Time fragmented into disjointed snapshots after the crash.
Kael's hands on her shoulders, shaking her gently. Viktor's voice—thank God, Viktor's voice—rough but functional through the partition. The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber mixing with expensive leather. The distant wail of sirens that might have been backup or threat, impossible to tell which.
Move. We need to move. We need to get out before they come back.
But her body felt disconnected from her brain, shock wrapping her in cotton wool that made everything seem distant and unreal.
"Elara." Kael's face appeared inches from hers, dark eyes scanning for signs of consciousness. "I need you to focus. Can you walk?"
Walk. Yes. Walking is something people do. I remember how to do that.
"I think so."
"Good. We're getting out. Now."
The door beside her—miraculously intact despite the crash—opened from the outside. Hands reached in, unfamiliar but efficient, helping extract her from the wreckage of what had been a luxury vehicle and was now a testament to the fragility of life wrapped in steel.
We're in some kind of underground garage. Industrial. Empty. The perfect place to disappear.
Viktor emerged from the driver's side, blood streaming from a cut above his eyebrow but otherwise seemingly functional. Behind him, the two escort vehicles pulled in, and suddenly there were men in tactical gear swarming the area with the practiced efficiency of people who dealt with ambushes regularly.
This is routine for them. Just another day of dodging assassination attempts.
"Sweep the perimeter," Kael ordered, his arm around Elara's waist supporting most of her weight. "Full security protocol. I want eyes on every entrance within a three-block radius."
"Sir." The acknowledgment came from multiple voices simultaneously.
They're soldiers. Or were soldiers. Now they're his private army.
Kael half-carried, half-guided her toward a reinforced door at the far end of the garage. Behind them, she could hear the sound of the compromised limousine being moved, evidence being collected, the mechanical efficiency of people cleaning up violence like it was a spilled drink.
How often does this happen? How often do they have to escape assassination attempts that this feels routine?
The door led to a stairwell—concrete, industrial, the kind of space that existed in the gaps between normal buildings. They climbed two flights, Kael adjusting his grip whenever she stumbled, his presence the only thing keeping her upright as shock tried to drag her under.
Another door. Another security checkpoint. A retinal scanner that seemed absurdly high-tech for what looked like abandoned industrial space.
Then they were inside.
The safehouse was nothing like the penthouse—no soaring ceilings or museum-quality art, no floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views. This was functional space designed for survival rather than display. Reinforced walls, minimal furniture, the kind of utilitarian efficiency that suggested someone had stripped away everything that wasn't essential and kept only what might keep them alive.
A panic room disguised as an apartment. Of course he has one.
Kael guided her to a leather sofa—one of the few pieces of furniture in the sparse space—and lowered her onto it with unexpected gentleness. His hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment, as if checking that she was actually solid and not about to dissolve into panic or shock.
"Stay here," he ordered, already moving toward what looked like a command center in the corner. "Don't move until I've secured the perimeter."
Don't move. Right. Because my legs feel like they're made of water anyway.
She watched in a daze as he transformed from the controlled businessman she knew into something else entirely—efficient, deadly, every movement economical and purposeful. He stripped off his suit jacket, revealing a shoulder holster she hadn't known he was wearing. His fingers flew across multiple keyboards, pulling up security feeds that showed different angles of the building's exterior.
He's checking for threats. Making sure we're actually safe and not just in a prettier cage waiting for the next attack.
Viktor appeared in the doorway, medical kit in hand. The cut on his forehead still bled sluggishly, but he moved with the same efficient precision as always.
"Building is secure, sir. Team is establishing a perimeter. No signs of pursuit."
"Good. Get that looked at." Kael gestured to Viktor's head without taking his eyes off the screens.
"It's nothing, sir."
"It's a head wound that's bleeding. Get it looked at." The words carried absolute authority that turned suggestion into command.
Viktor nodded once and disappeared, leaving Elara alone with Kael and the adrenaline slowly draining from her system like water through a sieve.
We were shot at. Professional killers with military-grade weapons tried to murder us in broad daylight.
The reality of it hit her all at once, shock giving way to trembling that started in her hands and spread through her entire body like earthquake aftershocks.
"I could have died," she whispered.
Kael's attention snapped to her immediately, his dark eyes assessing her with that laser focus. "But you didn't."
"We could have died. Both of us. Viktor could have—"
"But we didn't," he repeated, moving away from the screens to crouch in front of her. "Elara, look at me."
I am looking at you. I'm looking at a man who treats assassination attempts like minor inconveniences.
His hands came up to frame her face with surprising gentleness, thumbs brushing away tears she hadn't realized were falling.
"This is shock," he said quietly. "Your body processing trauma. It's normal, it will pass, and you're safe now."
Safe. In a fortified bunker because professional killers are trying to murder us. That's his definition of safe.
"Who were they?" Her voice came out small, broken. "Who wants you dead badly enough to attack in broad daylight?"
Something dark moved behind his eyes. "The list is longer than you'd like to hear. But I promise you, whoever gave that order will regret it before they die."
Before they die. Not if. Before.
"I want to go home," she said, then realized with crystalline clarity that she didn't know where home was anymore. Not the apartment she'd been evicted from. Not Sarah's couch. Not even the penthouse really felt like home—more like a beautiful prison she'd gotten used to.
I don't have a home anymore. Just a series of cages with varying levels of luxury.
"This is home for now," Kael said, reading her expression with that uncanny ability he had to see straight through her. "Until I've eliminated the threat and ensured your safety."
