He couldn't believe he left his meeting, shipments, negotiations—things that normally could swallow cities—because a single name had split his focus: Elena.
He flew in his jet in silence.
Viktor had accompanied Elena back to the mansion after the failed attempt to find her aunt.
Viktor had told her, calmly that she should rest, that he is sure her aunt isn't missing. He left only after ensuring she had been escorted up to her room and that a servant checked in .
She tried to breathe through the day's fallout. She had gone to her room, locked the door, and let herself unravel. The sheets were a poor comfort.
She had rinsed her face until it hurt, forced water down her throat to dull the taste of panic, but nothing erased her thoughts of her aunt's whereabouts and not a niece on the verge of losing the last person she had.
Her sobs had come in ragged waves soft, then louder until her throat was raw. She was so sad because the idea that someone could move people like pieces made her feel suddenly and horribly small.
The door suddenly opened and his footsteps were heard.
"Elena." His voice was the single word that could hush a room. It was not loud but still cold.
She rose from the bed with the slow, hollow resolve of someone who has to present themselves in court. Her hands trembled but her face set into something like defiance. "What are you doing here?
she demanded before she could stop herself. The words were jagged on the edges; fear made them sharp.
He stepped further.
"You left the house without permission," he said at last, carefully, as if he were reading a report aloud. You allowed Viktor to take you out." Each phrase was a nail.
"I went to the hospital to see my aunt," Elena snapped, voice breaking. "I told you—she's sick. She was moved. I needed to know she was all right. You don't get to—" Her breath hitched.
"Why was she moved? Where is she? You took her, I know you did. You brought me here and then you—" She could not finish; the sentence fractured into choked sobs.
Damian's face did not show surprise, his face still unreadable as he watched her sob.
"You dare to leave the mansion with my friend," he said slowly, each word deliberately measured as if making a ledger of offences. "You have shown reckless disregard for the rules of my house."
He closed the distance in three steps and stopped so close.
Elena's response was a raw mixture of defiance and hurt.
"Go to hell, Damian Volkov. I hate you. If I don't know where my aunt is, I'm going to—" She didn't finish the sentence; she didn't need to.
The threat was obvious in the shake of her hands, the white-knuckled grip on the bedspread.
Damian's breath fogged the air between them for a moment, hfe stepped closer gripping her with force, she struggled but his grip was merciless.
She hit his chest with her two hands but he didn't move.
"I took your aunt Elena Cruz and if you don't cooperate with me as a gentle playtoy, I will blow a bullet into your aunt's head"
The words made her shiver, she dropped her hands down, then their bare bodies met without clothes on and their sighs filled the room.
His eyes, sharp as a predator's, trailed across her bare skin like he was memorizing every inch, and then he bent low, brushing his lips against her temple.
"You belong to me, Elena," he whispered, voice low, "Don't ever forget that."
And then he left. Just like that—no tenderness, no staying to hold her, no space for her tears. The door clicked shut, sealing her inside with her silence.
Elena's eyes burned. She curled up, pulling the sheets tight against her body, as if she could hide from the truth written all over her skin. Her heart hated him, but her body… her body had betrayed her.
She hated how it had answered him, how every kiss, every touch, every rhythm had pulled sighs out of her like confessions she never wanted to give.
Her tears had soaked the pillow, muffling the sound of her quiet sobs. She pressed her hands over her chest as if she could will it to stop racing at the memory of his voice, his breath, his weight.
Damian had just come down from Elena's room when a familiar feminine voice rang out, light and teasing.
"Oh my God!"
Tatiana stood near the base of the staircase, eyes wide with a mix of amusement and shock. She tilted her head, her glossy hair swaying as she grinned up at him.
"I heard noises, cousin," she teased, her voice lilting, playful. "You have to take it easy on my friend, you know."
Damian didn't stop walking. His tall figure descended the last of the stairs with that same cool, menacing calm. He adjusted the cuff of his shirt, not sparing her a glance at first.
But Tatiana wasn't about to be ignored. She trailed after him lightly, her words chasing him. "Seriously, Damian. If you keep this up, you might get her pregnant soon."
Her tone was joking, almost careless—but the words sliced through his thoughts like a blade. He stopped. For the first time since she started talking, his jaw tightened, his body going still.
Tatiana smirked, satisfied that she had at least gotten a reaction. "What? Don't tell me the mighty Damian Volkov didn't think of that." She arched a brow, eyes glinting with mischief.
He finally looked at her. His eyes, cold steel gray, held a flicker of something darker—something unspoken.
Damian didn't answer her, not directly. He turned and kept walking, his stride unbroken, but his mind…
Her words replayed in his head. Pregnant.
He had never used protection with Elena. Not once. Every heated moment, every claim he'd taken, he had done raw, selfishly, recklessly.
The thought that she could already be carrying a part of him it stirred something sharp and unfamiliar in his chest.
He goes to his room thinking of Elena, how she stared at him when he threatened to put a bullet in her aunt,
He didn't mean any of those words, he just wanted to have control at the moment.