Chloe stumbled out of The Obsidian. The club's throbbing bass still vibrated in her bones, but the fear was colder, sharper. Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled her small purse closer. That man, his crude touch, and Zariah's fierce, protective rage. It had all happened so fast. She just wanted to be home, safe, away from the lingering scent of conflict and the silent judgment of the empty streets.
A cab, its yellow light a beacon in the dim night, pulled up to the curb. It seemed to appear out of nowhere. Chloe didn't hesitate. She rushed forward, relief washing over her. "Taxi!" she called, her voice a little breathless.
The driver, a man whose face was hidden by the shadow of his cap, nodded briefly. The back door clicked open. Chloe slid inside, the worn seat a temporary comfort. She quickly gave her address, her voice still a little shaky. The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the quiet hum of the city. Chloe leaned back, closing her eyes, trying to force the images of the fight from her mind.
The ride was smooth for a few minutes. Chloe felt herself relax, just a little. She was almost home. Then, without warning, the car lurched. It stopped with a violent jerk that threw Chloe forward, slamming her against the seatbelt. Her eyes snapped open.
They were on a dark, deserted street. No streetlights illuminated the pavement. No other cars were in sight. The driver sat motionless, his cap still obscuring his face. A cold dread began to coil in Chloe's stomach. This wasn't right.
Before she could even think to ask what was happening, the back doors on both sides of the car swung open. Two large men slid into the seats beside her. The air in the cab suddenly felt heavy, suffocating. Their faces were grim, their eyes hard and unreadable in the dim light.
Chloe's heart hammered against her ribs. "What do you want?" she managed to whisper, her voice barely a sound. She tried to shrink back, pressing herself against the door, but the man on her left grabbed her arm. His fingers dug into her flesh, a painful, unyielding grip.
The man on her right raised a hand. In it was a white cloth. A sweet, cloying smell, like almonds mixed with something metallic, filled the small space. Chloe instinctively tried to pull away, to fight. She kicked out, her foot connecting with something solid. She opened her mouth to scream, but the cloth was pressed firmly over her nose and mouth. The sweet smell invaded her lungs, burning. Her head swam. The world began to tilt. Her struggles grew weaker. Her limbs felt heavy, like lead. The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was the hard, unfeeling eyes of the man beside her. Then, nothing.
Inside The Obsidian, a chilling silence had fallen. The club, usually a symphony of sound and light, was now a cavern of echoes. Damon stood alone on the dance floor, his anger a palpable force in the stillness. He watched the private elevator doors close, swallowing Zariah from his sight. She had dismissed him again. The thought twisted in his gut. She was his.
He turned to leave, his jaw tight. His eyes, dark and sharp, swept across the deserted club. They landed on a figure still standing by the bar. Elias. The art teacher. The man who had dared to kiss Zariah. The man Zariah had bought a painting from. Elias was staring at the elevator, his face etched with a worry that Damon recognized, a worry that spoke of a connection Damon despised.
A low growl rumbled in Damon's chest. He stalked towards Elias, his heavy footsteps echoing in the silence. Elias looked up, his hazel eyes meeting Damon's. There was no fear in Elias's gaze, only a quiet, steady concern. This defiance only fueled Damon's rage.
Damon reached him in three long strides. He grabbed Elias by the collar of his shirt. His hand, strong and unyielding, bunched the fabric. He pulled Elias forward, lifting him slightly off his feet. Elias gasped, his eyes widening.
"Listen to me, boy," Damon snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. It was a sound meant to intimidate, to crush. "Stay away from Zariah. Do you understand?"
Elias's feet dabbled for a moment. He didn't speak. He just looked at Damon, his face pale, but his eyes still held that stubborn, unwavering light.
Damon saw it. It was a challenge. He tightened his grip. "She is mine," he hissed, his face inches from Elias's. "You go near her again, and I will come for you. You will regret it. I promise you that."
With a final, violent shove, Damon released Elias. Elias stumbled backward, losing his balance. He hit the wall with a dull thud, the impact jarring his teeth. He slid down a little, his head spinning, a sharp pain blooming at the back of his skull. Damon didn't wait for a response. He turned on his heel and strode out of the club, the heavy main door swinging shut with a resounding thud that vibrated through the silent room.
Elias pushed himself away from the wall. He shook his head, trying to clear the haze. Damon's threat hung in the air, cold and real. But stronger than the fear was the image of Zariah. The blood on her dress. The way she had fought, so fierce and alone. He couldn't leave her. Not when she was hurt. Not when she was vulnerable.
He walked towards the private elevator, his legs still a little unsteady. Every step felt like a defiance against Damon's warning. He knew this was reckless. Zariah had dismissed him. Damon had threatened him. But a deeper instinct, a powerful pull, urged him forward. He had to make sure she was okay.
The elevator climbed slowly, silently. Elias's mind raced. What would he say? "Are you hurt?" Too direct. "I saw the fight." She would shut him down. He had no words, no plan. Just a desperate need to see her. To confirm she was safe.
The doors chimed softly, opening onto Zariah's private floor. The hallway was hushed, luxurious. He walked to her apartment door. It was a sleek, dark panel, looking more like a vault than a home entrance. It felt like a barrier, protecting her from the world.
He raised his hand. He hesitated. His knuckles hovered inches from the polished surface. What if she was angry? What if she just sent him away, reinforcing her walls? He lowered his hand, taking a deep, shaky breath. He needed to think. To find the right words.
His hand slipped. His knuckles brushed the door. A soft, accidental tap. But in the profound silence of the penthouse, it sounded like a drumbeat.
Elias froze. His eyes widened in panic. He had knocked. By accident.
A few seconds stretched into an eternity. Then, a soft click. The door began to open. Slowly, revealing a sliver of the dimly lit interior.
Zariah stood there. Her eyes, usually sharp and guarded, were wide with shock. Her jet-black hair, unbound, flowed around her shoulders like a dark waterfall. She was wearing a nightgown. It was made of black silk, thin and flowing. It clung to her curves, revealing the soft lines of her body. It was incredibly sexy, a stark contrast to her usual armor. Elias could see the gentle slope of her collarbones, the curve of her hip, the long, elegant line of her leg.
Elias stared at her. His mind went utterly blank. He had never seen her like this. Not the queen. Not the baddie. Just a woman. Soft. Vulnerable.
Then, his gaze dropped. His eyes fixed on a dark stain against the black silk. On her side. Just below her ribs. The wound. It was raw, a vivid slash against her pale skin. It was still bleeding, a slow, steady seep.
Zariah looked at him, her wide eyes reflecting a mix of surprise and something akin to fear. Elias was too stunned to speak. He stood there, frozen, caught between the shock of her unexpected appearance, the intimacy of her attire, and the stark reality of her injury. He had no words. Only the pounding of his own heart.