The vase slipped out of my hands before I even had a chance to swing it. It smashed on the floor, shards flying everywhere.

The tall guy grabbed my arms, his grip iron-tight. "Stop fighting. It'll be easier." His voice was too calm.

"Let me go!" I yelled, kicking and twisting, but it was useless.

The other one slapped me hard enough to make my ears ring. My head snapped sideways. "He said alive. Didn't say unhurt."

They dragged me toward the door. My feet slipped on the broken glass, and I saw a streak of red trailing behind. That was my blood.

Out in the hallway, Enzo slumped against the wall, a dark stain spreading on his shirt. He didn't move.

Terror clawed at my throat. They were going to take me. Whoever wanted me, Damon's enemy finally had me.

We got to the top of the stairs. That's when the front door downstairs exploded open.

Not just open blown back so hard it slammed into the wall.

Dark shapes flooded the foyer. Four, maybe five.

Damon stood at the front.

His coat was gone. His white shirt was ripped at the collar, a smear of dirt or blood across his jaw. He looked straight up the stairs at me, caught between the two masked men.

Time froze.

"Let her go." Damon's voice was quiet, but deadly.

The man pinning my arms tried to laugh, but it sounded shaky. "Or what, Rossi? You're outnumbered."

Damon didn't flinch. "Antonio."

A shot cracked through the air.

The shorter man on my left dropped like a dead weight, blood spreading across his mask.

I screamed. The grip on my arms slipped, just for a second, but I tore myself free and stumbled back.

"Get down, Elena!" Damon shouted.

I dropped to my knees on the steps. The masked guy grabbed for me, but another gunshot rang out. This one caught him in the shoulder. He howled, lurching away.

Damon flew up the stairs. Passed me without even looking, gun drawn now. He towered over the wounded man, who clutched his shoulder, cursing.

"Who sent you?" Damon's voice was pure ice.

"Go to hell."

Damon pressed the gun to his knee and pulled the trigger.

The scream was horrible, raw and desperate. The man writhed on the floor. "The Vipers! The Vipers sent us!"

"Why take her?"

"Leverage...to get to you..."

Damon didn't even blink. He looked over at Antonio, standing below. "Clean this up. Make him talk. Then send a message to the Vipers."

Antonio nodded, grim.

Finally, Damon turned to me. I was shaking so hard I could barely stay upright, crouched on the step, feet bleeding.

He came down to me. For a moment, he just looked, eyes burning. Not gentle. Not soft. Just furious.

"Did they touch you?" His voice was rough.

"N-no. Just my arm."

He glanced at the angry red marks already blooming on my skin. His jaw flexed. He pulled off what was left of his shirt, left in only a black undershirt, and wrapped the fabric around my feet. His hands were quick and sure, not gentle, but careful.

"Can you stand?"

I tried. My legs folded.

He didn't say anything, just scooped me up. I gasped, went stiff. He smelled like gunpowder, sweat, the night. His arms locked around me, steady and strong.

He carried me past Antonio, who was dragging the screaming man away, past Marco checking Enzo's pulse. He didn't take me to the third floor, to my room. He took me on his own on the second.

He nudged the door open with his shoulder. Inside, his bedroom was huge and cold, the air thick with his scent. The bed dominated the space, sheets crisp and dark.

He set me down on the edge. "Don't move."

He disappeared into the bathroom. Water ran. He came back with a wet cloth and a small kit.

He knelt in front of me and started cleaning the cuts on my feet. The water stung. I jerked away.

His grip on my ankle tightened, holding me still not cruel, just absolute.

"You texted Lucas Thorne," he said, not looking up.

All the color drained from my face. "How did you do?"

"Your phone's monitored. Every call, every text. I own the air you breathe, Elena. Don't forget that." He pressed the cloth to a deeper cut. "You were planning to meet him."

Not a question.

"I was scared," I whispered.

"You are mine," he said, voice low, final. "My property. My responsibility. No one touches what's mine. Not some college kid. Not a rival gang." His eyes met mine gray, wild, terrifying. "You could've died tonight. Or worse. Because they wanted a target. And you're my target."

He wrapped my feet with a fresh bandage. His hands lingered, just a moment too long. A jolt of heat shot through me.

He stood, looking down, chest heaving. Fury and adrenaline still radiated off him.

"You stay in this room tonight," he said. "Where I can see you."

He walked to the other side of the bed, sat down, and yanked off his boots. He didn't look my way again.

I sat there, heart pounding, feet throbbing and clean, dangling above the floor. He was going to sleep here. With me in his bed.

