Elara learned the rules of the Moretti house quickly.
Some were spoken aloud—where she could go, who accompanied her, which doors were locked after midnight. Others were taught in looks, pauses, and silences heavy enough to bruise.
Adrian was one of those rules.
He was everywhere and nowhere at once. A presence felt more than seen. She would sense him before she spotted him—at the far end of a corridor, stepping out of a black car, standing just beyond the circle of light during meetings she was never meant to attend.
Always watching.
Never crossing the line.
It was almost worse than if he had.
The clinic was the only place where Elara felt like herself again.
The building was old, the paint chipped, the rooms too small for the number of people who needed them—but the children smiled when they saw her. They didn't know her name carried blood now. They didn't care who she belonged to.
She was wrapping a bandage around a little boy's arm when the door opened quietly behind her.
Her heart jumped before she even turned.
Adrian stood there.
Not in a suit this time. Dark jeans. Black shirt. A gun hidden easily at his side.
"You weren't supposed to come," she said.
"You weren't supposed to be here alone."
"I wasn't."
His gaze flicked to the guards stationed discreetly outside the door. "You were."
She sighed. "Luca approved this."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "Luca doesn't understand risk."
"And you do?"
His eyes met hers. "I live in it."
The children were watching now, curious. Elara forced a smile and ushered the boy back to his seat. When she turned again, Adrian had stepped farther into the room, lowering his voice.
"You can't keep pretending this place isn't dangerous."
"I can't keep pretending the world is only safe behind gates and guns," she shot back.
Something like admiration flickered across his face before he masked it.
"Come with me," he said.
Her pulse spiked. "Where?"
"Home."
The word settled uncomfortably between them.
During the drive back, the city blurred past the tinted windows. Elara stared straight ahead, hands folded in her lap, painfully aware of Adrian beside her. The car smelled faintly of leather and smoke. Of him.
"Why do you keep doing that?" she asked suddenly.
"Doing what?"
"Showing up. Warning me. Watching me like—like you're responsible for me."
He didn't answer immediately.
"Because I am," he said finally.
She turned to him. "No. You're not."
His gaze was fixed on the road. "Luca won't protect you from the things that matter."
"And you will?"
His fingers tightened against his thigh. "I already am."
The estate loomed ahead of them, iron gates opening at Adrian's command. Elara felt the familiar sense of enclosure settle over her again.
Inside, voices echoed from the study.
Raised.
Angry.
Adrian stopped abruptly, hand shooting out to halt her. "Stay here."
She didn't listen.
The study doors were open just enough for her to hear Luca's voice—sharp, irritated.
"She embarrasses me," he said. "Running around the city like she's untouchable."
"She's not a possession," Adrian replied coldly.
"She will be my wife."
"And that gives you what, exactly? Ownership?"
Elara's breath caught.
"You're overstepping," Luca snapped. "This concern of yours—it's inappropriate."
A pause.
Then Adrian's voice, low and lethal.
"If you ever make her feel unsafe, brother, I won't need permission to intervene."
Silence followed.
Elara stepped back before she was seen, heart hammering. By the time the door opened, she was already moving down the hall.
Adrian found her later in the music room.
She sat at the piano, fingers resting on keys she hadn't touched in years. The soft lamplight caught the curve of her cheek, the tension in her shoulders.
"You heard," he said.
"Yes."
"I shouldn't have said—"
"Don't." She looked up at him, eyes bright with unshed tears. "No one has ever spoken for me like that."
His expression darkened. "That's not something to thank me for."
"Why?"
"Because if I stop…" He broke off, breathing out slowly. "It won't be easy to start again."
The air between them felt charged, fragile.
"I don't belong to him," she whispered.
Adrian stepped closer before he could stop himself. One step. Then another. Close enough now that she could feel the heat of him.
"I know," he said hoarsely.
"Then why does it feel like I'm being buried alive?"
His hand lifted—hesitated—then fell back to his side.
"Because this family destroys what it cannot own."
Her voice trembled. "And what about you?"
His eyes searched hers, something raw and unguarded slipping through.
"I learned how to survive," he said. "Not how to escape."
Their gazes locked. The moment stretched, trembling on the edge of something irreversible.
A knock sounded sharply at the door.
They jumped apart.
Reality rushed back in like cold water.
Adrian straightened, control snapping back into place. "This ends now."
She swallowed. "Does it?"
"It has to."
He turned and walked away, his steps measured, deliberate.
Elara sank onto the piano bench, hands trembling.
Because she knew the truth now.
The danger wasn't Luca.
It wasn't the family.
It was the way Adrian Moretti was already carrying her like a burden he would gladly bleed for—
and the terrifying realization that she was beginning to want him to.