The snow outside is a blur of white that smears across my windshield. The drive to Damian’s compound feels longer than it is. The roads are slick, streetlights bent by wind, my mind a storm of fear and fury and something far darker: the pull toward him that I keep trying to kill.
But when I turn onto the private road leading to the Ignatov estate, my hands tighten on the wheel. I haven’t been here like this, not with the raw vulnerability scraping my walls thin.
By the time I reach the gate, my breath fogs in front of me in short, sharp bursts. I identify myself to the guard, but he barely checks. The gate slides open as if they were already expecting me.
A chill slides down my spine.
Was he?
This compound of glass and steel and old stone folded together like a fortress wearing a modern disguise spills ahead of me. Lights spill through the tall windows, warm and gold against the snow. It shouldn’t look like safety.
But what other choice do I have?
I park unevenly, practically stumbling out of the car. The cold slaps me immediately, biting through my clothes. My boots crunch against the fresh layer of snow, each step a heartbeat.
My pulse feels too loud in my ears. I raise my fist, and before I can even knock, it slides open.
The door opens to spit Damian at me.
He’s in a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, as if he’s been pacing or working or fighting something invisible. His expression is controlled, almost effortless, but his eyes—
His eyes give him away.
He hides how startled he looks well. Then the surprise sharpens into grim understanding.
“You’re here,” he says quietly.
It’s a statement, like it was expected that I would be here, this late at night, knocking on his door.
I try to spit back something at him, something that feels sharp and tears at him, but no word I have feels adequate. Not after feeling someone else’s breath in my apartment hours before I arrived.
The wind pushes snow into the doorway, scattering cold around us. Damian studies me in a way that feels like a hand closing around my rib cage but not cruel.
His eyes flick to the bag on my shoulder. To the tremor in my fingers I thought I’d hidden. To the raw, unfiltered fear I’m still trying to crush beneath my boots.
His expression shifts into something dark and furious and directed at anyone who isn’t me. Wordlessly, he steps aside.
The warmth inside the house spills outward, stirring the air between us. I cross the threshold, brushing past him, and for a moment his heat grazes mine, a proximity that steals more air from my lungs than any fear ever could.
He closes the door behind us. The lock slides into place with a quiet click that feels like sealing fate, not safety.
And when I finally lift my gaze to him, Damian is watching me like I’m both a fire he wants to touch and a detonation he knows might take him with it.
He doesn’t speak. He knows something hunted me here.
He knows I chose him anyway.
Chapter 5 - Damian
Harper stands in my doorway like the pale snow behind her, furious, trembling in a way she doesn’t want me to see. Snow clings to her lashes like the remnants of some small, private war she barely outran.
I know Harper, and I know that this woman would invite any harm to her doorstep before she comes to me for help.
I know exactly what’s happened: Anton has stopped playing with shadows.
This is open war.
Once she has a cup of warm tea warming her fingers, she holds out the flash drive like it’s a severed finger.