He lay back, staring up at the ceiling, one arm under his head. The silence pressed in, heavy with everything that just happened Gunshots. Blood. His hands on my skin.

My breathing was just starting to settle when he spoke, his words slipping into the darkness.

"If you ever try to run to him," he said, his voice low and sharper than I'd ever heard it, "I won't just kill him, Elena. I'll ruin everything he cares about first. And then I'll bring you back."

He turned away, his back facing me.

"Go to sleep."

I woke up alone. The bed felt too big without him, but his scent lingered on the pillow sharp, clean, that expensive shampoo he always used.

My feet were still wrapped up. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, striping the black sheets. Everything in Damon's room was hard and cold, like he'd built a fortress and called it a bedroom.

The bathroom door stood open. Steam drifted out.

I pulled the sheet to my chin. My nightgown was ripped and tossed on the floor where he'd dropped it last night.

The shower stopped.

He came out a minute later, towel slung low on his hips, water shining on his chest, tattoos curling over his shoulders. He didn't look at me. He went straight for the closet.

"You're bleeding on my sheets," he said, still facing away.

I glanced down and spotted a small red smear near my foot. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be still." His voice was flat. He pulled on black trousers, left his shirt unbuttoned, grabbed a first aid kit from a cabinet.

He sat right on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight. He took my ankle, steady and unhurried, and started unwrapping the bandage. He didn't look at me, just focused on the cut, his hair still damp and falling forward.

"The guy who grabbed you last night," he said, voice low. "He's dead."

I flinched. "You... killed him?"

"Antonio did. After he gave us a name." Damon dabbed something cold and sharp-smelling on my cut. I sucked in a breath, biting back a yelp. "Somebody inside gave them the house layout. Guard shifts."

My stomach dropped. "Who?"

"That's the question," he said, wrapping a clean bandage. Then he finally looked at me. His eyes were a storm. "Until I know, you don't leave my sight."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're moving into this room."

I froze. "With you?"

"Yes." He buttoned his shirt with quick, clipped movements. "You're a target. The best way to protect what's mine is to keep it close."

He said it like I was a thing, something to guard.

"I don't want to stay in here," I whispered.

He finished with the buttons and leaned over me, hands planted on either side of my hips, trapping me. His face was so close, I could see the scar along his jaw, the thick lashes. He smelled like soap and something darker.

"What you want stopped mattering the second your father shook my hand."

His voice was quiet, but it punched the air out of my lungs.

"You'll dress. You'll eat. You'll stay with me today. Got it?"

I nodded, stiff and small.

He pushed off the bed. "Good. Get up. Wear the blue dress in the closet."

He left. The room was still warm from his body, but I was shaking.

The blue dress fit like it was made for me. Smooth silk, nothing out of place. Another reminder that nothing here actually belonged to me.

Alessandra brought breakfast to the study. Damon sat behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear. "Double the patrols. Reroute all shipments," he barked. He saw me and waved me over.

I sat. Picked at some fruit.

He ended the call. "We're going out."

"Where?"

"Business. You're just here to look pretty. Smile when you're supposed to. Don't talk."

An hour later, we were in the back of the car, city blurring past. Marco drove. Antonio sat up front, eyes flicking everywhere.

We pulled up at some high-end restaurant. Private room in the back.

Waiting for us a man, older, soft around the edges but with sharp eyes. Vincenzo, Damon's uncle.

"Nephew," Vincenzo greeted, standing to hug Damon. Then his gaze landed on me, warm and curious. "And you must be Elena. A beauty. He didn't do you justice."

Damon's hand found the small of my back. Possessive. "Elena, my uncle Vincenzo. The only man I trust in this city."

Vincenzo took my hand, kissed my knuckles. His smile was gentle. "Welcome to the family."

We sat. Someone poured wine. The men talked business, numbers, shipments. I tried to follow, but none of it stuck. Vincenzo's eyes kept darting my way, assessing.

"And how do you like your new home, dear?" he asked.

"It's... an adjustment," I managed.

"I bet. It's a lonely world sometimes." He patted my hand. "If you need anything, or just want to talk, you call your Uncle Vince."

He was so different from Damon. Warm. Human. For a second, I felt like maybe someone here actually saw me.

Lunch ended. As we got up, Vincenzo pulled Damon aside. They talked by the window, voices hushed. I saw Damon's jaw tighten before he gave a sharp nod.

The drive home was tense. Damon stared out the window.

"Your uncle seems nice," I tried.

