Chapter 4 The Fragile Edge

Lia woke up disoriented, the unfamiliar softness of the bed beneath her making her skin crawl. It was too quiet. Too clean. Too safe.

She wasn't used to safe.

For a moment, she didn't move. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, her breath shallow, body tense-like she was waiting for something to go wrong. It usually did.

But nothing happened.

The silence held.

She let herself breathe. Just once. A shaky, fragile inhale.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, bathing the room in soft pinks and blues-like the world had forgotten it was cruel.

She sat up, the oversized shirt Damien had left for her slipping from one shoulder. She didn't remember changing into it. Maybe she had. Maybe he had left it at the edge of the bed, and she'd changed without thinking.

She checked the clock. It was nearly noon.

You're slipping, she thought. You never sleep this long.

She got out of bed, her legs unsteady, and walked to the window. The view was breathtaking-glass towers, streets below like veins in the earth, people moving like tiny, frantic ants.

From up here, it was hard to remember that life hurt. That anything could touch her.

But it could. It always did.

A knock on the door startled her.

She spun around, heartbeat racing. The door opened slowly, and Damien stepped inside, his movements unthreatening, measured.

He held a tray in his hands-coffee, toast, and something that looked like eggs.

"I wasn't sure what you'd eat," he said.

Lia blinked at him. "You brought me breakfast?"

He shrugged. "You need to eat."

"You're not exactly the nurturing type."

"I'm not. But you still need to eat."

She didn't touch the food right away. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him like he was a puzzle she hadn't figured out yet.

"You do this often?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Bring broken girls home and feed them?"

His jaw tensed, but he didn't rise to the bait. "You're not broken."

"You don't even know me."

"I don't have to."

Silence.

She reached for the coffee, fingers trembling slightly. She hoped he didn't notice.

He noticed.

He watched her like someone who saw everything and said nothing.

"I don't trust you," she said quietly.

"Good," he replied. "You shouldn't."

They sat across from each other in the kitchen an hour later. She had showered. He had changed into another expensive suit, though he looked like he hated wearing it.

"You don't look comfortable in ties," she commented.

He glanced down. "It's part of the job."

"What is the job?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he said, "You don't have to stay long. But you can stay as long as you want."

"And if I leave?"

"I'll make sure no one follows you."

She frowned. "Is there someone who would?"

"There's always someone watching," he said. "Especially in my world."

"What does that mean, Damien?" she pressed, voice sharper now. "You keep talking like I'm supposed to be afraid, but you haven't told me why."

He leaned back in his chair, eyes dark. "Because if I tell you the truth, you'll run."

"I've run before."

"Not from me."

A chill ran down her spine.

That afternoon, Lia wandered the house. Damien wasn't around-he had "business," whatever that meant-and the silence followed her like a shadow. Every room was beautiful. Expensive. Empty.

She paused in front of a large framed photo in the hallway. It was of a man who looked a lot like Damien-but older, meaner. His eyes were cold.

There was blood on his hands in the picture.

It wasn't literal, but she saw it anyway.

"His uncle," Damien had said last night. "The one he inherited the business from."

Lia's fingers brushed the edge of the frame. She didn't know what Damien's "business" really was, but she was beginning to guess.

Drugs. Guns. Bodies.

He didn't talk about it. But he didn't hide it either.

And strangely... she didn't feel afraid.

She felt curious.

Because if someone like him could still show softness-still see something in someone like her-maybe the world wasn't as black-and-white as it seemed.

Maybe devils had cracks too.

She found the library after an hour. Books lined every wall-real ones, not just for show. There were crime novels, classics, philosophy, even poetry.

She picked up a thin, worn copy of The Bell Jar.

Her fingers froze.

It was the same edition she'd stolen from a library when she was seventeen. The same one she'd read over and over while sleeping in shelters. Sylvia Plath's words had felt like a mirror.

She sank into the oversized leather chair and opened the book.

And she cried.

Quietly. Without noise. Tears falling down her cheeks as the words whispered back pieces of her past.

She didn't hear Damien come in. But when she looked up, he was there-watching her with something unreadable in his eyes.

"You've read it?" she asked, voice raw.

