The mafia's king bride claimed by his obsession.

The vase slipped out of my hands before I even had a chance to swing it. It smashed on the floor, shards flying everywhere.

The tall guy grabbed my arms, his grip iron-tight. "Stop fighting. It'll be easier." His voice was too calm.

"Let me go!" I yelled, kicking and twisting, but it was useless.

The other one slapped me hard enough to make my ears ring. My head snapped sideways. "He said alive. Didn't say unhurt."

They dragged me toward the door. My feet slipped on the broken glass, and I saw a streak of red trailing behind. That was my blood.

Out in the hallway, Enzo slumped against the wall, a dark stain spreading on his shirt. He didn't move.

Terror clawed at my throat. They were going to take me. Whoever wanted me, Damon's enemy finally had me.

We got to the top of the stairs. That's when the front door downstairs exploded open.

Not just open blown back so hard it slammed into the wall.

Dark shapes flooded the foyer. Four, maybe five.

Damon stood at the front.

His coat was gone. His white shirt was ripped at the collar, a smear of dirt or blood across his jaw. He looked straight up the stairs at me, caught between the two masked men.

Time froze.

"Let her go." Damon's voice was quiet, but deadly.

The man pinning my arms tried to laugh, but it sounded shaky. "Or what, Rossi? You're outnumbered."

Damon didn't flinch. "Antonio."

A shot cracked through the air.

The shorter man on my left dropped like a dead weight, blood spreading across his mask.

I screamed. The grip on my arms slipped, just for a second, but I tore myself free and stumbled back.

"Get down, Elena!" Damon shouted.

I dropped to my knees on the steps. The masked guy grabbed for me, but another gunshot rang out. This one caught him in the shoulder. He howled, lurching away.

Damon flew up the stairs. Passed me without even looking, gun drawn now. He towered over the wounded man, who clutched his shoulder, cursing.

"Who sent you?" Damon's voice was pure ice.

"Go to hell."

Damon pressed the gun to his knee and pulled the trigger.

The scream was horrible, raw and desperate. The man writhed on the floor. "The Vipers! The Vipers sent us!"

"Why take her?"

"Leverage...to get to you..."

Damon didn't even blink. He looked over at Antonio, standing below. "Clean this up. Make him talk. Then send a message to the Vipers."

Antonio nodded, grim.

Finally, Damon turned to me. I was shaking so hard I could barely stay upright, crouched on the step, feet bleeding.

He came down to me. For a moment, he just looked, eyes burning. Not gentle. Not soft. Just furious.

"Did they touch you?" His voice was rough.

"N-no. Just my arm."

He glanced at the angry red marks already blooming on my skin. His jaw flexed. He pulled off what was left of his shirt, left in only a black undershirt, and wrapped the fabric around my feet. His hands were quick and sure, not gentle, but careful.

"Can you stand?"

I tried. My legs folded.

He didn't say anything, just scooped me up. I gasped, went stiff. He smelled like gunpowder, sweat, the night. His arms locked around me, steady and strong.

He carried me past Antonio, who was dragging the screaming man away, past Marco checking Enzo's pulse. He didn't take me to the third floor, to my room. He took me on his own on the second.

He nudged the door open with his shoulder. Inside, his bedroom was huge and cold, the air thick with his scent. The bed dominated the space, sheets crisp and dark.

He set me down on the edge. "Don't move."

He disappeared into the bathroom. Water ran. He came back with a wet cloth and a small kit.

He knelt in front of me and started cleaning the cuts on my feet. The water stung. I jerked away.

His grip on my ankle tightened, holding me still not cruel, just absolute.

"You texted Lucas Thorne," he said, not looking up.

All the color drained from my face. "How did you do?"

"Your phone's monitored. Every call, every text. I own the air you breathe, Elena. Don't forget that." He pressed the cloth to a deeper cut. "You were planning to meet him."

Not a question.

"I was scared," I whispered.

"You are mine," he said, voice low, final. "My property. My responsibility. No one touches what's mine. Not some college kid. Not a rival gang." His eyes met mine gray, wild, terrifying. "You could've died tonight. Or worse. Because they wanted a target. And you're my target."

He wrapped my feet with a fresh bandage. His hands lingered, just a moment too long. A jolt of heat shot through me.

He stood, looking down, chest heaving. Fury and adrenaline still radiated off him.

"You stay in this room tonight," he said. "Where I can see you."

He walked to the other side of the bed, sat down, and yanked off his boots. He didn't look my way again.

I sat there, heart pounding, feet throbbing and clean, dangling above the floor. He was going to sleep here. With me in his bed.

He lay back, staring up at the ceiling, one arm under his head. The silence pressed in, heavy with everything that just happened Gunshots. Blood. His hands on my skin.

My breathing was just starting to settle when he spoke, his words slipping into the darkness.

"If you ever try to run to him," he said, his voice low and sharper than I'd ever heard it, "I won't just kill him, Elena. I'll ruin everything he cares about first. And then I'll bring you back."

He turned away, his back facing me.

"Go to sleep."