Elena's POV
"Who's there?" My voice cracked. "Answer me!"
The footsteps moved closer. Slow. Deliberate. Like whoever it was enjoyed my fear.
My white cane was somewhere on the floor—I'd dropped it when Maria left. My hands scrambled across empty air, searching for anything I could use as a weapon.
"Relax, Mrs. Cross." The man's voice was smooth, almost friendly. "I'm not here to hurt you. Just delivering a message."
"From Marcus Steele," I whispered, my back pressed against the wall.
"Smart girl." He was right in front of me now. I could smell cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. "Marcus wanted you to know that Cross Manor isn't as secure as your husband thinks. We can get to you anytime we want. Anywhere in this house."
My heart hammered so hard I thought it would burst. "What do you want?"
"Just wanted to drop off your wedding gift." Something rustled—paper, maybe. He pressed it into my shaking hand. "Give that to Damien. Tell him Marcus is watching. Tell him nowhere is safe. Not even here."
His footsteps moved away. A window opened—I heard the rush of cold air. Then nothing.
He was gone.
I stood frozen, clutching the paper, my whole body trembling. Marcus Steele's man had been in my room. In the supposedly secure mansion. He could have killed me, and no one would have known until they found my body.
The door burst open.
"Elena!" Damien's voice was sharp. "I heard—" He stopped. "Why do you smell like cigarette smoke?"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't speak. Just held out the paper with shaking hands.
Damien grabbed it. I heard paper unfolding. Then a string of vicious curses that would have made me flinch if I wasn't already terrified.
"GABE!" Damien roared. "GET IN HERE NOW!"
Footsteps pounded up stairs. Gabe burst into the room. "Boss?"
"Someone was in this room. Marcus's man. He gave Elena this." Damien's voice was deadly calm now—which was somehow scarier than his yelling. "Read it."
Gabe was quiet for a moment. Then: "It's a photo. Of Elena. At city hall today. During the wedding ceremony."
My stomach dropped. "What?"
"He was there," Damien said quietly. "Marcus's photographer was at our wedding. Taking pictures. Getting close enough to—"
He didn't finish, but I understood. Close enough to kill me if he wanted to.
"How did someone get into this room?" Damien's voice was ice. "I have fifty guards on this property. State-of-the-art security. And Marcus's man walked right past all of it?"
"There's a note on the back of the photo," Gabe said grimly. "It says: 'Your fortress has holes, Cross. And I know where every single one is. Sleep well, knowing I can reach your wife whenever I choose.'"
Silence. Thick and suffocating.
Then Damien moved. I heard him cross the room in three huge steps. His hands gripped my shoulders—tight enough to hurt.
"Did he touch you?" Damien demanded. "Did he hurt you?"
"No. He just... gave me the paper and left through the window."
"Through the—" Damien released me and I heard him storm to the window. "Third floor window. No ledge. No fire escape. He rappelled down from the roof." He laughed—sharp and bitter. "Marcus trained me. Of course he knows every weakness in my defenses. He built half of them."
"Boss, we need to move her," Gabe said. "This room isn't safe. The whole east wing isn't safe if they accessed it from outside."
"Agreed." Damien was already pulling me toward the door. "She's moving to my wing. My room. Where I can actually protect her."
"Your room?" I pulled back. "You said we'd have separate—"
"That was before Marcus declared war," Damien cut me off. "Plans change. You're staying where I can see you."
"I'm blind!" I shouted. "I can't even see myself! How am I supposed to—"
"Figure it out," Damien said coldly. "Because the alternative is Marcus killing you while I sleep three wings away. Your choice."
It wasn't a choice. It never was with him.
He dragged me through the mansion—twisting hallways, stairs going down then up, so many turns I lost count. My mental map was useless now. I'd never find my way anywhere in this place.
Finally, we stopped. A door opened.
"This is my room," Damien said. "The bed is against the far wall. Bathroom is to the left. Closet to the right. Windows are bulletproof and alarmed. Door has three locks. And I'll be sleeping in the chair by the door."
"You're staying in here?" My voice came out higher than I intended. "All night?"
"Every night until Marcus is dead or gives up. Whichever comes first." Damien guided me forward until my knees hit something soft. The bed. "Sit. Don't move. I need to talk to Gabe."