"Too many times," he said.

"You like poetry?"

"Sometimes."

They stared at each other.

And for the first time, she saw it.

Not the danger. Not the power.

But the loneliness.

She set the book down. "Who hurt you?"

Damien didn't flinch. Didn't pretend he didn't understand.

"My uncle," he said. "The one in the picture. He raised me. Trained me. Made me into what I am."

"Why?"

"Because someone had to take over. And I was the last one left."

"And now?" she asked.

He looked away. "Now I keep it running."

"What is it?"

He hesitated. Then: "Everything. Drugs. Weapons. Gambling. Information. People."

"People?"

He met her eyes. "Not like that."

She nodded slowly. "You kill?"

"When I have to."

"And how often is that?"

He didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

That night, she couldn't sleep again.

She wandered the house barefoot, arms wrapped around herself. Every hallway whispered secrets. Every painting watched her.

She ended up in the kitchen, staring at the refrigerator like it might give her answers.

She didn't hear him behind her until he spoke.

"Can't sleep?"

She turned slowly. Damien stood in the doorway, barefoot too, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, a simple black t-shirt making him look more human than he'd ever seemed.

"No," she said.

"Nightmares?"

"Always."

He walked in slowly, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a glass. "Whiskey?"

She nodded.

He poured two.

They sat at the counter in silence, sipping slowly, the burn of the alcohol grounding.

"I used to think I was broken," she said suddenly.

"You're not."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've seen broken. And they don't cry over poetry."

She looked at him. "Do you?"

"Not anymore."

The conversation turned quiet. Natural. Real.

They talked about nothing and everything. Books. Music. How she liked thunderstorms. How he liked silence. How both of them were more comfortable in the dark.

They didn't touch. Didn't flirt.

But something shifted.

A thread pulled tight between them.

And in the morning, everything would be different.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The following morning brought more than just sunlight.

It brought a car.

Black. Tinted windows. Parked outside the gates.

Lia spotted it from the upstairs window in Damien's library while she was looking for another book. Her breath caught in her throat.

The car didn't move. No one got out.

She found Damien in his office, staring at security screens. The footage on one showed the car too-its engine running like a heartbeat on edge.

"Who is it?" she asked.

His jaw clenched. "Someone who shouldn't be here."

"That doesn't answer me."

He looked at her, sharp and hard. Not angry. Just calculating. "Go upstairs. Stay away from the windows."

"Damien-"

"Lia."

It was the first time he'd said her name. Her real name. And it wasn't a command. It was a plea.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came. So she nodded. Turned. Walked back upstairs like a ghost retracing its steps.

From the second floor, she watched through the sliver between curtains. Damien walked down the front steps like a man who didn't fear death. Calm. Precise. Like he'd done this before.

She couldn't see the person in the car, but the window rolled down slowly, and a voice called out-low, male, confident.

Damien didn't flinch.

Lia couldn't hear what was being said, but she saw the way his shoulders tensed slightly. A flicker of danger passed between them, like static before a lightning strike.

Then the car drove away.

Damien stood still for a moment after it was gone, like he was deciding whether or not to breathe.

When he came back inside, Lia was waiting at the top of the stairs.

"Who was that?" she asked again.

He didn't answer right away. Then:

"Someone I used to trust."

She narrowed her eyes. "What did he want?"

"You."

The silence hit like a punch.

She stepped back. "What do you mean, me?"

Damien came up the stairs slowly, each step deliberate. "You were seen with me. People in this world-they look for leverage. For weaknesses. You... are now mine."

Her breath stilled.

"I didn't ask to be," she said.

"No. But that doesn't matter."

"Why? Because I slept in your bed? Because you gave me coffee and called me by my name?"

His expression didn't shift. "Because you matter. And that makes you dangerous."

She wanted to scream. To hit him. To run.

Instead, she asked, "So what happens now?"

"I keep you safe," he said simply.

"And if I don't want that?"

He stared at her for a long, brutal moment.

"Then I let you go," he said. "But you won't be safe. Not now. Not with them knowing your face."

She shook her head, heart hammering.

"You brought me into this."

"No," he said, stepping closer. "You walked into it. Same as me."

That night, she didn't sleep.

