The safehouse had a bathroom that was more utilitarian than the penthouse's marble sanctuary, but Elara didn't care. She stood under water that was too hot, letting it scald away the phantom smell of gunpowder and fear that clung to her skin like smoke.
We could have died. We should have died. Professional killers with military-grade weapons and we survived by inches.
Her hands shook as she tried to wash her hair, the expensive silk dress abandoned in a torn heap on the bathroom floor. The cream fabric was ruined—glass fragments embedded in silk, dirt and blood she hadn't noticed during the chaos.
Blood. Whose blood? Mine? His? Viktor's?
When she finally emerged, wrapped in a towel that had been precisely folded on the counter, she found clean clothes waiting on the bed—jeans, a soft black sweater, underwear still in packaging. Not designer pieces chosen to display her like art, but practical clothing meant for survival rather than aesthetics.
He keeps emergency supplies here. Clothes in multiple sizes, food, weapons. This isn't the first time he's had to disappear.
The realization settled over her like cold water. This was routine for him—violence, escape, safehouse, retaliation. A cycle he'd probably repeated dozens of times before she'd stumbled into his carefully controlled chaos.
How many people has he killed in retaliation? How many enemies has he made that this is just normal?
She dressed mechanically, her body moving through familiar motions while her mind replayed the attack on infinite loop. The sound of bullets hitting reinforced glass. Kael's weight crushing her into the seat, his body a shield between her and death. The terrible silence after the crash before Viktor's voice confirmed they'd survived.
He protected me. Without hesitation, without calculation. Just pure instinct to keep me alive.
The thought wouldn't stop circling her consciousness like a shark scenting blood.
When she emerged from the bedroom, she found Kael in the main area, standing in front of multiple monitors with his phone pressed to his ear. He'd changed too—black tactical pants and a fitted t-shirt that revealed the kind of physique that came from actual use rather than gym vanity. A shoulder holster crossed his chest, the gun within easy reach.
He looks like a soldier. Not a businessman playing at danger, but someone who lives in it.
"—don't care about collateral damage," he was saying, his voice carrying that edge of controlled fury. "I want names, locations, and a full breakdown of their operation within the hour."
Operation. He's planning retaliation. Of course he is.
Viktor stood nearby, the cut on his forehead now cleaned and butterfly-bandaged, reviewing something on a tablet with the kind of focused intensity that suggested whatever information he'd found was significant.
Three other men occupied the space—all wearing tactical gear, all armed, all radiating the kind of controlled violence that suggested military backgrounds. They moved with the coordinated efficiency of people who'd worked together for years, checking weapons, reviewing security feeds, preparing for something that made Elara's stomach clench with dread.
They're going to war. Over me. Because I was in the car when someone attacked him.
"Preliminary report is ready, sir," Viktor said, glancing up from his tablet. "You're not going to like it."
"I don't like any of this." Kael ended his call with the kind of finality that suggested whoever was on the other end had clear instructions and limited time to execute them. "What have you got?"
Viktor tapped something on his tablet, and the largest monitor switched to display what looked like surveillance footage. "Three shooters, elevated positions on the bridge approach. Military-grade weapons, as we suspected. Professional setup, coordinated timing."
Professional. Like the men in suits who killed Marcus Walsh. Like everything in Kael's world.
"I can see that," Kael said, his voice dangerously soft. "What I want to know is who paid for them."
"Shell companies traced back to Mercier Holdings." Viktor's expression remained carefully neutral as he delivered information that made Kael's entire body go rigid. "Lucien's organization. No doubt about it."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Elara watched as something cold and terrible transformed Kael's face—not rage, exactly, but something worse. Calculation mixed with fury, the kind of expression that preceded very bad things happening to people who'd made very poor decisions.
Lucien. The charming man who danced with me at the gala. Who offered to help if I ever needed it. He tried to kill us.
"You're certain?" Kael's voice had gone soft in that way that made even his own men shift nervously.
"Positive ID on two of the shooters—former military, both on Mercier's payroll. The third is still being identified, but the money trail is clear." Viktor pulled up more images—financial records, personnel files, the kind of documentation that suggested someone had been very thorough. "This was sanctioned at the highest level."
Highest level. Lucien personally ordered our deaths.
"He danced with her." Kael's words came out flat, emotionless, which somehow made them more terrifying than if he'd been screaming. "Last night, he held her in his arms, said God knows what, and then ordered professionals to put bullets through my car knowing she'd be inside."
Through my car. Always his car. His property. His possession.
"It appears so, sir."
Kael turned away from the monitors, his movements controlled but with an undercurrent of violence barely leashed. When his eyes found Elara standing in the bedroom doorway, something flickered in their dark depths—relief that she was unharmed, followed immediately by the kind of possessive fury that made her breath catch.
He's going to kill him. Lucien is going to die, and it's because he danced with me.
"How close did they come to her?" Kael asked, his voice still soft as death.
Viktor glanced at the monitors, at footage showing the moment the third bullet hit their rear window. "Six inches from the headrest where Ms. Chen was sitting. If the glass had given way completely—"
"But it didn't." Kael cut him off, not wanting to hear the alternate scenario where a bullet found its target. "Because we invest in quality armor and employ the best driver in the city."
Six inches. I was six inches from a bullet through my skull.
The reality of it hit her all over again, making her knees go weak. She reached out for the doorframe, needing something solid as shock tried to drag her under for the second time.
Kael noticed immediately—of course he did, nothing escaped his attention when it came to her. He was across the room in seconds, his hands on her shoulders, steadying her with that mixture of control and care that characterized everything he did.
"Breathe," he commanded softly. "You're safe now."
Safe. In a fortified bunker while he plans to murder someone. That's his definition of safe.
"Lucien tried to kill us," she whispered.