They stepped into the hallway. I heard their low voices—planning, strategizing, discussing how to protect me like I was a problem to solve instead of a person.
I sat on the edge of Damien's bed—huge, expensive, smelling like his cologne—and tried not to cry.
This was my life now. Trapped in a strange house. Married to a man who hated me. Hunted by criminals who wanted me dead. And possibly pregnant with a baby I didn't plan.
How had everything gone so wrong so fast?
The door opened. Damien's footsteps entered alone.
"Gabe's doubling security," he said. "Guards at every entrance. Cameras in every hallway. And I've called in reinforcements from my underground contacts."
"Your criminal friends," I said bitterly.
"My criminal friends are the only reason you're still alive." Damien moved around the room—I heard drawers opening, clothes rustling. "The legal system won't protect you from Marcus. But my people will."
"Because I'm your property now."
"Because you're my wife." His voice was sharp. "And I don't let people threaten what's mine."
There it was again. Mine. Not loved. Not cherished. Just owned.
"I want to learn the house," I said suddenly. "Tomorrow. I want someone to walk me through every room, every hallway, every exit. I need to know where I am."
"Why?"
"Because being blind doesn't mean being helpless," I shot back. "I've navigated spaces before. I can do it again. But I need time and patience and someone who won't treat me like I'm made of glass."
Damien was quiet for a long moment. "Fine. Maria will work with you. But you don't go anywhere without a guard. Understood?"
"Understood."
More silence. Then: "The bathroom's through that door if you need it. There are spare clothes in the closet—probably too big, but they'll work until we get you proper things. And Elena?"
"What?"
"If you hear anything strange tonight—anything at all—you wake me up. I don't care if it's just the house settling. You wake me. Clear?"
"Clear."
His footsteps moved away. I heard fabric sliding—him settling into a chair by the door. Standing guard. Protecting his investment.
I lay back on the bed, still wearing the simple dress from the wedding. My wedding day. The day I became Mrs. Damien Cross.
The day my life became a waking nightmare.
I pressed my hand to my stomach again, that gesture becoming a habit. "If you're really in there," I whispered to the maybe-baby, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry this is the world you're coming into."
"Stop apologizing to your stomach," Damien said from across the room. "It's weird."
"Stop listening to my private conversations."
"It's my room. Nothing's private here anymore."
I rolled onto my side, facing away from his voice. "I hate you."
"I know." He sounded tired. Almost sad. "But right now, I'm all you've got. So maybe learn to live with it."
Hours passed. I couldn't sleep. Every sound made me jump—was that Marcus's men? Were they coming back? Would I wake up with a knife at my throat?
Finally, I heard Damien's breathing slow and deepen. He'd fallen asleep in the chair.
I sat up carefully. This was my chance. If I could just find the door, maybe I could explore a little. Map out this room at least.
My feet hit the cold floor. I stood slowly, arms outstretched, taking tiny steps toward where I remembered the door being.
My hand found the wall. Good. I followed it, counting steps, building a mental picture.
Then my foot hit something—Damien's shoe. He'd left it in the middle of the floor like a trap.
I stumbled. Started to fall.
Strong hands caught me.
"Going somewhere?" Damien's voice was wide awake. He hadn't been sleeping at all. He'd been testing me.
"I was just—"
"Trying to escape?" His grip tightened. "Or maybe trying to contact Marcus? Make a deal behind my back?"
"What? No! I just wanted to learn the room—"
"At three in the morning? In the dark?" Damien pulled me closer until I could feel his breath on my face. "I'm not stupid, Elena. And I'm not trusting. So whatever you're planning, forget it. You're mine now. And I don't let go of what's mine."
"I'm not planning anything!" Tears of frustration burned my eyes. "I just wanted to know where I am! Is that so terrible?"
Damien was quiet for a long moment. Then, quietly: "You're in hell. That's where you are. Welcome to my world, Mrs. Cross. Hope you survive it."
He released me, and I stumbled back to the bed.
But as I lay there in the darkness, I heard it again—that sound from earlier. A soft scraping against the window.
Someone was outside.
Watching.
Waiting.
And neither of us was safe.