Chapter 11 — The Drive
"Some nights refuse to end quietly. They crave chaos, confessions, and speed."
The city bled light across the windshield as Damian's car cut through the night—sleek, silent, predatory. Inside, the hum of the engine filled the space between them like an unspoken thought.
Eloura leaned back in her seat, one hand tracing the rim of her clutch. "You always drive like this?" she asked lightly.
"Efficiently," he replied, eyes on the road.
"Efficient," she echoed. "Your favorite word. I'd almost think you're afraid of slowing down."
His mouth curved slightly. "And miss the chance to impress you with precision?"
She smiled, gaze turning to the skyline reflected in the tinted glass. "You don't need precision for that."
The air between them thickened—no crowd, no flash, no script. Just quiet. And the echo of almost.
For a moment, his composure faltered. "About earlier," he began.
Her head turned. "Earlier?"
"At the penthouse." His knuckles flexed on the wheel. "What I said—what I almost said—"
She leaned forward slightly, eyes searching his profile. "Go on."
But before he could, headlights flared behind them—too bright, too close. A car. Black. Silent.
Damian's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Once. Twice. The charm drained from his voice. "Seatbelt," he said, calm but clipped.
Eloura blinked. "What?"
"Now."
The tone—commanding, cold—left no room for questions. She obeyed, the click of the seatbelt loud in the tense quiet.
The car behind them matched their lane change.
Damian's jaw tightened. "Of course."
"Of course what?" she asked, pulse quickening.
He didn't answer—just pressed the accelerator. The engine roared, the city lights streaking into gold and silver blurs.
Eloura gripped the seat. "Damian—what's happening?"
"Nothing you need to worry about," he said. His voice was steady, but his knuckles were white.
"Forgive me if that doesn't sound reassuring."
He took a sharp turn, tires hissing against asphalt. The other car followed.
"Okay," she muttered, trying for humor that didn't quite land. "If this is your idea of a dramatic confession—"
"Not the time."
"Clearly!"
The tension cracked between fear and adrenaline. Damian glanced at her briefly, the faintest edge of guilt flashing across his face. "You're safe. I promise you that."
"Safe?" she shot back. "You just hit a hundred!"
He smirked—dry, humorless. "Eighty-five."
The city thinned, giving way to the open bridge ahead. Wind rushed past. The black car still shadowed them, headlights slicing through the darkness like intent.
Eloura turned in her seat, heart hammering. "They're still behind us."
"I see them."
"Then maybe—oh, I don't know—call the police?"
"Not an option."
That stopped her. "What do you mean not an option?"
His silence said too much.
The car swerved onto a side street, tires screeching. Damian's hand shot out to steady her, his touch brief but grounding.
"Trust me," he said quietly.
She stared at him, pulse in her throat. "You keep saying that."
"Because one day, you might actually do it."
The car behind them sped closer—too close now, the glare of its lights flooding the interior. For a second, the world narrowed to the rhythm of engines and the sound of her heartbeat.
Damian muttered something under his breath—then flicked a switch. The rearview glass dimmed, headlights fading to ghostly halos. He turned suddenly down another road, this one narrower, darker, lined with high-end storefronts asleep in silver moonlight.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Away."
"From what?"
He didn't answer. Not with words.
Instead, he glanced at her—a look full of everything he hadn't said in the penthouse. Regret. Resolve. And something deeper, rawer.
The road twisted; the other car followed.
"Damian—"
"Hold on."
The car surged forward, and for one breathless moment, she saw something in him she'd never seen before—someone dangerous, unshaken, and entirely in control.
Then—out of nowhere—another vehicle slid from the cross street, headlights cutting across their path. Damian swore sharply, jerking the wheel. The car skidded, spun once, then steadied, the seatbelts biting across their chests.
Eloura gasped, catching herself against the door. "Damian!"
He didn't answer—his eyes were on the rearview mirror. The black car had stopped too, distant, watching.
Neither moved.
The streetlight above flickered once, twice, then went out.
"Tell me this isn't normal for you," she whispered.
He exhaled, slow and dangerous. "Depends on how you define normal."
"Damian."
His hand tightened on the wheel. "We're not staying here."
And with that, the engine growled to life again. He took off, the world rushing past in a blur of shadow and gold.
Behind them, the mysterious car merged back into the dark.
Eloura pressed a hand against her heart, breath uneven. "You're going to explain this. All of it."
He glanced at her, eyes unreadable, voice low. "If I did, you'd wish I hadn't."
The words hung between them, heavy, final.
Outside, the city lights flickered like a warning.
The chase wasn't over. Not yet.
Xoxo Eloura 😘 😘