The penthouse was silent when we returned, but it wasn't the silence of peace.
It was the silence before confession.
Before damnation.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my wedding dress long discarded, a robe wrapped around me. The city glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, mocking me with its distance. Somewhere out there, people lived without blood debts and secrets named after dates.
And here I was, trapped in a gilded cage with a man who refused to open his mouth.
"Say it," I whispered, not looking at him. "Tell me what November Seventh means."
Adrian leaned against the doorframe, jacket gone, shirt undone just enough to show the ink curling along his collarbone. His hands were bloody still. He hadn't bothered to wash it off.
"Elena," he said, voice low. "You don't want to know."
My laugh was bitter. "That's what men always say when they mean I don't want you to know."
His gaze flickered, sharp and dangerous, but he didn't move.
"Petrov knew," I pushed. "He said you were there. That you—" My voice broke. "That you walked out while everyone else burned."
The room felt colder.
Adrian's jaw tightened. Then, finally, he spoke.
"It was a warehouse on the east docks," he began, voice like gravel. "November Seventh, three years ago. My father sent me to oversee a shipment. Routine, he said. Nothing dangerous."
I looked at him, heart pounding. "And?"
"And Petrov's men ambushed us. Fire everywhere. Gunfire. I barely made it out." His eyes met mine, steady, unreadable. "I lost ten men that night. Men who trusted me. Men I couldn't save."
My throat closed.
"That's what November Seventh means to me, Elena. Failure. Blood. And Petrov never lets me forget it."
For a moment, I almost believed him.
Almost.
Because something in his tone—too polished, too precise—scraped against me like glass.
"You're lying," I whispered.
His eyes narrowed. "Careful."
"I can hear it." My voice trembled, but I forced the words out. "You left something out. Petrov wasn't taunting you about failure. He was taunting you about survival. About what you did to survive."
His silence was sharper than any answer.
I rose to my feet, trembling. "Tell me the rest."
"Elena—"
"Tell me!"
He moved so fast I barely saw it. One second I was shouting, the next his hand was on my jaw, tilting my face up to his, his breath hot against my lips.
"You want the truth?" he said, voice harsh. "The truth is that men like me don't survive by being innocent. We survive by being willing to do what others won't."
My chest heaved. "What did you do?"
His grip tightened. His eyes burned.
"I chose who burned," he whispered.
The words sliced through me.
I staggered back as if struck, his hand falling away. My stomach lurched.
"You…" My voice was thin, breaking. "You killed them."
"I saved myself," Adrian said coldly. "And in this world, that is the same thing."
Silence roared between us. My heart felt like shattered glass.
"You expect me to sleep in the same bed with you knowing that?" I whispered.
His eyes softened just a fraction. "I expect you to survive. And you don't get to do that without me."
I shook my head. "No. No, you're wrong. I don't need—"
The knock at the door cut me off.
Rafe's voice carried through the wood. "Boss. We have a problem."
Adrian straightened, mask sliding back over his face. "Handle it."
"It's Petrov," Rafe said. "He has Greco."
My breath stopped. Luca.
"Alive?" Adrian asked.
"For now."
I didn't realize I was shaking until Adrian's hand brushed mine. Not harsh, not controlling. Just steady.
"You'll stay here," he said.
"No." My voice was steel. "I'm not staying behind while you fight your battles with my family's blood."
His gaze clashed with mine. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Fine," he said softly. "But when the fire starts again—you stay behind me."
---
The docks felt different this time. Less smoke, more shadows. Every man carried his weapon like it was an extension of his own heartbeat.
Petrov stood waiting, cane in hand, Luca at his side. My brother was bruised, bloodied, a cut across his cheekbone. But alive.
"Elena," he rasped when he saw me. "I tried—"
"Don't," I snapped. My voice shook. "Don't you dare."
Petrov smiled. "Family drama. Always my favorite."
Adrian stepped forward. "State your terms."
"My terms?" Petrov leaned on his cane. "Simple. I want the truth spoken aloud. In front of her."
My blood chilled.
Adrian's voice was ice. "No."
"Yes," I said, my own voice breaking through. "Yes, I want to hear it."
Adrian's eyes burned into mine. A warning. A plea. But I didn't look away.
Petrov's smile widened. "Then allow me."
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming.
"November Seventh wasn't a fire. It was a purge. Your husband-to-be lit the match himself."
My breath caught.
Adrian's silence confirmed it.
Petrov's voice lowered, savoring each word. "The men who burned weren't his enemies, Elena. They were his father's. And Adrian killed them all to prove himself worthy of inheritance."
The ground vanished beneath me.
"That's a lie," Adrian said sharply, stepping forward. But his voice carried cracks I had never heard before.
"Then tell her yourself," Petrov sneered. "Tell her what you did. Or let her believe me. Either way—she'll never look at you the same."
---
The world spun. Luca shouted something, but I didn't hear it. All I saw was Adrian.
And the way he didn't deny it.
Gunfire erupted then—Petrov's men lunging forward, Adrian's answering with fury. The dock exploded into chaos again, but my world was already broken.
Adrian dragged me behind him, shielding me from bullets, his voice raw against the storm.
"Stay down!"
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Only one truth rang through the madness:
The man who had stolen me was also the man who had chosen who lived and who burned.
And I was next in line to be consumed.