Chapter 4: The Protector's Claim

The terrace overlooking the hotel's gardens had seemed like salvation—a chance to escape the ballroom's stifling atmosphere and gather what remained of her composure. Elara gripped the marble balustrade, letting the cool night air wash over her flushed skin. The pendant had finally gone silent, but her body still hummed with residual sensation, a constant reminder of how thoroughly Damian had played her like an instrument.

"Fresh air was a good idea," she murmured when he joined her, maintaining the pretense that her escape had been his suggestion rather than her desperate flight.

"You handled yourself well in there," Damian said, leaning against the railing beside her. "Better than I anticipated for your first test."

Test. Everything was a test with him, a measurement of her submission and his control.

"Miss Vance?" The voice behind them was rough, slightly slurred with alcohol. "What a lovely surprise to find you out here."

Elara turned to see a man approaching—mid-fifties, expensive suit straining over a soft paunch, eyes that held the predatory gleam of someone accustomed to taking what he wanted. She recognized him from the ballroom but couldn't place the name.

"Viktor Reeves," Damian said coolly, straightening. "I wasn't aware you'd be attending tonight."

"Last minute decision." Reeves' gaze slid over Elara like oil, lingering on the neckline of her dress. "Couldn't resist the chance to support the arts. And to meet your beautiful companion, of course."

Something in the air shifted, becoming charged with tension. Damian moved almost imperceptibly closer to Elara, his body language subtly protective despite the circumstances that had brought them together.

"Miss Vance was just getting some air," Damian said evenly. "We should be returning to the gala."

"Oh, don't rush off on my account." Reeves stepped closer, and Elara caught the stench of whiskey on his breath. "I was hoping to have a word with the lovely lady. Privately."

"That won't be necessary," Elara said quickly, moving toward Damian instinctively.

Reeves laughed, a sound devoid of humor. "Come now, sweetheart. No need to be shy. Damian and I are old friends, aren't we? I'm sure he wouldn't mind sharing."

The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Damian's stillness was more terrifying than any show of anger—the predatory calm of a apex predator moments before it struck.

"You're mistaken," Damian said quietly. "On several counts."

But Reeves was either too drunk or too arrogant to recognize the danger. He reached for Elara's arm, his fingers closing around her wrist with bruising force.

"Don't be such a greedy bastard, Blackwood. You've had plenty of pretty toys over the years. Time to let someone else have a turn."

What happened next occurred so quickly that Elara barely processed it. One moment Reeves was gripping her wrist, the next he was slammed against the terrace's stone wall, Damian's forearm pressed against his throat with surgical precision.

"Take your hands off her," Damian said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "Now."

Reeves released Elara immediately, his face purpling as he struggled against Damian's hold. "You can't—this is assault—"

"This is a warning." Damian's voice remained perfectly calm, but his eyes had gone arctic. "Touch what belongs to me again, and I'll demonstrate the difference between a warning and a response."

"She's just another whore—"

The crack of Damian's fist connecting with Reeves' jaw echoed across the terrace. The older man crumpled, blood streaming from his split lip as he clutched his face.

"Wrong again," Damian said, shaking out his knuckles. "She's my whore. And I protect what's mine."

The possessive declaration should have horrified Elara. Instead, she found herself experiencing something entirely unexpected—a flutter of warmth, of safety, of belonging to someone who would defend her against predators worse than himself.

Other guests had begun to appear on the terrace, drawn by the commotion. Damian straightened his jacket, his expression returning to its usual controlled mask as if nothing had happened.

"Mr. Reeves slipped," he announced to the gathering crowd. "The marble can be treacherous when wet. Perhaps someone should call for medical assistance."

The implicit threat was clear—corroborate his story or face the consequences. The witnesses nodded quickly, several people rushing to help Reeves to his feet.

"Come," Damian said to Elara, offering his arm. "The evening has lost its charm."

They walked through the ballroom in silence, Elara hyperaware of the whispered conversations that followed in their wake. By tomorrow, everyone would know that Damian Blackwood had claimed his companion publicly and violently. She should be mortified, but instead she felt oddly protected, as if she'd been wrapped in armor.

The car ride back to the penthouse was charged with tension. Damian stared out the window, his jaw tight, his hands clenched in his lap. Elara found herself studying his profile, this man who had just committed assault to defend her honor—or at least his claim to her.

"You didn't have to do that," she said quietly.

"Yes, I did." His voice was flat, final. "What's mine stays mine. Intact."

The possessive edge to his words should have chilled her. Instead, it sent heat spiraling through her chest, a warmth she absolutely did not want to examine too closely.

Back at the penthouse, Damian poured himself a whiskey—his first sign of any emotional reaction to the evening's events. Elara stood awkwardly in the living room, still in her evening gown, unsure what was expected of her now.

"You can go to your room," he said without looking at her. "Tonight's lesson is complete."

But something made her hesitate. Perhaps it was the way he stood so rigidly by the window, or the controlled violence she'd witnessed on the terrace, or the growing realization that her captor was more complex than she'd initially believed.

"Thank you," she said softly.

He turned, surprise flickering across his features. "For what?"

"For... protecting me. Even if it was just protecting your property."

Something dangerous shifted in his expression. He set down his glass and moved toward her with predatory grace, backing her against the wall until she was trapped between marble and muscle.

"Is that what you think this is about?" His voice was low, rough. "Property?"

"Isn't it?" she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.

His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone with surprising gentleness. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

The admission seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. For a moment, the mask slipped, and she glimpsed something raw and hungry beneath his controlled exterior. Something that looked almost like need.

Then his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding, tasting of whiskey and possession. It wasn't the clinical kiss she'd expected but something desperate, almost violent in its intensity. His hands tangled in her carefully styled hair, destroying hours of professional work as he plundered her mouth with a thoroughness that left her breathless.

When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing heavily. His eyes were dark with want, his control visibly fraying at the edges.

"Go," he said roughly. "Before I forget that I prefer willing partners."

Elara fled, her lips still burning from his kiss, her body trembling with adrenaline and something far more dangerous. In her room, she caught sight of herself in the mirror—hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes wide with shock and unwelcome arousal.

The man who had bought her, who tormented her with remote-controlled toys and public humiliation, had just defended her honor like some medieval knight. And instead of being repulsed, she found herself touching her lips, remembering the taste of his mouth on hers.

The realization was terrifying: Damian Blackwood was more than her captor. He was becoming something far more dangerous—a protector she was beginning to crave, a master she was learning to trust, and possibly the most lethal threat to her sanity she'd ever encountered.

Outside her window, the city glittered in the darkness, beautiful and distant as ever. But for the first time since arriving at the penthouse, Elara felt like she might survive the year ahead.

The question was whether she'd recognize herself when it was over.