Chapter 6: The Price of Protection

Chapter 6: The Price of Protection

The dress was a weapon.

Elara stared at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror of the guest suite. She didn't recognize the woman looking back at her. The dress, a creation of deep sapphire silk that Damian had procured without a word, clung to her body like a second skin before flaring out at the knee. It was elegant, breathtaking, and utterly exposed. The cut of the neckline was a graceful slash that hinted at the soft curve of her collarbone, and the open back dipped daringly low. It was a suit of armor made of silk and starlight, designed not to protect, but to attract every eye in the room.

A soft knock came at the door. "Five minutes, Elara." Damian's voice was a low rumble from the other side, devoid of warmth but carrying an undercurrent of something tight and strained.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she opened the door.

He was waiting in the hall, a vision of dark, lethal formality in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. But the suit couldn’t conceal the predatory tension in his frame. He was a panther forced into the trappings of civilization, and his eyes burned with an intensity that made the air feel thin.

His gaze swept over her, from the soft sweep of her honey-blonde hair, which Mrs. Gable had styled into an elegant chignon, down the long line of her throat to the sapphire silk that clung to her hips. He stopped there, his eyes darkening. A muscle in his jaw jumped. It wasn't a look of admiration; it was a look of stark, primal possession. He was seeing his masterpiece, his bait, and the sight of her was both a triumph and a torment.

For a moment, she thought he would say something. Instead, he held out his arm. As she took it, his other hand came to rest on the bare skin of her lower back, just above the edge of the dress. His touch was a brand, a claim staked in full view of the world they were about to enter. The heat of his palm seared her skin, sending a jolt straight through her spine.

"The rules are simple," he murmured as they walked towards the private elevator, his voice low and for her ears only. "You stay by my side at all times. You do not speak to anyone unless I initiate the conversation. You do not leave my sight for a single second. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Blackwood," she whispered, her throat dry. She wasn't his assistant tonight. She was his asset, his shield, his target.

The Starlight Foundation Gala was being held in the grand ballroom of a historic hotel, a gilded shark tank teeming with the city's elite. The moment they stepped through the arched entrance, a wave of whispers and curious glances washed over them. Damian Blackwood did not do galas. He did not do public appearances. And he most certainly did not arrive with a stunning, unknown woman on his arm.

His grip on her back tightened almost imperceptibly, a silent command to stay close. He moved through the crowd with an unnerving grace, parting the sea of power brokers and socialites with the sheer force of his presence. Every nod was a dismissal, every glance a warning. He was a king in his domain, and tonight, he was making it explicitly clear who belonged to him. The price of his protection was her freedom, and she paid it with every step she took, feeling like a beautiful, fragile piece of property on display.

He guided her to a secluded alcove, partially hidden by a towering floral arrangement, handing her a flute of champagne she had no intention of drinking. From this vantage point, they could see the room, but it was harder for the room to see them.

"He's here," Damian said, his voice a flat, cold statement. He didn't need to look. He could feel it. "He'll make his approach soon. He won't be able to resist."

Elara's heart hammered against her ribs. She scanned the glittering crowd, her eyes searching for a face she’d only ever seen in business journals. Her gaze snagged on a man by the bar. He was handsome in a polished, predatory way, with silver-streaked hair and a smile that was all teeth. He was laughing with a senator, but his eyes, cold and watchful, were scanning the room. They were the eyes of the cruel boy from St. Jude's, now veiled behind a veneer of wealth and power.

As if sensing their attention, his head turned. His gaze found theirs across the crowded room, and his smile widened, becoming something sharp and unpleasant. He excused himself from the senator and began to move toward them.

Damian's entire body went rigid. The hand on her back became an iron clamp. "Don't react," he breathed, his lips close to her ear. "No matter what he says, you look at me. You are bored. He is nothing."

Marcus Thorne materialized before them, exuding an aura of slick, predatory charm. "Blackwood," he said, his voice smooth as poisoned honey. "I didn't think these charity circuses were your style."

"Thorne," Damian replied, his tone glacial.

Thorne's gaze slid from Damian to Elara, his eyes lingering on her with an invasive, calculating appraisal that made her skin crawl. "And you must be the lovely Elara Vance," he purred. "Damian's renowned assistant. I've heard so much about your… efficiency."

Elara’s breath hitched. She forced herself to look at Damian, focusing on the hard line of his jaw, the cold fire in his eyes. She was an actress in a play she didn’t understand, and her only role was to trust her terrifying director.

Thorne chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. "I was so terribly sorry to hear about your recent accident, Ms. Vance," he continued, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Such a shame when one is a bit clumsy. The city can be a dangerous place if you're not careful where you put your feet."

Clumsiness.

The word, the same one from the note, struck her like a physical blow. It was him. The confirmation was absolute, sickening. This polished, smiling monster was the man who had sent a brute to beat her in a dark alley. He was admitting it to their faces, cloaking his confession in the language of high society.

She felt Damian move. It wasn't a lurch or a sudden jerk. It was a compression of energy, a gathering of immense, violent force into a single point. The air around him grew heavy, electric. The knuckles of his free hand, the one scarred by some old, forgotten war, went bone-white. She could feel the tremor of barely contained rage running through the hand on her back. He was a breath away from lunging, from shattering Thorne’s smug face right here in front of everyone. The Ice King was about to melt down into a volcano.

"You should choose your words with more care, Marcus," Damian said, and his voice was the most terrifying thing Elara had ever heard. It was a whisper, a low, guttural sound from the depths of a tomb, imbued with a promise of such profound violence that Thorne's smile finally faltered.

Thorne held his hands up in a placating gesture, though his cold eyes danced with sadistic glee. He had gotten what he came for. He had seen the crack in the great Damian Blackwood’s control. "Merely offering my concern," he said smoothly. "Enjoy your evening."

He turned and melted back into the crowd, leaving a wake of chilled, poisoned air.

The moment he was gone, Damian’s iron grip propelled her forward. "We're leaving," he bit out, his voice a raw nerve.

He didn't guide her through the crowd; he carved a path, his movements sharp and brutal. The whispers followed them, but he was oblivious, his focus narrowed to a single, burning point. He was a live wire, a grenade with the pin pulled.

He all but threw her into the back of his waiting car, slamming the door shut before getting in the other side. As the limousine pulled away from the curb, leaving the glittering gala behind, Elara dared to look at him.

His face, illuminated by the passing streetlights, was a mask of pure, unholy fury. It wasn't the cold rage of a businessman. It was something primal, something born in the brutal courtyards of St. Jude's. He was staring out the window, but he wasn't seeing the city. He was seeing his enemy, and in the dark, terrifying depths of his eyes, she saw not a plan for revenge, but a vow of annihilation. All pretense of control was gone. The monster was loose.