NO SAFE PLACE
1229 Words
Chapter 31
Elena stood near the center of the penthouse, trembling, while Damian barked orders to the men who had rushed inside. His voice was sharp, clipped; the voice of someone who was used to commanding obedience—and receiving it.
Two guards swept the hallway. Another spoke rapidly into a phone, reporting details Elena couldn’t follow.
Damian stayed close; one hand anchored lightly at her back, as if he feared she would vanish if he let go.
“Clear the building,” he ordered. His tone brooked no argument. “Top to bottom. I want eyes on every roof within a five-block radius.”
Elena swallowed hard, hugging her arms around herself. She could still see the spiderweb crack in the window, covered now by thick boards, but her imagination filled in the rest—the bullet cutting through the air, aimed not at the glass, but at them. At him. At her.
She forced her voice to steady. “Damian… are we safe here?”
His eyes snapped to her, dark and burning. For a moment, she thought he might lie, might soothe her with soft promises. But Damian was not a man who lied to comfort.
“No,” he said flatly. “We’re not.”
“That’s why I’ll never leave you unguarded. You would have to stop your work at the bookshop for now, it wouldn't be safe for you anymore,” he said.
Her lips parted to speak, but no words came. She didn’t know if what she felt was relief or suffocation.
The hours that followed blurred into a haze of controlled chaos. Men moved in and out, reporting on angles of trajectory, vantage points, and possible suspects. Elena barely understood half of it. All she knew was that someone had stood outside this tower of glass and steel and pulled the trigger—close enough to make their presence known, far enough to escape.
When the reports slowed, Damian led her into his study. The room was lined with shelves of leather-bound books, heavy oak furniture, and a single painting—an abstract swirl of crimson and black. Elena had never been inside before.
Damian poured two glasses of scotch and handed one to her. “Drink,” he said.
Her hands shook as she took it. She barely tasted the burn of the alcohol before setting the glass aside.
His jaw flexed. He leaned against the desk; his figure cast in shadows by the lamplight. “Elena, I don't want to worry, like I have told you before; this isn’t about you. Not entirely. They only see you as a leverage to use against me; they are not particularly after your life.”
Her voice was soft. “Do you even hear yourself? I shouldn’t be a leverage, Damian. I should be… nothing to them. Just a woman who works in a bookstore.”
“You stopped being ‘just a woman’ the moment I touched you.” His voice was low, roughened by something like regret—or hunger. “And now, whether you like it or not, you’re part of my world.”
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The night of the day the bullet shattered Damian’s penthouse window, sleep felt like an impossible luxury.
Elena lay beneath the cool silk sheets of the guest room, staring at the ceiling while the city pulsed faintly beyond the glass. Her body ached with exhaustion, but her mind refused to rest.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it—the sharp crack, the spiderweb fracture of glass spreading outward, the invisible line between life and death snapping in an instant. She could still feel Damian’s weight pressing her down, shielding her body with his own, his voice low and commanding in her ear. Stay down.
She threw the covers aside. The sheets felt suffocating, the walls pressing in. Her bare feet carried her across the cool marble floor of the hallway until she reached the boarded window in the living room.
Elena reached out, her fingertips brushing the cold surface.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
The voice behind her made her jump. Damian’s voice was low and rough, carrying that dangerous edge even in its softness.
She turned. He stood at the threshold, shirt unbuttoned halfway, sleeves rolled up, hair disheveled as though he hadn’t slept either.
“I keep seeing it,” she admitted. “The glass. The way it broke.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he crossed the room in measured strides, stopping close enough that she could feel his body heat.
“You should hate me for putting you here,” he murmured.
She shook her head. “I don’t.”
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp, searching, as if he was trying to catch her in a lie. But Elena held steady. She wasn’t lying—not to him, not to herself.
“Then what do you feel?” he asked.
The question stripped her bare. Her lips parted, but the answer tangled in her chest. Fear. Desire. Need. Love, yes love. All of it coiled together, impossible to untangle.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
Damian’s hand lifted, brushing her hair back from her face. His touch was almost reverent, as though he was afraid she might vanish if he pressed too hard. “You do,” he said. “You just won’t admit it.”
Her breath caught. “And what about you? Do you know what you feel?”
Something dark flickered across his expression—hesitation, maybe, or pain. He wasn’t a man who revealed himself easily.
“I know that when that bullet hit the glass, the only thing I thought about was you,” he said, voice low, raw. “Not my men. Not my enemies. Just you. I would’ve torn this city apart brick by brick if it meant keeping you breathing.”
Elena’s chest tightened. His confession set her heart racing, a fire sparking deep inside her.
“Damian…”
The sound of his name on her lips was enough to break him. He pulled her into his arms, crushing her against his chest. She felt the hard line of his body, the wild beat of his heart. His lips found hers with a desperation that made her knees weaken.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was fierce, consuming—like he was trying to claim every breath she had left. She clung to him, letting the storm swallow her whole.
---
When they finally broke apart, Damian pressed his forehead to hers, both of them breathing hard. His hands framed her face, holding her in place as if she might slip away.
“Say it,” he whispered.
Her lashes fluttered. “Say what?”
“That you’re mine.” His voice was hoarse, almost broken.
The air between them vibrated with tension. Her heart pounded so hard she could barely breathe. She knew what those words meant—what saying them would bind her to. And still… she couldn’t stop herself.
“I’m yours,” she whispered.
- Writer
