Night settled over the city like a storm cloud.
Damian's penthouse was quiet now, the kind of quiet that wasn't peace but a thin thread stretched too tight. Charlotte had left hours ago, taking half the security team to chase down new leads on Jonas Mercer. I'd spent the evening pretending to read, but every creak of the floorboards made me jump.
I couldn't shake it — the thought of Vaughn's bloodied face, my name spoken like a weapon.
Leverage.
I was a pawn in a game I didn't even know existed until it had already claimed pieces of my life.
And I hated it.
From the other side of the room, Damian watched me, not openly, not obviously. But I felt it. Like static in the air. Every time I glanced up from my book, his eyes were there — sharp, dark, unrelenting.
I finally snapped the book shut. "If you've got something to say, say it."
He didn't pretend not to know what I meant.
Instead, he stood, crossed the room, and sat down beside me on the oversized couch. Too close. The heat of him bled into my skin, and my pulse kicked up before he even spoke.
"You should sleep," he said quietly.
I huffed a dry laugh. "Not happening."
"Then let me help."
I turned, one brow raised. "Help how? Gonna knock me out?"
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. It made him look less like the cold, untouchable CEO and more like the man who'd once driven me home in a rainstorm with the radio playing low and an unexpected softness in his eyes.
"I was thinking more like distracting you."
My breath caught.
It wasn't the words.
It was the way he said them.
Like a promise.
Or a challenge.
For a second, neither of us moved. The air between us thickened. His gaze dropped to my mouth. I felt the pulse in my throat hammer like a drum.
But before I could lean in — before I could do something reckless — a sharp buzz from his phone shattered the moment.
Damian cursed under his breath, snatching it up.
"It's Charlotte," he muttered.
I exhaled shakily, grateful and furious all at once.
He answered, pacing toward the window.
I caught snatches of the conversation — a lead on Mercer's hideout, possible movement on a warehouse near the docks. The tension in Damian's shoulders returned, his face hardening into that familiar mask.
He ended the call, turning back to me.
"Get dressed," he ordered. "You're coming with me."
"Where?"
"The docks."
I stared at him. "Is that smart?"
"Probably not. But if Mercer's there, I want him to see you. I want him to know I'm done playing."
My stomach growled.
There was no talking him out of this.
And maybe, deep down, I didn't want to.
The docks were a jagged sprawl of rusted metal and cold, gray water. The wind carried the scent of oil and salt. Damian's car rolled to a stop at the edge of an empty lot, floodlights shining overhead.
Charlotte was waiting, gun in hand.
"Three men inside," she reported, eyes flicking to me, then back to Damian. "No Mercer yet. But one of them's got Vaughn's old phone."
A code, then….a trap.
Damian's face was carved from stone. "Let's go."
I followed without question.
Inside, the warehouse was a cavernous shell, the air sharp with mildew. Shadows clung to the corners, broken only by the best of a single overhead bulb.
Three men waited.
I didn't recognize any of them.
But they recognized Damian.
Fear showed in their eyes. Not terror — something worse. The kind of bone-deep dread that said they knew exactly who he was, and what he could do.
"Where's Mercer?" Damian asked, voice like a knife sliding between ribs.
The tallest man hesitated. "He's… he's not coming. Said you'd figure it out."
"Figure what out?"
The man swallowed hard. "That it was never about you."
Damian's gaze darkened. "Then who?"
The man's eyes turned to me.
And in that moment, my world tilted.
"It was always about her."
The words landed like a punch.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"What the hell does that mean?" Damian growled.
But the man was already backing up, panic on his face.
Before anyone could stop him, a sharp crack split the air.
A sniper's shot.
The man dropped like a stone.
Charlotte dove for cover, cursing.
Damian shoved me down behind a stack of crates, his body shielding mine.
"Stay down!" he snapped.
I could barely breathe.
Another shot rang out, splintering the wood above us.
I felt Damian's hand close around mine.
Felt the rough scrape of his palm, the hard, fast thrum of his pulse.
And then — in the middle of gunfire and chaos — he pulled me closer.
His mouth was at my ear.
"I swear to God, Ava," he rasped, "if anything happens to you, I'll burn this whole city down."
The words scorched through me.
Not a threat.
Not a promise.
A confession.
And before I could stop myself, I turned my head, close enough to see every sharp, beautiful angle of his face.
"Then don't let anything happen," I whispered.
His eyes locked on mine.
The moment stretched, snapped taut.
And for one impossible second, I thought he might kiss me.
I wanted him to.
Even with bullets in the air.
Maybe especially then.
But he didn't.
He swore again, low and vicious, and pressed a gun into my hand.
"Stay behind me," he ordered.
And then he rose, moving like death itself into the fray.
And I realized something terrifying.
I wasn't afraid for me anymore.
I was afraid for him.
Because if I lost him now — to Mercer, to this war, to his own recklessness — it wouldn't just hurt.
It would destroy me.