//HEAVEN'S POV//
The storm hadn't eased when I stepped into the elevator, soaked in blood that wasn't mine and adrenaline that still burned beneath my skin. The scent of iron clung to me, mixed with the sharpness of rain and something darker—something I'd buried the day my father died.
Damien followed, silent.
His presence felt like static, buzzing against every nerve ending. The way he looked at me—like I was both a weapon and a wound—made my skin tighten.
"Are you going to lecture me?" I asked, voice sharp as the heels I hadn't taken off.
He didn't answer.
Just reached over and hit the button for the penthouse.
I leaned back, arms folded, gaze locked on the number panel as it climbed. I refused to let him see the tremor in my fingers. I'd survived worse. Fought harder. Bled deeper.
But tonight?
Tonight shook something loose.
Not because of the men I killed.
But because of him.
Because he watched. Because he moved only when he chose to. Because when I looked up after the last body dropped, he wasn't coming to save me.
He was watching to see if I still could.
And I had.
Ding.
The doors slid open into a cathedral of glass and steel. Damien's penthouse was as cold and dangerous as he was—sharp lines, low lights, and a skyline that screamed power.
I walked in without waiting. Left puddles of rain in my wake. Peeled off my jacket and dropped it on the floor, uncaring of the trail I was leaving.
"You keep the cameras running?" I asked, facing the glass wall that overlooked the city.
"Always."
"Then you saw everything."
"I did."
He moved behind me. I could feel it—the shift in the air, the pull of gravity. Damien De Lione didn't walk into rooms.
He entered like a storm.
"You think I can't handle myself?"
"I think you did." His voice dropped lower. "Too well."
I turned slowly, catching the shadows in his face. The storm outside raged behind him, lightning flashing like the pulse I refused to let race.
"Then why follow?"
"Because they didn't come for you, Heaven." His gaze locked with mine. "They came for me."
I didn't flinch. "I can handle your enemies too."
"That's the problem."
He closed the distance, step by step, until I could smell the smoke on his skin and the danger in his breath.
"You were nineteen when your father died. I was the one who pulled the trigger. And still, I let you walk."
"I didn't ask for mercy."
"You didn't get it," he said, voice rough. "You got obsession."
The silence between us stretched taut—electric, volatile.
I should've stepped back.
Instead, I tilted my chin higher.
"I built my empire while you rotted behind bars."
"And I watched you build it."
"Then you know what I'm capable of."
"I do." His lips curled into something dark. "But you forgot something, Heaven."
"What?"
"I built you."
He stepped closer.
And I didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
Because I could smell the war between us.
And God help me—I wanted it.
I wanted to rip him open the way he shattered me four years ago. I wanted to taste the blood on his tongue and make him beg without ever dropping to my knees.
But not yet.
Because this game?
It had only just begun.
//DAMIEN'S POV//
I poured a drink with hands that had ended kings.
And tonight, I trembled.
Not from fear.
From hunger.
She was standing at the edge of my world again, and this time, she wasn't the girl who had begged for her father's life.
She was a queen who'd learned how to kill.
The storm cracked again, and she turned to face me.
Barefoot. Bloody. Beautiful.
"Still think you can keep me?" she asked.
"No," I said, voice thick. "I think I already do."
She walked forward.
Slow. Dangerous.
And when she reached for my drink, I let her take it.
Let her sip it with the same mouth I'd once kissed and cursed and dreamed about in the darkest parts of the night.
"Careful, Damien," she whispered. "You might choke on the power you think you still have."
I took the glass back.
Downed the rest.
Then smiled.
"I'm not afraid of choking, Heaven."
Her eyes narrowed.
But she didn't move.
Because we both knew the truth:
We weren't enemies.
Not really.
We were twin flames. Twin blades. Made to destroy everything, even each other, just to see who would survive the ruins.
//HEAVEN'S POV//
The rain hasn't stopped.
It drips from the windows like bloodied tears, soaking the skyline in chaos. Barcelona burns quietly outside Damien's penthouse, but it's nothing compared to the war inside me.
I don't sit.
I don't speak.
I pace like a caged wolf in this gilded cage of glass and power, knowing damn well he's watching me from the shadows.
I can feel him.
Damien De Lione — tall, silent, and soaked in darkness like he was born from it. The storm clings to him like it's in love with his violence.
"You came unarmed," he says from behind me, voice smooth as sin.
I don't turn. "No. I came covered in blood. That's a message, not a weapon."
A glass clinks. Ice cracks. He's pouring himself something again. Always watching. Always calculating.
"You think that makes you dangerous?" he asks.
I finally face him.
"No," I say. "I know it does."
We stare across the room like opposing gods. Lightning flashes behind him, backlighting that sculpted menace of a body — six-foot-five of cold brutality wrapped in custom tailoring and sin.
And for a split second, I hate how my body reacts to him.
Hate how the danger calls to something feral inside me.
"Why did you help?" I ask. "Back at the garage."
He shrugs. "I didn't. You handled it."
That wasn't an answer. Not really. But then again, Damien never gives anything freely.
Not affection. Not words. Not mercy.
"You're bleeding," he says.
I glance down at the cut across my arm. I hadn't noticed it before.
"You have a medkit?"
He nods once, then turns and disappears into the hallway. I should leave. I should walk out before I forget who he is — what he's capable of.
But I don't.
When he returns, he doesn't toss the kit to me. He walks straight up, grabs my wrist, and pulls me to the bar.
"Sit," he commands.
And God help me — I do.
His fingers are sure and unflinching as he cleans the wound. No hesitation. No softness. Just efficient care wrapped in rough hands that have broken necks and stolen lives.
"You still wear his ring," he mutters.
I look down.
My father's ring. The only thing left of the man Damien killed.
"It's not for him," I whisper. "It's for the girl I used to be."
His jaw tightens.
I look up at him.
"I was nineteen," I say. "And you didn't hesitate."
He meets my eyes, and for the first time, there's no mask. No cruelty.
Just truth.
"I would do it again."
I nod slowly.
"Good," I whisper. "Because I'd kill you for less."
A breath passes between us — too tense, too close. His hand lingers on my arm, rough fingertips brushing skin that feels too hot, too aware.
And then, without warning, he leans in.
His mouth is at my ear, voice low and venomous.
"You should've left that night."
I smirk. "And miss the thrill of ruining you?"
His laugh is dark and sharp. "You think you can?"
I stand. Close the space between us.
"I already am."
//DAMIEN'S POV//
She doesn't flinch.
Not when I press her against the bar.
Not when I lean in until we're sharing breath and bad decisions.
This woman is fire wrapped in silk, and I want to be burned alive.
"You came back to finish the war," I say.
She stares at my lips. "No. I came back to win it."
I smile. "Then it's only fair I let you try."
Our mouths are inches apart.
And for a second — just one dangerous second — it feels like we're going to crash. Like this room won't survive the gravity between us.
But then she pulls back.
And walks away.
Again.
Each step deliberate. Powerful. Lethal.
She doesn't say goodbye.
She doesn't need to.
Because this isn't over.
Not even close.