The world was fire.
That was Elena's first thought as she stood amidst the chaos, smoke rising like phantom tendrils, curling and writhing in the ruined remnants of what had once been Damien's safehouse. Glass crunched beneath her heels, walls that once echoed with power and whispered strategy now lay crumbled, cracked, bleeding secrets through every fracture.
It was over.
Or so she thought.
But endings, she was learning, came in layers. First the fire. Then the silence. And then, the haunting scream of truth that refused to be buried.
She staggered forward, her breath shallow. The scent of smoke and blood clung to her like an unwanted second skin. Her gown—once silk and elegance—was torn and soot-stained, the hem frayed and blackened from where flames had licked at her as she escaped.
Damien.
Where was he?
She coughed hard, wiping the ash from her cheek, scanning the wreckage with frantic eyes. He'd been with her. He'd told her to run.
"Go, Elena!"
The memory sliced through her like a blade.
He'd pushed her out just before the second explosion ripped through the back corridor, his body shielding hers from the worst of it. They had been so close to making it out together.
And then—
Silence.
Now there was nothing but ruin and the scream of emergency sirens in the distance. She stumbled deeper into the wreckage, calling his name. Once. Twice.
No answer.
A piece of the ceiling groaned above her. She ignored it. Somewhere under this ash and flame, the man who had turned her world inside out was either broken… or dead.
She wouldn't believe the second.
"Elena!"
The voice came from her left.
She turned sharply, her heart slamming against her ribs. A figure was emerging from the smoke—bloodied, limping, but alive.
Damien.
She nearly collapsed.
He reached her, arms wrapping around her waist. They held each other wordlessly, trembling in the wreckage of everything they had tried to protect.
"You're okay," she whispered.
"You didn't run," he said hoarsely, his hand cradling the back of her head. "I told you to go."
"You should know by now," she murmured. "I don't take orders well."
He smiled faintly—then winced. Blood soaked the side of his shirt, just above his ribs.
"You're hurt."
"I've had worse."
She pulled him tighter. "You better not die on me, Voss."
"Not planning to. We've got unfinished business."
She nodded slowly. Around them, sirens wailed louder. Authorities. Maybe Lucien's men. Maybe both.
"We need to move," she said. "If Lucien finds out we survived—"
"He knows," Damien cut in darkly. "He made sure of it."
Elena drew back slightly, searching his face. "He knew we'd be here?"
Damien nodded. "He set us up. The intel. The location. The 'leak' we were chasing… It was a trap."
Her hands curled into fists.
"So he's done pretending."
"No. He's just getting started."
Damien's eyes met hers, dark and resolute. "He's declared war, Elena. On both of us. On everything. This was his warning shot."
*Ashes and aftermath,* she thought. That's all that was left now.
But sometimes… sometimes that's where the real fire starts.
---
The hotel was low-profile and off-grid—one of Damien's many backup locations.
Elena sat on the edge of the bathtub, damp cloth in hand as she gently wiped the dried blood from Damien's side. He gritted his teeth but didn't stop her.
"You're lucky the bullet didn't go deeper," she muttered.
"Are we counting luck now?"
She met his eyes. "I'm counting that you're alive. Barely."
He reached for her free hand, holding it tightly.
"Elena, I'm sorry."
She blinked. "For what?"
"For dragging you into this. For not stopping Lucien sooner. For thinking I could fix this without hurting you."
She sighed. "You did hurt me. More than you know."
"I know," he said quietly. "And I'm trying to make it right."
She paused. "How?"
He looked at her—really looked. "By burning down everything that tried to break us."
It shouldn't have made her heart race.
But it did.
She wrapped the bandage around him and stood. "So what's the plan?"
Damien's expression darkened. "We end this. With Lucien."
She nodded.
"No more running," she said.
"No more lies," he added.
They stood there, the silence thick with something heavier than tension.
Resolve.
And love—dark, bruised, but unshaken.
---
The Voss estate was too quiet.
Elena crouched beside Damien behind the thick hedges that bordered the east side of the mansion. It was almost poetic, she thought. This place—once a symbol of luxury and legacy—was now a fortress of betrayal.
"You ready?" he asked her.
She nodded. "Born ready."
They slipped in through the servant's gate, using access codes Damien still remembered from years ago. Inside, everything was pristine. Cold. Lifeless.
Lucien had always liked control. Even now, even with blood on his hands, he needed order.
Too bad they were about to bring chaos.
The hallway stretched long and silent. Elena's heels made no sound. Damien moved like a shadow beside her. They were a team again. Partners in war.
Then they saw him.
Lucien, seated calmly at the head of the long dining table, sipping red wine like he hadn't tried to murder them hours ago.
"Well," he said, setting the glass down. "I wondered when the ashes would walk in."
Damien stepped forward. "It's over."
Lucien smiled. "No, brother. It's only just begun."
"What do you want?" Elena demanded.
Lucien's gaze flicked to her. "Everything he has. Everything he stole."
"I never stole anything from you," Damien said.
Lucien stood. "You stole *her.*"
Elena didn't flinch.
"She's not yours, Lucien. I was never yours."
His face twisted, and in that moment, the mask shattered. The carefully maintained calm fractured.
"You should have been," he growled.
Damien pulled his weapon. "Don't."
Lucien laughed. "Going to kill your own blood?"
"I already buried you once."
"Then do it again," Lucien snarled. "Because I'll never stop until she's mine—or ashes."
The shot rang out like judgment.
Damien lowered the gun.
Lucien fell, eyes wide with shock and something else—relief?
Elena stared, breath held.
"I had to," Damien whispered. "He wasn't going to stop."
She moved to him, took the gun from his hand. "We're not murderers."
"No," he said. "Just survivors."
---
Days passed.
The world calmed.
Elena stood on the balcony of their new safehouse, watching the sunrise with tired eyes. Everything had changed. And yet… there was peace.
A soft rustle behind her. Damien.
He slipped his arms around her waist.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
"Too quiet."
He kissed her temple. "We survived it."
She turned. "Barely."
"But we did."
She traced the scar at his side. "What happens now?"
"Now?" he echoed. "We rebuild. From the ashes."
She smiled faintly. "Together?"
His eyes held hers. "Always."