Chapter 17 – Elara
It’s been two days since I walked in on Roman cleaning his weapons, and in those two days, something between us has gone quiet.
Hollow. We haven’t spoken beyond short nods at breakfast or in passing through the hall.
I haven’t slept in his bed since that night, and every night, a part of me keeps waiting for the inevitable order to return, but it never comes.
He doesn’t come to my room. Doesn’t look for me. Doesn’t even ask.
Maybe this is what I wanted—distance—but it doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like punishment.
By noon, I can’t stand staring at the ceiling anymore.
I get up, throw on a soft sweater and jeans, and decide to head to the library to paint.
Maybe losing myself in the strokes of a brush will silence the storm in my chest. Sasha had offered to take me out to lunch earlier, but with the rumors of my father’s men circling like wolves, I can’t risk leaving the estate.
The house is too big, too still. My footsteps echo through the marble corridor as I round the bend that leads toward the library, and that’s when I hear them. Voices. Low. Urgent.
I pause. The sound is coming from the next hallway, just beyond the archway that opens into the west wing.
It’s none of my business, but then—
“David Chang,” one of the voices mutters.
The name freezes me where I stand.
I press my back against the wall, heart hammering, and tilt my head just enough to listen.
“They’re assembling in Manhattan,” one of the guards says. His voice is rough, nervous. “I heard it from the tech room. Half of David’s crew’s already landed.”
“How close?” the other asks.
“Close enough to taste blood.”
The words sink like ice down my spine.
I press my palm to my chest, trying to slow my heartbeat, but it’s useless. Every muscle in me tenses. They’re coming. They’re here.
Roman said he’d kill anyone who tried to take me. But what if he can’t stop them all? What if my father gets to him first?
I step away from the wall, shaking, the edges of panic clawing at my ribs. The walls of this estate that once felt like a fortress now feel like a cage.
I rush into the library, slamming the doors behind me before collapsing onto the chaise by the window. My chest heaves. The sunlight spilling across the floor feels too bright, too normal for the panic clawing through me.
Tears burn my eyes as I curl into myself, trembling. The thought of my father—his voice, his orders, his fury—doesn’t bring relief. It brings terror. For the first time, I realize I don’t want to go back to him.
I don’t want to go home.
I want to stay here.
With Roman.
The thought alone makes my heart twist. He terrifies me. He infuriates me. But underneath the anger and fear is something else—something dark and aching that I can’t name.
I bury my face in my hands as tears spill down my cheeks. I’m not afraid of being his prisoner anymore.
I’m afraid of what I’m starting to feel for him.
I stay in the library all day, jumping at every little sound that filters in from beyond the heavy doors—the creak of wood, the murmur of guards outside, even the faint echo of footsteps in the hall. Every noise feels like a threat. Like they’ve finally come for me.
Roman isn’t here. That’s what makes it worse.
Should I go find him? The thought crosses my mind again and again, sharp as a whisper I can’t silence. But no, he’ll only think I’m weak. I can already see the look in his eyes if I show up at his door trembling like this.
I shake my head, forcing the thought away.
My fingers tighten as I snatch a book off the shelf—something heavy and old, the kind of book that smells like dust and time.
I don’t even look at the title. I just drop into the armchair and open it, pretending I can read when all I’m doing is trying not to fall apart.
I try to read for a while, eyes tracing the same sentence over and over until the words blur together. Nothing sticks. My mind refuses to stay still.
With a frustrated sigh, I drop the book onto the table and stand. Maybe painting will help. It usually does.
I walk to the easel in the corner, the one I haven’t touched since the last time I painted him. Roman. That painting is hidden behind the shelf now, buried beneath old books where no one will ever find it. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away—but I couldn’t stand to look at it either.
Now I just stand there, staring at the blank canvas. I don’t know what to paint. I don’t want to know. I just grab the brushes, the colors, anything I can reach, and start.
The strokes are wild, desperate. Reds and blacks, streaks of white that cut through like light struggling to breathe.
I don’t think. I just feel. Every drag of the brush is anger, fear, confusion.
The ache of wanting him. The terror of losing everything.
The helplessness of being caught between two monsters—one who made me, and one who might just unmake me.
I’ve been painting for a long time and don’t know how much time has passed. I’m not hungry or thirsty. I just paint, letting every emotion spill onto the canvas. Then I hear a loud explosion that makes my ears ring and my heart slam into my ribs.
The brush slips from my fingers, clattering to the floor. My ears are ringing. I whip around, heart hammering in my chest. The explosion shakes the walls, rattling the windows. Dust flutters from the ceiling like a storm of ash.
I’m trembling, my hands sticky with paint, but I can’t think about that. Only one thought surges through me: Roman.
Is he safe? Is he okay?
I bolt toward the door just as another explosion rocks the estate, the impact so strong it throws me off balance. I hit the floor hard, gasping, my palms scraping against the cold tiles. The chandelier above sways violently, raining dust and fragments of glass.
