Damien's POV
I just killed my wife's father.
The police are taking statements. The ambulance is loading Richard Sinclair's body. Blood is still on my hands—literal blood, not just metaphorical.
And all I can think about is Elara.
She's sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, staring at nothing. She hasn't cried. Hasn't spoken. Just sits there like a statue while Marcus handles the police and I try not to fall apart.
"Mr. Cross?" A detective approaches me. "We're done here. Clear case of self-defense. Mr. Sinclair broke in, threatened your pregnant wife with a weapon, you defended your family. You're free to go."
Free. That's a funny word. I don't feel free. I feel like I'm drowning.
"Thank you," I manage to say.
The detective leaves. Slowly, the apartment empties until it's just me, Elara, and Marcus.
"You two should get out of here," Marcus says quietly. "Go somewhere the press can't find you. I'll handle everything else."
"Where would we even go?" I ask.
