The ash had barely settled. Emilia stood in the center of the wreckage, her hand still in Damien's. The air was thick with scorched silk and old memories — the kind no fire could truly erase.
Glass crunched beneath Damien's boots as he bent to examine what was left of the mirror. The note Vale left was now half-soaked in Emilia's blood — just a shallow cut on her palm, but the symbolism wasn't lost on either of them.
Damien's jaw was tight. His voice, tighter. "He's not just trying to rattle us anymore. He's branding you. Testing how far he can go before I break."
Emilia didn't look away. "Let him test."
Damien glanced up.
Her voice didn't shake. "I'm not going to be anyone's fragile bride. Not yours. Not his. And certainly not some shadow he thinks he can play puppet master with."
The corner of Damien's mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Closer to a surrender.
He touched her wrist. "Come. Let Calla run the sweeps. If there's anything more here, she'll find it."
The safe wing hadn't felt safe in hours. Still, Emilia followed Damien through the back corridor that led toward the command room.
"I need you to see something," he said.
She nodded. Silent.
The room they entered was sterile and cold, screens flickering with heat signatures and surveillance feeds. Calla's voice filtered in over the speakers — crisp, composed. "South sensors tripped again. He's toying with the outer perimeter now."
Emilia crossed her arms. "How long do you think he's been planning this?"
"Years," Calla answered before Damien could. "He always wanted in. Now he's in your blood."
Emilia stiffened.
"Easy," Damien said. "Calla's just being dramatic."
Calla didn't argue.
Emilia stepped toward the central table where files were scattered — photos, documents, maps. At the center: a photo of her.
Taken through glass.
She picked it up. "He was watching me before we even met."
Damien nodded. "That was from a café downtown. Two months before we signed the contract."
Emilia's stomach turned. "You knew?"
"I knew someone was watching me. I didn't know it was him."
She dropped the photo like it burned.
"I want to go back to the vault," she said.
Damien blinked. "Why?"
"Because if we're going to get ahead of him, I need to know what I'm dealing with. And I can't do that pretending I'm not terrified. I need to see what he wants me to feel."
Damien was silent for a long moment.
Then: "I'll come with you."
They returned to the vault — Emilia in front, Damien close behind.
But something was different.
The air was colder. The shadows longer.
And on the wall — where there had been only soot — someone had written something new in blood-red paint:
"You married the wrong monster."
Emilia didn't flinch. She turned to Damien.
"You said you didn't know it was him."
"I didn't."
"But he thinks I chose you over him."
Damien's mouth was a hard line. "And that makes you his obsession. Because Vale doesn't believe in choices. He believes in ownership."
She stepped closer. "Then let's show him I'm not his to own."
Damien met her eyes. "That goes both ways, Emilia."
Her lips parted.
And then — finally — he kissed her.
Not carefully. Not softly.
Like a man who knew what war tasted like, and didn't want to die without tasting her.
The vault, the mirror, the message — it all blurred.
Until the only thing left was fire again.
This time, not from the bombs.
But from a touch she'd been waiting too long to feel.
Far above them, the house creaked again.
But neither of them heard it.
They were too busy writing a new kind of silence.
The kind that comes after the first kiss.
The kind that feels like the start of everything — or the end.
They didn't know yet.
But they didn't stop.