The manor was silent when Adrian returned, but the world outside was burning. Smoke rose from the docks where his men had clashed with Damien’s syndicate, and though victory was his, it came at a cost. His shirt was torn, his knuckles raw, his body carrying the scent of iron and ash.

Elena sat by the window, the faint imprint of the chain still raw against her wrist. He had unshackled her hours ago, but its phantom weight lingered. When the door creaked open, her heart stuttered. His presence filled the room before he even stepped inside.

“You’re hurt,” she whispered.

Adrian’s lips curved into a dark smile. “Not enough.”

He moved toward her, every step heavy with exhaustion and hunger. When he crouched in front of her, his bloodied hand reached for her cheek. She flinched—just slightly—but it was enough.

Pain flickered across his face, quick and sharp. “Elena,” he rasped, voice hoarse from the night’s violence, “I bleed so you don’t have to.”

Her eyes glistened. “And how long until there’s nothing left of you? How long until this obsession destroys us both?”

For a moment, silence pressed between them. His chest heaved, his breath uneven. Then, with a bitter laugh, he whispered, “I told Damien once that everyone has a price. But you—” his thumb brushed her lips, trembling, “—you are the one thing I can’t bargain for. I can only take.”

She swallowed hard, her heart warring with her mind. “And if I don’t want to be taken?”

Adrian’s jaw clenched. The storm outside howled, rattling the windows. “Then I will wait. But don’t ask me to stop wanting you. Don’t ask me to stop needing you.” His voice cracked with a rare vulnerability that unsettled her more than his chains ever had.

The air shifted, heavy with something unspoken. Elena should have pulled away. She should have reminded herself he was dangerous, possessive, unrelenting. But when his forehead pressed to hers, she didn’t move.

Instead, she closed her eyes and breathed him in—blood, smoke, and something devastatingly human.

And that was when she knew: Adrian wasn’t the only one shackled by obsession.

She was, too. A sharp crack split the night, distant but unmistakable—gunfire. Adrian’s head snapped toward the window, every muscle taut. In an instant, the softness in his gaze vanished, replaced by lethal focus.

“They’ve come closer,” he muttered, standing abruptly. His hand lingered on hers for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as though anchoring himself to her before stepping back into the storm.

Elena’s pulse quickened. Fear coiled in her chest, but beneath it lay something darker, more dangerous. If Damien was at the gates, if war was pressing against the manor walls… it meant Adrian might kill for her again.

And worse—she was no longer certain she wanted him to stop.