A Ruthless kind of love

The gallery glimmered like a temple of silence. Chandeliers radiated muted light, dripping over marble floors and gold frames. Waiters glided across the room like phantoms with trays full of champagne. No matter where Elena looked, people were posing-laughing too loudly, complimenting paintings they didn't understand, shaking hands with an air of practiced ease.

She was a faker among them.

The heels clicked softly as she moved, notebook clutched to her chest. The air was too heavy, redolent with perfume and cash. Elena had come to observe, to take in impressions and get sufficient copy for her story, but tonight her thoughts were elsewhere.

### Her thoughts kept turning back to him.

Damien. The gala man. The intruder who had broken in, stuttered out the statement that still burned her ears. The one who had somehow found his way into her home, leaving a white rose like a promise-or a threat.

The rose remained in her desk drawer, its petals limp a bit. She had thought about tossing it. Each time she extended a hand to stroke it, something within her grew stiff, as though to discard it was but to taunt fate.

And now, making her way down a line of oil paintings and abstract canvases, she experienced the sensation again. The thrill at the nape of her neck. The sense of being watched.

She believed she was losing her mind. That paranoia followed her out here.

Until she turned around.

And there he was.

Standing in the corner of the room, leaning on a pillar, dressed in black again. His coat was open this time, shirt collar undone, but his power hung from him like armor. People navigated around him, looking nervously and quickly away, as though some hidden instinct warned them not to linger.

He was looking at her.

Not looking. Not even looking. Looking. His gaze was so piercing, so fixed, the others between them disappeared.

Her heart stumbled. She jerked her head back to her painting-a seething chaos of reds and blacks-but could not see it. Her universe contracted, every cell in her being aware of his presence across the room.

She attempted to regulate her breathing. Ignore him. Do your job. He cannot order you.

Minutes ticked by. Or perhaps seconds. She risked another look.

Gone.

Elena's gut fell. She twisted her head, arching her neck, scanning the room, looking for that dark figure.

And then-

"You shouldn't be here alone."

The words wrapped around her ear like smoke.

She gasped, pen slipping from her hand, clattering on the smooth floor. She turned to find him inches away from her face. How had he come so quietly, so quickly?

Damien's gaze locked with hers, unflinching, unyielding. He filled space much larger than his body.

"You-" Her throat constricted. She stooped to retrieve her pen, requiring the cover to turn aside, to compose herself.

When she straightened, he was still there. Closer.

"This isn't a safe crowd," he said conversationally, his tone amiable, but his eyes anything but. They scanned the room like a predator calculating prey. "Too many vultures. Men who think anything is theirs for the taking."

Her pulse quickened. "And you're not one of them?"

One corner of his mouth jerked-not amusement, not rage, but something in between. "I don't take what isn't mine."

A band around her chest constricted with his words. The same blind arrogance she'd detected at the gala. His confidence wasn't stated-it was lived. He didn't ask. He didn't plead. He simply stated.

"You shouldn't be here alone," he said softly once more.

Her chin went up. "I don't need protection."

Damien leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. His words dropped to a low, intimate tone. "You may not need it. But you'll have it anyway."

Fire flooded her chest. She hated the way he said it, like it was already a done thing, like she couldn't possibly do anything to change it. And yet. a part of her didn't resist the way it ought to.

"Arrogant," she snarled, snagging the word like a trap. "That's what you are."

"Aristocratic," he added, his lips curling into that half-smile once again. "Or honest."

Their surroundings faded. Laughter, voices, the ringing of glasses-everything disappeared, leaving only the tension between them.

Elena tried to step back, but Damien followed her, maintaining rigid, measured space. He did not touch her. He did not have to. His presence was enough to be a restraint.

She sounded dead flat. "The rose. In my apartment. That was you."

His eyes stumbled, a flicker of enjoyment in them. "So you found it."

"You broke into my apartment," she accused, her heart pounding.

"I broke in," he said clinically, as if reporting a matter-of-fact truth. "There's a difference."

"That's-" She laughed, nearly, at the absurdity. "That's illegal."

Damien's expression didn't falter. If anything, his eyes turned colder, with something harder. "Most of what I do is illegal."

The directness stole her breath. He wasn't joking.

Her body was crying to escape. But her feet stayed stuck, as though her legs wouldn't listen to her head.

"You need to leave me alone," she whispered, hating the tremble in her voice.

He was silent for a moment. And then he leaned, his lips brushing dangerously close to her ear, his voice low so that she could hear him alone.

"And if I don't?"

Her knees weakened. The air crackled, her skin buzzing under his pressure.

Elena's mind battled itself-fear on one side, something reckless and unspoken on the other. She thought of the rose, of the way his eyes never looked away, of the strange thrill that accompanied the terror.

Her voice was barely audible. "Then you'll ruin me."

Damien's head tilted slightly, studying her, as though weighing her words. The silence stretched, unbearable, until finally he spoke, his tone like velvet over steel.

Or I'll ruin the rest of the things around you first."

The threat dangled between them, resolute and unyielding.

And then, as suddenly as he had appeared, he stepped back. His face emptied into blankness, as if all their encounter had been nothing more than politely exchanged remarks. He turned, heaved himself through the crowd, and disappeared again into the gallery gloom.

Elena shook, notebook jumping in her hand. She needed to escape, she reminded herself, escape before he came back, before she fell further under whatever spell he was weaving.

But as she swept the crowd with useless eyes, her heart burned with anguish she refused to acknowledge.

Because some part of her already knew she wasn't leaving Damien.

She was walking to him.