The rain began in the early evening, heavy enough that the mansion's windows rattled. I sat by the fire in the library, trying to focus on the book in my lap, but my attention kept drifting to the door.
Damian hadn't returned since our conversation that afternoon. The only sounds were the crackle of the flames and the occasional rumble of thunder.
When the clock struck eight, the power went out.
The fire became the only light in the room, casting long, shifting shadows across the walls. I waited for someone to come—Lucia, the second-in-command—but the hallway beyond the door stayed silent.
I rose, holding the book like a shield, and stepped into the corridor. Without electricity, the mansion was a maze of darkness. My footsteps sounded too loud on the polished floors.
Halfway to the stairs, I heard it again—the same soft scrape I'd heard before. My breath caught. This time, it was followed by a faint whisper of movement, like fabric brushing against the wall.
"Lucia?" I called. My voice echoed.
No answer.
I turned toward the sound, but before I could take another step, a figure emerged from the shadows.
I couldn't see their face, but they were tall—taller than Damian—and dressed in black from head to toe.
"Who are you?" My voice shook despite my attempt to sound steady.
The figure took a slow step forward. I backed away, my hand groping for the wall. My heart slammed against my ribs.
They didn't speak. They didn't rush. They just kept coming.
I reached the end of the hallway and realized with horror that it was a dead end. The only light came from the faint glow of the storm outside.
"Stay away," I said, my voice trembling.
The figure reached into their coat.
I didn't wait to see what they would pull out. I bolted past them, the edge of my shoulder slamming into theirs. Pain shot down my arm, but I didn't stop.
I ran blindly through the mansion, turning corners, trying to remember the way back to the library. My lungs burned. Behind me, footsteps pounded against the floor—faster now.
I reached a side hall and yanked at the nearest door. Locked. Another door—locked.
The footsteps grew louder.
And then, just as panic threatened to choke me, a hand shot out of the darkness—not to grab me, but to pull me into a room.
The door slammed shut, and I found myself pressed against the wall, my mouth covered by a strong hand.
"It's me," Damian's voice said, low and sharp.
Relief and fear tangled inside me. His hand fell away, and I turned to see him, his white shirt damp from the rain, his eyes glinting in the dim light.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said.
"There's someone—" I began, but the words caught in my throat as I realized his other hand was holding a gun.
"I know," he said. "They're here for you."
"For me?" My voice cracked. "Why—"
"Not now." He moved to the window and peered through a slit in the curtains. "Stay behind me. Don't make a sound."
I stood frozen, my fingers twisting in the hem of my sweater. I heard the sound of the intruder's footsteps again—closer, slower now.
Damian didn't move until the footsteps reached the door. Then, in one swift motion, he yanked it open.
The intruder stood there, gun in hand.
Everything happened in a blur—Damian's arm shooting out, the gun in his hand firing once, the intruder staggering backward.
I clapped my hands over my ears, my knees threatening to give out. Damian stepped forward, kicking the intruder's weapon away.
"Who sent you?" His voice was calm, deadly.
The man coughed, his answer a garbled string of words I couldn't understand.
Damian crouched, listening. Then, without warning, he slammed the man's head against the wall, knocking him unconscious.
I stared, my pulse racing. This was a side of him I had never seen before—cold, efficient, unshaken by violence.
He straightened, his gaze finding mine.
"Now you see why I told you not to wander," he said.
My mouth was dry. "If you hadn't been here—"
"You'd be dead." He said it like a fact, not an exaggeration.
He stepped toward me, his eyes scanning my face, my hands, my trembling shoulders. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine," I lied.
He reached out and touched my cheek. His hand was warm despite the rain. "No, you're not. And you shouldn't be. You just came face to face with the kind of danger I deal with every day."
I swallowed hard. "Why are they after me?"
His thumb brushed over my cheekbone, slow and deliberate. "Because you're mine. And in my world, that makes you a target."
The words sent a shiver through me—not entirely from fear.
Damian glanced at the unconscious man, then back at me. "From now on, Elena, you don't leave my side. Not for a second. Do you understand?"
I nodded, my voice barely above a whisper. "I understand."
He held my gaze for a moment longer, then took my hand and led me out into the hall. His grip was firm, almost possessive.
As we walked past the library, I glanced at the fire still flickering inside, its warmth and light seeming so far away from the cold reality I had just faced.
And for the first time, I realized—being Damian Moretti's wife wasn't just a matter of vows and luxury. It was a matter of survival.