Damon let out a harsh laugh. "He's the most dangerous man at that table." He turned to me, eyes sharp. "Trust no one, Elena. Especially the ones who smile."

That night, he stayed late in the study. I waited in his bedroom, perched on the bed, feeling like I didn't belong.

He came in near midnight. Didn't say a word. He just undressed with his back to me, then disappeared into the bathroom.

The light clicked off.

I lay on my side, facing the wall, pretending to be asleep.

He came out of the bathroom. The mattress dipped when he got in. He stretched out on his back, careful not to touch me.

We just lay there in the dark. Not a sound.

Then his voice cut through the quiet. "Turn over."

My heart stuttered. I rolled to face him, slow, careful. The moonlight caught the sharp edge of his jaw.

He didn't waste words. "Last night the man who grabbed you. What did you feel?"

That threw me. "Scared," I said.

He stared up at the ceiling. "And when I shot him?"

I couldn't forget the look on his face, cold and focused. "Safe."

He turned his head. Our eyes locked in the half-light. It felt like the room shrank, everything tightening around that moment.

"Good," he said, voice low.

Then he reached for me. Not rough. He just brushed my hair off my cheek, gently tucking it behind my ear. The softness of it made me flinch.

His hand moved down, thumb brushing my lower lip. I sucked in a shaky breath.

"This mouth," he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself, "asks for things it doesn't even understand."

He leaned in. I thought he'd kiss me. Every muscle in my body went tight, caught between fear and something else.

But he stopped, his lips just shy of mine. His eyes held onto me daring me to move, to breathe, to break first.

Then he shifted, mouth finding my neck instead. His lips burned against my skin. I gasped, gripping the sheet.

His teeth grazed my throat close enough to scare, not enough to hurt. I shuddered.

"You're mine," he whispered, voice rough. "Every gasp. Every shiver. Mine."

He pulled away, leaving my skin flushed and tingling. Then he rolled over, turning his back to me.

"Go to sleep."

I just lay there, heart pounding, my neck still hot where he'd kissed me. The cruelty was gone. In its place, something even scarier.

A promise.

And for the first time, I wasn't sure if I wanted him to break it.

The mark on my neck was still there when I woke up a faint, rose-colored stain just below my ear.

I touched it in the mirror, remembering his mouth, the scrape of his teeth. My skin still felt hot from it.

Damon was already gone. He'd left a note on his pillow, sharp handwriting on thick paper:

Wear something that covers it.

D

Not a suggestion. A command.

I picked a high-necked black dress. It felt like I was mourning something.

He waited in the dining room, reading a tablet with coffee steaming beside him. He didn't even look up. "Sit."

I sat down. Alessandra set a plate of eggs in front of me. I didn't want them.

"You have an appointment today," he said, eyes on the screen.

"What kind of appointment?"

"A doctor. Full exam."

My hand froze, fork halfway to my mouth. "Why?"

Finally, he looked at me. His eyes were flat, all business. "You live in my house. You eat my food. Your health is my asset's health. Standard procedure."

Asset. I set the fork down. "I don't want some stranger..."

"It isn't up for debate." He pushed the tablet away. "Marco will drive you. He'll wait in the room."

Humiliation burned. "He's going to watch?"

"He'll stand by the door. He's seen worse." Damon stood up, fixing his cufflinks. "Don't do anything stupid while you're out. The doctor works for me. The clinic's mine. Hell, the street's mine."

He walked out. Didn't say another word.

The clinic was spotless, cold, and private. A female doctor with gentle hands and a practiced smile did the exam. Marco stood by the door, silent, massive, back to us.

"Everything looks perfectly healthy," the doctor said, scribbling on a chart. "Any concerns? Painful periods? Sex?"

I flushed. "No. No activity."

She nodded, and wrote it down. "We'll draw blood for the usual panels. You can get dressed."

As I pulled my dress back on, I spotted the chart on the counter. The name at the top wasn't Elena Rossi.

It read: ROSSI, E. ASSET #7.

A number. That's all I was.

Marco drove me back in silence. The city blurred past, people moving through their lives, free, while I sat trapped in a luxury prison.

We were nearly home when I saw him.

On the corner, outside that old bookstore café, leaning against a lamppost, phone in hand.

Lucas.

My heart was hammered. He looked exactly the same soft, warm, nothing like the world I lived in now.

"Stop the car," I whispered.

Marco caught my eyes in the mirror. "No."

"Please. Just a minute. I just want to talk to him."

"Boss's orders. You stay in the car."