She sat in the hallway outside the guest room with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and the knife from her backpack gripped in one hand. Her back pressed to the wall. Her thoughts racing.

She didn't trust him.

But she didn't trust anyone else more.

And maybe... just maybe... she didn't want to leave.

Not yet.

Two days passed.

The car didn't return. No calls. No messages. But Damien's world grew colder. Tighter. The security team doubled. Guards appeared discreetly throughout the house. The kitchen was stocked like they were preparing for siege.

Lia watched it all like someone watching a bomb being assembled.

And through it, Damien never raised his voice. Never panicked. He worked like a man used to storms.

But at night, when she couldn't sleep, she would sometimes find him in the library-reading, smoking, alone.

That's where she found him again on the third night.

"Tell me about the first time you killed someone," she said.

He didn't even blink.

"It was clean," he said after a beat. "Quick. Too quick."

"Did you feel anything?"

"Yes," he said. "But not guilt."

"What then?"

He met her gaze. "Relief. That it wasn't me."

They stared at each other, the silence stretching like an unspoken promise.

And then, softly, she whispered, "You scare me."

He nodded once. "Good."

But her feet didn't move. She didn't walk away. Instead, she sat beside him on the couch, their shoulders barely touching.

And in that tiny contact, something bloomed.

Not love.

Not yet.

But understanding. Recognition.

The quiet ache of two people who had lived through fire and come out burned-but not ash.

The next morning, a package arrived.

Damien opened it in front of her. No return address. Just a plain black box wrapped in red ribbon.

Inside was a photo.

Lia.

Sleeping.

In Damien's bed.

She stared at it, blood draining from her face.

Damien didn't say a word. He picked up the photo and calmly tore it in half.

Then again.

And again.

Until it was nothing but pieces.

But the message was clear.

They'd been in the house.

Someone had gotten in.

Someone wanted her scared.

And it worked.

That night, Lia packed a bag.

She didn't want to. But she knew this wasn't just about her anymore. It wasn't just about running from pain. It was about not dragging someone else into her storm-or getting swallowed by his.

Damien found her in the hallway, zipper half-closed, eyes already red.

"You're leaving," he said.

"I have to."

"No."

She looked up at him. "You don't own me."

"No," he said again, voice quieter now. "But I know what happens when you run. I've seen it. You think it'll make you feel safer. But it won't."

"I'm not doing this for me," she snapped. "I'm doing it for you."

He laughed-sharp and bitter. "Do I look like someone who needs saving?"

"Yes," she said. "You look like someone who's forgotten what that even means."

And she walked past him, down the stairs, to the front door.

He didn't follow.

But he didn't stop her either.

The wind outside bit her skin. The sky threatened rain. She stood on the steps, staring down the long driveway, heart pounding.

She hadn't made it ten steps before headlights flashed.

The black car was back.

And it wasn't alone.

Three more behind it.

Four total.

Doors opened. Men stepped out. Calm. Armed. Smiling like hyenas.

And that's when she realized-

This wasn't a warning.

It was a trap.

Gunshots cracked the silence like thunder.

Lia dropped to the ground, screaming, as security guards burst from the shadows. Chaos exploded. Shouts. Blood. Screams.

Damien was suddenly there, pulling her back, shielding her with his body as bullets ripped through the air.

"Get in the house!" he barked.

She tried to move, but her legs buckled. He picked her up like she weighed nothing and ran.

Doors slammed shut behind them.

Security scrambled.

Bodies bled.

And Lia finally understood.

This wasn't a game. This wasn't romantic.

This was war.

And she was in the middle of it.

Later, after the medics had come, after the gunfire had stopped, after the bodies had been cleared, Damien stood in the hallway, covered in blood that wasn't his.

Lia approached slowly.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

He looked at her with haunted eyes. "Not physically."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He shook his head. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I brought this on you."

"No," he said. "You reminded me I was human."

Then, for the first time, she reached for him.

And he let her.

Her arms wrapped around him. His around her.

And they stood there like that. In the middle of death. In the aftermath of violence. Two broken things holding each other like they didn't want to break anymore.

She didn't know what they were.

But for the first time... she didn't want to run.