The rain hadn't stopped by morning.
It fell in thin, silvery sheets against the penthouse windows, turning the skyline into a blurred watercolor. Elara sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting the hem of the silk robe.
She hadn't slept. Not after seeing Adrian's claws. Not after hearing him growl like something that belonged in nightmares.
And yet… she hadn't left.
The elevator hummed in the distance — private, silent — and moments later, Adrian walked into the room. Black shirt, black trousers, no tie. He looked like a man ready to walk into either a board meeting or a gunfight.
"Breakfast's in the kitchen," he said, his voice smoother than the night before.
"I'm not hungry," she replied, avoiding his eyes.
He tilted his head, studying her. "You're afraid of me now."
Elara's laugh was short, brittle. "You ripped men apart with your bare hands, Adrian. What did you expect?"
"That you'd listen when I told you I wouldn't hurt you."
Something in his tone made her look at him — and she found no lie there. He believed what he was saying. That didn't mean she trusted him.
Before she could respond, the sound came.
Sharp. Sudden. A faint ping against the glass wall behind her.
Adrian's expression changed instantly — calm melted into lethal. He moved faster than her eyes could track, his arm hooking around her waist as he yanked her to the floor. A second ping followed — and this time she saw it. The bullet lodged in the wall where her head had been seconds ago.
"Stay down," he ordered, pressing her flat to the floor as the glass spiderwebbed with impact.
Her heart slammed in her chest. "Someone's shooting at us—"
"At you," he corrected, his voice low but deadly.
The realization hit like ice water. "Me? Why—"
"Later." He drew the gun from his shoulder holster with one hand, the other still holding her against him. His body was warm, solid, blocking her completely from the windows.
Another shot rang out. Adrian returned fire, his aim quick and precise. Somewhere far below, a man screamed.
"Move," he said, pulling her to her feet and dragging her toward the hallway.
She stumbled after him, breath ragged. "Who would—"
"Someone who knows you're mine," he growled, shoving her into a windowless room. "And someone who just signed their death warrant."
He slammed the door and keyed in a code on the digital lock. The small panic room was lit by a single overhead light, the air cool and still.
Elara backed up until her shoulders hit the wall. "I didn't ask to be involved in whatever this is—"
"You were involved the second I found you," Adrian cut in, stepping closer. His presence filled the room like heat. "And now, whether you like it or not, you're under my protection."
Her pulse raced. "Protection or possession?"
His golden eyes glinted. "Both."
She should have been furious. Instead, she was aware of how close he was, the way his hand was still at her waist, fingers splayed as if he couldn't bring himself to let go.
"You're shaking," he murmured, and his voice was different now — lower, rougher. "You can tell yourself it's fear, but we both know it's not just that."
She hated that he was right. The heat between them wasn't one-sided, and that scared her more than the bullets.
"Adrian…" she whispered, meaning to push him away — but her hand found his chest instead. Solid muscle, steady heartbeat.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then his hand slid up her spine, slow and deliberate, until his palm rested at the base of her neck.
"Stay here," he said finally, his lips near her ear. "I'm going to finish this."
And before she could reply, he was gone — leaving her in the stillness, her skin tingling where he'd touched her, and the knowledge that someone out there wanted her dead.
What she didn't know was that this was only the first attempt.