Chapter 12 — The Safe Place ( How to Demand Answers from a Man Who Won't Talk)
The car screeched into the underground tunnel, headlights slicing through the dark. Rain clung to the windshield like static, streaking gold under the flickering lamps. Arielle gripped the seatbelt, her pulse still sprinting from the chase—whoever those men were, they hadn't been random. And Damian's silence was starting to sound like guilt.
The tires hissed to a stop before a steel door that looked like it belonged in a spy film. Damian pressed a fingerprint scanner; the gate slid open with a low mechanical growl. Inside—sleek walls, cold light, and the kind of quiet that hummed with secrets.
"Where are we?" she demanded as he parked.
"Safe," he said flatly.
"That's not an address."
He didn't answer. He got out, jacket soaked, jaw locked tight. She followed, her heels echoing across the floor, anger heating her chest.
"Damian, what just happened out there?"
He turned, the movement sharp. "You tell me."
"Me?" she snapped. "You're the one who drove like a fugitive through half the city!"
His eyes—storm-dark, unreadable—met hers. "Someone followed us. Not me. Us. You think that's coincidence?"
Her breath hitched. "So what are you saying? That I'm the reason we were nearly—"
"Targeted. Yes." He stepped closer, voice low but dangerous. "And that means whoever's behind it doesn't just want me. They want you involved."
Arielle froze. The space between them burned with something hotter than fear. He was too close, his voice too calm for the chaos he carried.
"You can't just throw that at me like it's weather," she said, forcing a laugh that trembled at the edges. "You're supposed to protect your PR consultant, not accuse her of espionage."
Damian exhaled, slow, the kind of breath that looked like control reloading. "I'm not accusing you. I'm telling you that someone thinks you're important enough to threaten."
She swallowed, her defiance cracking. "And how would you know that?"
"Because I've seen this before." His gaze flicked away, jaw tightening. "The pattern. The timing. The same kind of tailing car that followed me last year after the Valen project in Prague."
"You make it sound like you're some undercover agent, not a corporate executive."
He finally looked at her again—really looked. "Maybe I'm both."
The words landed like a slap.
She took a step back, shaking her head. "You're unbelievable. I spent months thinking you were just cold, complicated, and insufferably disciplined. Turns out you're—what?—running a double life?"
He moved toward her, every step deliberate, controlled. "You think this is about me hiding things? You wouldn't have lasted five minutes in my world if I told you everything."
"Well, congratulations," she fired back, voice shaking, "because now I'm living it without consent!"
Something inside him snapped. He reached out, hand catching her wrist—not hard, but enough to stop her trembling. The air pulsed.
"Arielle." His voice was quiet thunder. "If I didn't care, I'd have let that car follow us all the way to your apartment."
Her breath stalled. "Care?"
For a second—just one—his mask slipped. The faintest trace of emotion flickered in his eyes: fear. Not for himself. For her.
He dropped her wrist as if burned. "You should rest," he muttered. "There's a spare room upstairs. I'll handle the security feed."
"Damian." She stepped forward, softer now. "You can't keep pretending this doesn't scare you."
He looked over his shoulder, smirk almost bitter. "You think I'm scared?"
"I think," she said, "you're furious that you can't control this."
Silence. Then—slowly—he turned fully toward her again. The tension between them stretched, taut and fragile.
"You really shouldn't see me like this," he said quietly.
"Too late."
His eyes darkened, a storm beneath glass. "You have no idea what you're asking for."
"And you have no idea how exhausting it is trying to read a man who talks in riddles!" she snapped, voice breaking. "I watched you risk your life out there, Damian. For what? For pride? For me? Say something that makes sense!"
He closed the distance between them in two strides, stopping so close she could feel the heat of him. "You want me to say it?" he said, low. "Fine."
She swallowed hard, heart pounding loud enough to echo in her skull.
"I don't do attachments," he said, each word like flint. "They get people killed. But when that car came at us, the only thing I could think of—was you."
The air between them went still.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
He stepped back abruptly, like a man catching himself from a fall. "Forget I said that."
"I can't."
"You have to." His voice was steel again. "Because whatever's coming next—I need your head clear, not your heart."
Before she could respond, a loud beep echoed from the wall. A red light flashed above the security console.
Damian's entire body went rigid.
"What is that?" she whispered.
He moved fast, scanning the monitor. "Motion sensors. South perimeter. Someone found the entrance."
"Here?"
He turned to her, expression gone cold, professional, lethal. "Stay behind me."
The lights dimmed automatically as he drew a sleek black weapon from a concealed drawer near the console. His composure returned, like armor sliding into place.
Arielle's pulse thundered. "Damian—"
He looked at her, eyes sharp but voice calm. "Whatever happens, you don't open that door unless I say so."
Then the sound came—footsteps. Slow. Echoing through the metal corridor outside.
The camera feed flickered. A shadow crossed the screen.
Arielle's throat went dry. "Damian… who is that?"
He stared at the monitor, unreadable. Then—so softly she almost missed it—he whispered,
"Someone who wasn't supposed to find me again."
The monitor went black.
And the door began to unlock.
Xoxo Eloura 😘 😍 😘