Chapter 3 Ash and Mirrors

The car was silent. Not the kind of silence that calms you-but the kind that presses on your chest, reminding you that you're not in control.

Lia stared out the window, watching the neon lights of the city flicker by like ghosts. Her fingers curled into the sleeves of her hoodie, heart pounding harder than she wanted to admit. She didn't know where she was going. She didn't know who he really was. But she followed him anyway.

Because sometimes running felt better than staying still.

Damien hadn't said a word since they left the club. He drove with one hand on the wheel, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road like it had personally wronged him. Everything about him screamed control. Power. Danger. And yet, he hadn't laid a hand on her. Hadn't touched her. Hadn't even looked at her since she got in the car.

She hated how it made her feel-like a decision waiting to happen.

"Where are we going?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He didn't glance her way. "Somewhere safe."

She almost laughed. "Do I look like someone who believes in safe?"

"No," he said. "You look like someone who hasn't had it in a long time."

She flinched.

The city bled into darker streets. Industrial buildings and abandoned lots, shadows clinging to alleyways. Eventually, the scenery changed again-fencing, gates, security cameras. The car passed through a wide-open gate, and suddenly, they were in a completely different world.

A modern fortress.

It wasn't just a house-it was an estate. Clean lines, cold stone, glass windows that glowed in the night like fire behind ice. Tall hedges, black pavement, and silence so deep it echoed. Damien parked the car in the circular drive and stepped out first, not even checking if she followed.

Lia hesitated.

This wasn't a home. It was a prison with taste.

She stepped out slowly, legs weak, shoes barely making a sound against the pristine stone. The night air was cooler here. Thinner. And the silence... it wasn't peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that came after something terrible.

Damien didn't wait. He opened the front door and walked in like a shadow returning home. She followed-unsure if she was being pulled in or if she was simply done resisting.

The inside was as beautiful as it was cold. Marble floors. High ceilings. A massive staircase. Art that looked too expensive to be real and too hollow to be meaningful. Everything was clean. Perfect. Sterile.

Like no one really lived here.

"Is this where you bring all the girls?" she asked, not looking at him.

He glanced at her. "No."

"You live here alone?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly?"

Damien walked ahead. "My business... doesn't allow for a lot of company."

She didn't ask what he meant. She didn't want to know. Not yet.

He led her through the house until they reached a smaller room off the main hallway-walls of books, dim lighting, and a couch that looked actually lived-in. She stopped in the doorway.

"What is this?"

"Somewhere you can sit without freezing," he said, motioning to the couch. "You want tea or coffee?"

She blinked. That wasn't the question she expected.

"I don't drink either," she muttered.

He raised a brow. "You drink vodka like it's water."

"Vodka doesn't pretend to help."

Damien didn't smile, but something in his eyes softened. Just a little.

"I'll be back," he said, and walked out.

Lia stood there, arms wrapped around herself, trying to make sense of this man. He was too calm. Too quiet. The kind of dangerous that didn't yell-it whispered. The kind of dangerous that came with silence and soft eyes that didn't match the blood on his hands.

She didn't have to know him to know he'd killed. She felt it. Smelled it on him like smoke.

And yet...

There was something else. Something under all of it. Something broken. Familiar.

She sat down carefully, the cushions sinking beneath her like they remembered other ghosts. Her fingers trembled, and she pressed them against her knees to stop it.

What am I doing here?

What the hell am I doing?

She should've run. Should've said no. Should've picked a stranger at a bus station instead of a stranger in a suit and ink and shadows.

But she hadn't.

Because deep down, some part of her wanted someone to notice. To stop her from slipping all the way under.

He came back a few minutes later with a glass of water and a blanket-yes, a damn blanket. She stared at it like it was a bomb.

"I don't do... soft things," she whispered.

"You look cold," he said, setting it beside her, along with the water. "And you're shaking."

She looked away.

They sat in silence for a long time. He didn't press. Didn't ask why she was drinking herself into numbness. Didn't ask what she was running from. And that, weirdly, made her want to tell him more than if he had.

"I left home when I was sixteen," she said suddenly. Her voice was quiet, raw. "I had nothing. No money. No passport. I hitchhiked across the country until I found someone who could fake one. I ended up here."

Damien looked at her, saying nothing.

"My mom died when I was eight," she continued, barely breathing. "And my dad... well. He liked to say I reminded him of her. That's not a good thing when someone hates their dead wife."

The words hung there, heavy and ugly.

"I don't talk about this," she whispered, more to herself than him. "I don't talk to anyone."

"Why me?" Damien asked.

She looked at him then, and for the first time, her eyes didn't hold fear. Just honesty.

"Because you look like you don't talk either."

They stared at each other, the quiet filling in the cracks between them. Something unspoken passed-recognition, maybe. Or mourning.

He stood again, like he needed to move or he'd explode. "I'll show you the guest room."

She followed him upstairs. The house was beautiful, but in that empty, untouched way. She didn't see photos. No signs of family. No clutter. Just walls and wealth and quiet.

He opened the door to a room bigger than any place she'd ever stayed in. Soft sheets, warm lighting, a private bathroom. Too much for someone like her.

"You can stay as long as you need," he said, and then paused. "You don't owe me anything."

She looked up sharply. "I didn't think I did."

He gave her a nod-respectful, detached-and turned to leave.

"Damien?" she said, before he could close the door.

He looked over his shoulder.

"I don't know how to be around people anymore."

He studied her. "Neither do I."

Then the door clicked shut, and she was alone.

Hours passed.

Lia lay on the bed, wide awake. The sheets were soft. The room was warm. It was the first time she'd slept somewhere that didn't smell like mold or regret.

But she couldn't sleep. Not with her head this loud.

Her fingers twitched toward the blade in her backpack. She always kept one. It was habit. Ritual. Safety. The way other people took a drink, she took a cut. Just enough to feel something. Or nothing.

But tonight, she didn't. She didn't know why.

Maybe because the silence didn't feel like punishment here.

Maybe because someone had finally looked at her without pity-or desire.

Downstairs, Damien stood in his office, staring at a wall of screens.

Security footage. Perimeter cameras. All clear.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling. That something was shifting. Something he couldn't name.

He'd brought her here out of impulse. And impulse, in his line of work, got people killed.

But Lia wasn't like anyone else. She wasn't loud. She didn't want anything from him. She hadn't asked for his money or his story or his protection. She had nothing but pain-and still, she had dignity.

He saw himself in her. And that scared him more than anything.

Because the last time he let someone close... they bled for it.

He lit a cigarette, even though he didn't smoke often, and opened the window. The night was cool, still. The kind of night that made you believe things might change.

But Damien knew better.

Devils didn't get peace.

And angels never stayed.