Elara didn't sleep.
Not even for a second.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the flash of the gun, the way the bottle exploded above her head, the sound of Damien's voice cutting through the chaos. Over and over. Like a loop she couldn't escape.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of her temporary apartment above the club, arms wrapped around herself like they could hold her together.
By morning, she still felt like a ghost wearing skin.
A soft knock pulled her back to reality.
She opened the door to find Lucy leaning against the frame, holding two cups of coffee.
"Looked like you could use one," she said, stepping in without waiting for an invitation.
Elara blinked. "How'd you even—?"
"Rafe told me. Said you were shaking like a leaf and Damien nearly went nuclear."
Elara didn't respond. Just took the coffee and sat on the edge of the bed.
Lucy watched her for a moment, then sat beside her.
"I know you're probably replaying it in your head."
"Over and over," Elara whispered.
"Yeah. It doesn't stop for a while." Lucy sipped her coffee. "First time I saw someone pull a gun, I thought I was going to vomit."
"You seem so calm now."
"Fake it till you make it, babe. And after a few years in this world, you either become steel—or you break."
Elara stared down at the cup in her hands.
"I don't know what I'm doing here."
"Yes, you do," Lucy said softly. "You just don't want to admit it."
Elara looked up.
"You're not here because of a paycheck," Lucy added. "You're here because of him."
Later that day, Damien summoned her.
His office was dimly lit, blinds half-drawn, city light seeping through the slats like veins of fire. He stood by the window, hands behind his back, staring at something far away.
When she stepped in, he didn't turn.
"You didn't sleep," he said flatly.
"You spying on me again?"
He finally looked over his shoulder. "You looked like a ghost this morning. I don't need cameras to tell me that."
She stayed silent.
"I pulled footage," he continued. "The shooter knew where you were. He waited until you were behind the bar before he pulled the trigger."
"So it was meant for me."
He turned fully now. His jaw was tight.
"I believe it was a warning. To me. Using you."
"Why?"
"Because Bianca's father and others like him want to remind me I'm not untouchable."
Elara's brow furrowed. "You think Bianca—"
"I think she's a spoiled pawn in a bigger game. But her father? He plays chess with bodies."
Elara's stomach twisted.
"So what now?"
"Now…" Damien walked to his desk, opened a drawer, and handed her a slim black phone. "You don't go anywhere without this. If anything feels wrong, call the number labeled 'A.' That line goes straight to me."
She looked at the phone, then at him. "You're assigning me a burner?"
"I'm assigning you protection."
"And what are you? My boss? My jailer?"
He stepped closer, voice dropping. "I'm the reason you're not in a morgue right now."
Elara flinched.
Damien sighed, jaw working. "That wasn't fair."
"No. It wasn't."
He looked at her then—really looked. "I don't want you dead, Elara."
"That's comforting."
"I want you safe."
There was a weight in his voice that hadn't been there before. A crack in the armor.
"I don't need saving."
"Don't confuse needing with deserving."
That night, Elara couldn't bring herself to go upstairs. The thought of sleeping alone with her thoughts made her feel physically sick.
She found herself wandering toward the club floor, empty now, lights low, silence thick.
She didn't expect to find Damien there.
But he was—sitting at one of the booths, tie loosened, fingers toying with a glass of untouched scotch.
He looked up when she stepped into the light.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked.
"No."
"Sit."
She hesitated.
"I won't bite," he added, voice quieter.
Elara moved to the booth and slid into the seat across from him.
They sat in silence.
For a long time.
Then he said, "You remind me of my brother."
That caught her off guard.
"He was the only one who ever looked me in the eye and didn't flinch. He saw all the ugliness in me and still called me out on my bullshit."
"What happened to him?"
Damien's hand tightened around the glass.
"He tried to save me. From this life. From our father. But I didn't listen."
"Why?"
"Because saving me would've meant becoming like him. And he couldn't do it."
Elara swallowed. "So he left?"
"He died."
She didn't ask how.
He didn't offer.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
He looked at her.
And for the first time, the mask slipped completely.
Just for a second.
Then it was back.
But something lingered in the air between them. Raw. Exposed. Dangerous.
"He'd like you," Damien said softly.
Elara's throat tightened.
And she didn't know why, but hearing that broke something open inside her.
She stood abruptly. "I should go."
He didn't stop her.
But as she turned to leave, he said her name.
"Elara."
She paused.
"Next time," he said, voice low, "I won't let them get that close to you."
She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his.
"Next time," she whispered, "I won't let them get that close to you, either."
And then she walked away.
Neither of them said it.
But both of them knew it:
They were already in too deep.