Is this my father? Is he finally here?
The thought chills me to the bone. I want to crawl, to hide, to make myself small and invisible, but before I can move, another blast shakes the walls. A small shelf topples, crashing onto my leg. Pain shoots through me, sharp and searing, and I cry out.
I grab the edge of the shelf and push, my arms shaking.
It won’t budge. The smoke is thick now, choking the air, stinging my eyes.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear shouts, men yelling orders, boots pounding against the marble floors.
No one saw me come into the library, so I’m probably on my own with no one to find me.
The door bursts open, and I scramble back with a strangled gasp, expecting my father or one of his men. My heart slams against my ribs, adrenaline screaming.
But it’s not them. It’s Roman. His dark eyes blaze with fury and focus. Without a word, he drops to one knee and scoops me off the floor, tucking me securely into his arms. My body presses against his chest, and for a brief moment, I feel both terrified and safe.
He doesn’t hesitate. Roman pivots and charges toward cover, weaving through the smoke-filled corridors. Gunfire cracks around us, bullets striking the walls with deafening thuds. He shields me with his body, every motion precise, controlled, deadly.
I clutch his jacket, heart hammering in terror and relief. The smell of smoke and powder fills my lungs, but all I can focus on is him—my anchor in the chaos, my shield from everything.
“Stay close,” he growls, voice low and steady. “Don’t move. Not an inch.”
I nod, barely able to speak, trusting him completely, even as the world erupts around us. Suddenly, the shadows shift, and strange men burst into the hallway, weapons raised. My stomach drops, fear twisting into ice.
Roman doesn’t hesitate. He fights like a man possessed—methodical, merciless, lethal. Each movement is precise, a deadly dance of power and control. My breath catches as I watch him, every strike calculated, every block flawless.
And the most shocking part? He doesn’t even drop me. Not once. He holds me close with one arm, protecting me as if my life is tethered to his own, while the other arm tears through the attackers with brutal efficiency.
I can hardly tear my eyes away. I’ve never seen anything more terrifying—or more magnetic. Every motion, every growl, every glare aimed at them makes my chest pound in a mix of awe and something deeper, something that scares me more than the gunfire and smoke.
In that moment, I realize just how completely, utterly, he could dominate everything…and I’m both terrified and captivated.
He finally manages to get me down the stairs, my body pressed against his as we dodge falling debris and stray gunfire. We stop in front of a reinforced door. Roman punches in a code with swift precision, and it slides open. He pushes me inside, the metal clicking shut behind us.
“Stay here,” he orders, his voice calm but unyielding.
I clutch his coat, panic rising. “No! Please…stay with me,” I beg, my chest heaving.
He cups my face in his large, calloused hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I can’t,” he says firmly, every word carrying weight. “I have to go out and fight for you. I won’t let them have the last laugh, Elara. Not ever.”
My hands grip his shoulders, and for a moment I imagine him staying, just holding me. But his jaw is set, his gaze fixed on some invisible battlefield beyond this room.
“You’re safe here,” he continues, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “No one will get in. I promise…with my life.”
I want to argue, to beg, to tell him it’s enough for him to just be here, but I can feel the absolute certainty in his eyes. He leans down, pressing a brief, searing kiss to my forehead.
Then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me in deafening silence. My hands shake, my legs threaten to buckle, but I hug myself tightly, clinging to the ghost of him, to the promise that I’m protected—even if it’s without him.
It’s a huge suite, but I don’t look around. My eyes are glued to the door. I drop onto the nearest couch, hugging myself tightly, counting the seconds until he comes back. Each tick feels like an eternity.
Finally, the door swings open, and he’s there. Roman. Alive. My heart jumps, and I throw myself into his arms, clinging like I’ll never let go.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice low but steady, pressing my forehead to his chest. “Everything’s okay now.”
Without a word, he scoops me up bridal style, carrying me effortlessly as we ascend the stairs. My eyes widen as I glimpse the chaos—bodies being carried away, the aftermath of the attack.
Tears burn my eyes, spilling freely down my cheeks.
The fear, the relief, the horror—it all collides, and I can’t hold it back.
Roman tightens his grip on me, murmuring reassurances, but I hardly hear the words.
I just let myself cry, letting him carry me above the destruction, the only safe place in the storm.
He takes me into our suite and sets me down on the bed, cupping my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him. “Stop crying,” he orders, voice low, edged with steel. “We won. And now…my retaliation will be ten times worse.”
I press my face into his chest and whisper, almost trembling, “I can’t…I can’t go back to him. I feel safer with you than I ever have in my life.”
He holds me tight, silent, fierce. I can feel the weight of his strength, the unwavering certainty in his arms.
“You’re not going back to him. It’s not happening.”
And then, in the quiet of that suite, I realize something terrifying and exhilarating all at once—I might be falling for him. For Roman. And even as the thought makes my chest ache with fear, it also fills me with a strange, liberating warmth I’ve never felt before.