know what to do next. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe the man who had a plan for everything had finally run out of instructions.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” he said after a moment.
She said nothing.
“I kept thinking about what you said. That this isn’t a love story.”
She turned her face toward the wall.
“It’s not,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said. “But I think that’s why I’m still here.”
That made her look at him.
He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t trying to charm her or play the savior.
He just looked… tired. Like something inside him was unraveling too.
“I thought keeping you here would make me feel in control. That it would keep things simple.”
“Kidnapping a woman is never simple, Damiano,” she snapped.
“I know,” he said again, voice flat. “But I didn’t take you to hurt you. I took you because I didn’t know how else to protect you.”
She laughed, bitter and sharp. “From what? You?”
“No.” He looked at her then. Fully. Honestly. “From what happens to people who get too close to me.”
She stilled.
Because there was something in his eyes that scared her more than anger ever could.
Regret.
Real, painful, soul-deep regret.
“I’ve never met a man who needed love more than you,” she whispered, surprising even herself.
His jaw tightened. “And I’ve never met someone who made me believe I might deserve it.”
Neither of them spoke after that.
The words hung in the air, thick and fragile.
Then slowly, Damiano moved closer. Not to touch her. Not to force anything. Just close enough that she could smell the citrus and cedar in his cologne. Close enough to see the roughness in his hands, the wear in his eyes.
“I’ll go,” he said. “But eat something. Please.”
She didn’t answer.
But when the door shut behind him, she reached for the toast.
And for the first time since arriving, she didn’t feel like she was feeding her captor’s ego,..
She felt like she was feeding herself.......
- Writer
