Morning light slashed across the penthouse windows, but Amelia barely noticed it.
She hadn't slept.
Every creak of the building, every whisper of the wind against the glass had kept her wired, waiting for the next blow to fall.
Damien's penthouse was luxurious, yes.
Safe, yes.
But it wasn't hers.
And every inch of it reminded her of how far from normal she really was.
By the time Damien appeared — dressed in a black suit that looked sharp enough to draw blood — Amelia was sitting stiffly on the edge of the enormous sectional, a mug of untouched coffee cradled in her hands.
He paused when he saw her.
A beat of silence stretched between them.
"You didn't sleep," he said finally.
Neither did you, she thought.
It was there in the tightness around his mouth.
The faint shadows under his eyes.
Still, he stood before her — calm, composed, indomitable.
Damien Raven didn't crack.
Except, this time, Amelia was beginning to see the hairline fractures.
"We found something," he said, sliding a slim tablet across the coffee table toward her.
Images blinked onto the screen.
Surveillance photos.
Blurry shots of a man leaning casually against a lamppost near her building.
Another of him ducking into a black sedan with tinted windows.
"Name's Matteo Greco," Damien said grimly.
"Muscle for the Blackwell Syndicate."
The name made Amelia's blood run cold.
She knew it well — a ruthless crime family that operated just outside Chicago's glittering facade of wealth and respectability.
Her father had owed them once.
Apparently, his debts hadn't died with him.
He came back for her .
"We're moving fast," Damien continued.
"Tracking known associates, freezing financials, pulling every favor I'm owed."
His jaw flexed.
"And if legal means fail..."
Amelia didn't ask what he meant.
She didn't have to.
There was a dark gleam in Damien's eyes that spoke volumes.
He would burn the city to the ground if he had to.
For her.
Because of her.
The realization made her stomach twist.
As the morning bled into afternoon, Damien vanished into endless calls and meetings.
Amelia wandered the penthouse restlessly.
At first, she was grateful for the silence.
But slowly, unease began to creep in.
She noticed small things:
A framed photo of Damien standing with a woman — dark-haired, stunning — her smile brittle.
Files stacked neatly on his private desk, names she half-recognized from boardroom gossip.
And tucked beneath one folder — barely visible — a torn newspaper clipping:
> "Raven Corp CEO's Sister Found Dead: Foul Play Suspected"
Amelia froze.
Sister?
The article was old, yellowed at the edges.
No details.
No suspects.
Only grief frozen in ink.
Damien had a sister.
Had.
Past tense.
And whatever happened to her... it haunted him still.
Amelia tucked the clipping back exactly where she found it, heart thudding painfully.
Damien's armor wasn't just for show.
It was survival.
That night, Amelia found him on the balcony, sleeves rolled up, whiskey glass in hand.
City lights spilled out before him, glittering and merciless.
For a moment, she just watched him — the way the wind tugged at his hair, the way his shoulders carried a weight far heavier than the empire he ruled.
She cleared her throat softly.
He turned, and the rawness in his face shocked her.
Not anger.
Not calculation.
Loneliness.
Bone-deep, soul-deep loneliness.
Without thinking, Amelia crossed the space between them.
"You don't always have to do this alone," she said quietly.
Damien laughed — low, bitter.
"I learned early. Alone is safer."
"Is it?" she asked, reaching out to touch his arm lightly.
For a second, he went still beneath her fingers.
Then he pulled away — gently, but firmly.
A wall slammed back into place between them.
"You're under my protection, Miss Vale," he said, voice colder now.
"Nothing more."
The formal title cut deeper than a knife.
She stepped back, wounded.
"I never asked for your protection," she snapped.
"No," Damien said, his eyes unreadable.
"But you need it."
Silence stretched between them.
Sharp.
Painful.
Finally, Amelia turned and walked inside, letting the door click shut behind her.
She didn't see Damien sag against the balcony rail.
Didn't hear the whispered curse ripped from his throat.
Didn't see the way his hands shook.
Inside, Amelia leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window.
He was protecting her.
He was pushing her away.
He was fighting something neither of them fully understood.
And she...
She wasn't sure how much longer she could stand the war raging between them.
Because every day spent at Damien Raven's side — shielded but untouchable — chipped away at her armor too.
And soon, something was going to break.
Maybe him.
Maybe her.
Maybe both.
But it was coming.
She could feel it.
Just like the storm gathering over the city skyline.
The storm finally broke.
It wasn't dramatic — not at first.
It started with a business meeting that ran too long.
A careless mistake by a bodyguard who took a call instead of watching Amelia's surroundings.
A power outage that cut security feeds for seven minutes — just enough time.
Just enough for them to slip through.
Amelia had been in the Raven Corp lobby when it happened — a space she usually felt safe in, surrounded by Damien's empire.
But safety was an illusion.
She stepped into the open foyer, heading for the private elevator when she saw him.
Matteo Greco.
Not a photo this time.
Not a ghost in surveillance footage.
Real.
Solid.
Grinning like a wolf.
"Hello, princess," he purred, stepping toward her.
Panic slammed into Amelia's chest.
She turned — but the lobby was empty.
Of course it was.
It was designed for discretion, for privacy.
Her heart pounded as she fumbled for the panic button clipped discreetly under her jacket.
Matteo's smile widened as he watched her.
"I wouldn't," he said softly.
Behind him, two more men appeared — flanking the exits.
Amelia's mind raced.
Think.
Move.
Don't freeze.
Then, chaos.
A shot rang out — deafening.
Screams echoed from somewhere behind her.
Matteo lunged.
Amelia dodged instinctively, adrenaline sharpening her instincts.
She sprinted for the side hallway, ignoring the furious shouts behind her.
Heavy footsteps pounded after her.
She skidded around a corner — and slammed into a body.
For one blinding second, terror gripped her.
Then familiar arms closed around her.
"Got you," Damien breathed against her hair.
The relief was so intense she almost collapsed.
But there was no time.
Gunfire cracked through the air.
Damien shoved her behind him, drawing a weapon from inside his jacket with fluid precision.
He fired once — clean, precise.
One of Matteo's men dropped with a grunt.
Sirens wailed in the distance now — security finally responding.
Matteo cursed viciously, retreating.
"This isn't over!" he shouted before disappearing into the maze of hallways.
Damien didn't chase him.
He spun to Amelia, hands rough but careful as he ran them over her arms, her sides, checking for injuries.
"You're okay," he said, almost to himself.
"You're okay."
Amelia nodded, her throat too tight for words.
Later, after statements were given, after Matteo was officially marked for arrest, after the blood was cleaned from the marble floors — Damien brought Amelia back to the penthouse.
He didn't say a word during the drive.
Neither did she.
There were no words big enough for what almost happened.