"He won't even know!"

Marco's face didn't change. "He always knows."

The car slowed at a red light. We stopped right next to Lucas's corner.

I didn't think so. I grabbed the door handle. Locked. The child lock was on. It didn't budge.

I pounded on the window.

Lucas looked up from his phone. His eyes drifted over the street, skipped past the car then landed on Marco in the front seat. Recognition flashed. The man who'd answered my phone.

"Lucas!" I yelled, even though I knew he couldn't hear.

He stepped closer, frowning.

The light changed. Marco hit the gas. The car lunged forward. I twisted around, watching Lucas break into a run after us, his face twisted with worry and confusion, until he vanished around a corner.

Hot tears ran down my cheeks. Marco didn't say a word.

Damon waited in the foyer when we got back. He didn't need to say a thing I felt the rage rolling off him.

"My study," he said, voice low and sharp. "Now."

Marco disappeared. My legs felt shaky as I followed Damon.

He shut the door behind us. "You tried to see him."

"I just wanted to talk!"

"You screamed his name from my car." He stepped closer. "You made a scene. You got his attention. Mine, too."

"He's my friend!"

"You don't have friends!" he exploded, losing control. He grabbed my arms. "You have me. You have this house. You have the protection I offer with my blood. That boy is a weakness. A target. And you painted a bullseye on his back today!"

He shook me, his face twisted with fury. "Do you know what happens to things I care about? They get used against me. They get taken. They get broken."

The pain in his voice stopped me cold. This wasn't just about owning me. He was scared.

He let me go, raked a hand through his hair, and turned away. His shoulders were tight, braced.

"I won't let you destroy yourself with your sentimentality," he said, voice rough and lower. "Or get him killed because of it."

"Then let me go," I begged, sobbing. "If I'm so dangerous, let me leave."

He turned. The look in his eyes was terrifying utterly certain. "Never."

He crossed the space between us. This time, he didn't grab it. He held my face in his hands, gentle but unyielding. His thumbs brushed away my tears, a cruel kind of tenderness.

"You want to see "What happens when you push me, Elena?" he breathed, so close I could feel the words on my lips. "When you remind me you're not just a chess piece, but the woman I want to ruin for anyone else?"

Then his mouth crashed into mine.

This wasn't a kiss. It was a takeover. Hard and hungry and wild. I gasped, and he took advantage, deepening it, tasting me, stealing my breath and every scrap of willpower. One hand slid from my cheek into my hair, tugging my head back. His other arm locked around my waist, pulling me tight against him.

Thinking? Gone. Fighting? Impossible. He tasted like coffee and fury, and the raw heat of him burned right through me. My bones? Melted. Something hot and reckless sparked low in my belly.

He finally broke the kiss, panting. His eyes God, they were black with want. "You're mine," he growled. "Every part of you."

He kissed me again, gentler this time but still in control. His hands slid down, grabbing my backside, lifting me up. I wrapped my legs around him without even thinking. He carried me to his desk, sent papers and his tablet tumbling to the floor with a crash.

He laid me out on the cold, hard wood. His weight settled between my thighs, heavy and somehow perfect. His mouth left mine, trailed along my jaw, down to the mark on my neck, his tongue soothing and claiming at the same time.

"Damon..." I whimpered, fists tangled in his shirt.

He unzipped my dress, peeling it down to my waist. The rush of cool air prickled my skin, but then came the heat of his gaze. His hand cupped my breast, thumb circling over lace. Pleasure shot through me, sharp and dizzying.

He lowered his head, mouth replacing his hand, sucking through the fabric. I cried out, arching up off the desk.

He looked up, lips wet, eyes locked on mine. "This is what you do to me," he rasped. "You're chaos."

His hand slid between us, fingers slipping under the waistband of my panties. I went still, every muscle tight.

He noticed. Froze, too.

For a long moment, he just stared at me, chest heaving, his hand burning hot against my skin. I could see the battle in his eyes possession fighting with restraint, hunger snarling at his own rules.

He cursed, rough and low, and pulled his hand away. Rested his forehead against mine, breath hot and uneven.

"Not like this," he muttered, maybe to me, maybe just to himself.

He pushed off the desk, leaving me there, exposed, aching. He turned away, fixing his clothes, his back shutting me out.

"Get dressed," he said, cold as ever. "Dinner's in an hour. Don't be late."

Then he was gone, leaving me sprawled across his desk, body throbbing, mind a mess.

The rules had shifted. I'd seen his hunger.

And I'd just stumbled onto my own.