My safety. Like I'm the target instead of collateral damage in his war.
"They were shooting at you, not me."
"They were shooting at my car, which means they were shooting at everything I value." His hands moved from her face to her shoulders, then down her arms, checking for injuries with clinical efficiency that somehow still felt intimate. "Are you hurt anywhere? Pain, numbness, anything unusual?"
Everything feels unusual. My entire life is unusual now.
"I don't think so."
"Not good enough." His hands moved to her legs, checking for fractures or signs of internal bleeding with the focused attention of someone who'd done this before. "Tell me if anything hurts."
Your touch shouldn't feel comforting. You're the reason I'm in danger in the first place.
But his hands were gentle as they checked her ankles, her knees, moved up to examine her ribs through the silk of her dress. Professional, clinical, but with an underlying tenderness that made her throat tight.
"I'm fine," she said, pushing his hands away. "I'm not hurt."
"You're in shock and you've been in a car crash. Fine is relative." But he sat back on his heels, giving her space while still maintaining visual contact. "Your dress is torn here." He gestured to a rip along her side she hadn't noticed. "Probably from the safety glass. Any bleeding?"
She looked down, seeing for the first time the damage to the expensive silk. "I don't think so."
"Let me see."
No. This is too intimate, too much like caring instead of controlling.
But he was already moving, his fingers finding the tear in the fabric and widening it just enough to examine the skin beneath. His touch was warm against her ribs, careful and gentle as he checked for cuts or punctures.
"You're fine," he said finally, sitting back. "Bruising probably, but nothing serious."
Fine. Right. Physically intact but mentally shattered.
The trembling got worse, her hands shaking so hard she had to clench them into fists. The adrenaline crash was hitting now, dragging her under waves of delayed fear and the terrible understanding of how close they'd come to dying.
"Come here." Kael's voice was soft as he moved to sit beside her on the sofa.
"I don't need—"
"I know you don't need it. I'm offering anyway." His arm came around her shoulders, pulling her against his side with the same gentle authority he'd used to shield her in the car. "It's okay to be scared after someone tries to kill you. It's human."
Human. Right. Because you're such an expert on being human.
But his body was warm and solid, and she was so tired of holding herself together when everything felt like it was falling apart. So she let herself lean into him, just for a moment, just until the shaking stopped.
This doesn't mean anything. This is just shock and fear and the basic human need for comfort.
His hand moved in slow circles on her back, the gesture surprisingly soothing. "Breathe, angel. Just breathe."
They sat like that for what might have been minutes or hours—time felt fluid in the aftermath of violence. Gradually, her breathing steadied, the trembling subsided, and she was left with the exhausted hollowness that followed adrenaline crashes.
"Who do you think it was?" she asked quietly.
"Dmitri trying to finish what he started. Lucien making a statement after last night. Someone new who thinks attacking me will benefit their position." His voice held that clinical detachment he used when discussing threats. "Does it matter? The result is the same."
The result is you protecting me with your body. Risking your life for mine. That matters.
"Why did you shield me?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
He was quiet for a long moment, his hand stilling on her back. "What kind of question is that?"
"You could have died. The bullets were hitting your side of the car. You could have let me shield you instead."
"No." The word was absolute, final. "I couldn't have."
"Why not? I'm just a contract. Just part of your arrangement to look respectable."
His arm tightened around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "You really believe that?"
I don't know what I believe anymore.
"That's what you said. What's in the contract."
"The contract," he said carefully, "covers the business arrangement between us. It says nothing about whether I'd let you die to save myself."
Then what does it say? What are we if not just business?
"I don't understand you," she admitted.
"I know." His voice held something that might have been regret. "But you're learning."
She pulled back enough to look at his face, seeing for the first time the slight pallor beneath his tan, the tightness around his eyes that suggested he was in more pain than he'd let on.
"You're hurt," she said, reaching out to touch his side where he'd taken the brunt of their impact.
He caught her hand, holding it still. "Minor bruising. Nothing that won't heal."
Minor bruising from shielding me from a car crash. From putting his body between me and bullets.
"Kael—"
"Don't." His grip on her hand tightened. "Don't thank me for keeping you alive. It's not kindness, it's not mercy. It's simple fact—you're mine to protect."
Mine to protect. Always possession, even in tenderness.
She looked into his dark eyes and saw something there that made her breath catch—not just possessiveness or control, but something rawer. Fear, maybe. The very human terror of almost losing something valuable.
He was scared. For me. For himself. For both of us.
"This is your world," she said quietly. "Bulletproof cars and safe houses and assassination attempts before lunch."
"Yes." He didn't apologize for it, didn't try to minimize it. "This is my world, Elara. Violence and power and enemies who would kill you just to hurt me."
The weight of that reality settled over her like a shroud. This wasn't just about six months of playing pretend. This was about being forever marked as his, forever a target, forever living in the crosshairs of his many enemies.
This is what belonging to him really means. Not just luxury and control, but danger and violence and the constant threat of death.
He cupped her face with one hand, his thumb tracing her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "This is my world," he repeated, his voice dropping to that velvet whisper. "Get used to it."
The words hung between them like a life sentence, beautiful and terrible in their honesty.
Get used to it. Because this is forever now. This is what I signed up for whether I understood it or not.
And looking into those beautiful, terrible dark eyes, Elara realized with crystal clarity that there was no going back to who she'd been before.
This was her world now too.