"Yes." No attempt to soften it, no platitudes about how it was just business or how these things happened. Just brutal honesty delivered in that velvet voice.
"Because I danced with him."
"Because he thought he could take what's mine and I wouldn't respond." Kael's hands tightened on her shoulders, his dark eyes boring into hers with intensity that made lying impossible. "Because he made the catastrophically stupid decision to threaten you to get to me."
Get to you. Not get to us. To you. I'm just collateral in your war.
"What are you going to do?" But she already knew the answer, could see it written in every line of his face.
"What I do to everyone who threatens what belongs to me." His voice dropped to that dangerous whisper. "I'm going to destroy him so completely that no one will ever make that mistake again."
Destroy him. Not defeat him. Not beat him. Destroy him.
"Kael—"
"No." He released her shoulders, turning back to his men with the kind of controlled fury that filled the room like smoke. "I don't want to hear about mercy or proportionate response or any other civilized bullshit. He put my woman in danger. He fired on a vehicle he knew she was in. He gets what's coming to him."
My woman. There it is again. Always possession.
But underneath the anger was something else—something that looked almost like fear. The very human terror of almost losing something valuable, mixed with the rage of someone whose control had been challenged.
He was scared. For me. That's what this is really about.
"Sir," one of the tactical team spoke up, "we've identified Mercier's primary operations center. Warehouse complex on the east docks. Security is heavy but manageable."
Kael moved back to the monitors, studying the building schematics that appeared on screen. "How many personnel?"
"Estimated twenty to thirty. Mix of security and logistics staff."
Twenty to thirty people. He's talking about attacking a building with thirty people in it.
"Collateral?" Kael's voice remained clinical, detached, like he was discussing inventory rather than human lives.
"Minimal. The area is largely abandoned after dark. Nearest occupied building is three blocks away."
Collateral. Acceptable losses. This is how he thinks.
"Good." Kael pointed to something on the schematic. "I want teams here, here, and here. Cut power to the entire block first—I want them operating in the dark. Non-lethal if possible, but I'm authorizing lethal force if they engage."
Non-lethal if possible. How generous.
"What about Mercier himself?" Viktor asked.
Kael's smile was beautiful and absolutely terrifying. "Lucien isn't at his warehouse complex. He's too smart for that. But his money is. His weapons are. Six months worth of operational inventory is sitting in that building, and by dawn, it's going to be ash."
Ash. He's going to burn it all.
"Rules of engagement?" the tactical leader asked.
"Anyone who runs gets to run. Anyone who fights gets put down." Kael's voice carried absolute authority. "But the building burns. All of it. I want Lucien to wake up tomorrow morning and find out that touching what's mine cost him millions."
What's mine. Always what's mine.
Elara watched the preparations unfold with growing horror. This wasn't abstract violence discussed in theory—this was concrete planning for destruction that would happen within hours. Men checking weapons, reviewing entry points, coordinating timing with the kind of professional efficiency that made it clear they'd done this before.
He's going to burn down a building. Destroy millions of dollars in inventory. Possibly kill people. Because Lucien danced with me and then tried to have us killed.
"Kael," she said, her voice cutting through the tactical discussion. "This is insane."
He turned to her, his expression softening slightly. "This is necessary."
"Necessary? You're planning to commit arson and possibly murder—"
"I'm planning," he interrupted, his voice carrying that edge of steel, "to send a message that needs to be heard by every person in this city who thinks they can threaten you and live to profit from it."
Threaten you. Not threaten us. You.
"I'm not worth this," she whispered.
The room went silent. Even his men stopped their preparations, sensing they were witnessing something significant.
Kael crossed to her in three strides, his hands framing her face with that mixture of tenderness and possession that characterized all his touches.
"You are worth," he said softly, his dark eyes burning into hers, "exactly what I decide you're worth. And right now, that's every dollar in Lucien's operation, every weapon in his arsenal, every square foot of property he uses to threaten what's mine."
What's mine. God, does he hear himself?
"This isn't about me. This is about your pride. Your ego. Your need to control everything."
"Yes," he agreed simply. "All of those things. But it's also about making sure that six months from now, six years from now, no one even thinks about putting you in danger because the cost is too high."
Six years from now. The contract is six months. Six years means...
"The contract—"
"Fuck the contract," he said, and the profanity was shocking coming from his usually controlled mouth. "Do you really think I'm letting you go after this? After almost losing you? After seeing what the world does to things I value?"
Things I value. Not people. Things.
"I'm not a thing," she said, but the words came out weaker than intended.
"No," he agreed, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones. "You're much more valuable than any thing. You're mine, Elara. Completely, irrevocably mine. And I protect what's mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should have terrified her. And it did. But underneath the terror was something else—something she didn't want to examine too closely that felt almost like relief that someone cared enough to go to war for her.
Stockholm syndrome. This is Stockholm syndrome and you're falling deeper every second.
He released her face and turned back to his men, his expression shifting back to controlled fury.
"Timeline?" he asked Viktor.
"Team is ready to move in thirty minutes. Full operation should take less than two hours start to finish."
Two hours. In two hours, Lucien's operation will be destroyed.
"Good." Kael pulled out his phone, scrolling through something with focused intensity. "And make sure someone is recording. I want Lucien to see exactly what happens to people who touch what's mine."
Recording. He's going to make him watch.
"Sir," Viktor said carefully, "Mercier will retaliate. This kind of attack—"
"Let him try." Kael's smile was sharp as broken glass. "He touched what's mine. He put her in danger. There is no retaliation that will make me regret what I'm about to do to him."
He looked at Elara then, his dark eyes holding hers with intensity that made breathing difficult.
"He touched what's mine," Kael repeated, his voice dropping to that deadly whisper. "Burn his operations on the docks. Now."