Chapter 6 I don't want you!

Elara's POV

Thunder crashed outside the window, lightning threatening to split Montgomery Manor clean in half.

I curled into the far corner of the bed, cold sweat soaking through the silk of my nightgown.

The nightmare wrapped around me like a suffocating net, crushing my throat.

In the dream, everything was stained a blinding red.

Surgical lights bore down on my face, cold and merciless.

Damian stood over me in a black shirt, holding a scalpel, his expression blank as he cut into my chest.

Behind him, Caleb clapped his hands and cheered, "Yes! Mommy Vivian finally gets her new heart!"

I tried to scream, to beg them to stop, but no sound came out.

The agony of having my heart torn from my chest consumed me.

I thrashed against it until suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around me—solid, cool, carrying the scent of rain and cedar.

The chest pressing against me was broad and unyielding.

A strong arm circled my waist, pulling me against a source of heat that felt both dangerous and inexplicably safe.

"Elara."

The voice above me was low and rough, slightly breathless.

I jolted awake, wrenching myself out of the suffocating dream.

In the white flash of lightning through the window, I made out the hard line of his jaw and the familiar scar cutting across his brow.

He was back from the hospital.

Before, no matter how badly he'd hurt me, if he'd come home and held me like this, I would have been moved to tears.

I would have convinced myself that somewhere deep down, he still cared.

But now, the alarm bell in my head rang loud and clear: heart donor.

He wasn't here to comfort his wife.

He was here to monitor Vivian's future heart.

The doctors had been explicit—the donor couldn't be stressed or frightened.

I shoved him away like I'd been burned, the motion so violent I felt the bruise on my lower back from yesterday's hospital incident flare with pain.

Damian clearly hadn't expected resistance.

His grip loosened just enough for me to throw off the covers and scramble out of bed.

I didn't even bother with slippers, my bare feet hitting the cold carpet as I put distance between us, my eyes guarded and distant.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice dropped, laced with displeasure.

He sat on the edge of the bed, ice-blue eyes locked on me in the dim light like a predator whose territory had been invaded.

I didn't look at him.

I walked toward the closet and grabbed a thin robe.

"I'm sleeping in the guest room."

I'd barely taken two steps before his hand clamped around my wrist like a vise.

He yanked hard, and I lost my balance, tumbling back onto the bed.

Before I could react, his body covered mine, pinning me down with his weight.

He caught both my wrists in one hand and forced them above my head.

His palm was rough and hot, the kind of hands that had held guns for years.

The sheer dominance of a mafia boss radiated from him, unfiltered.

"What the fuck are you playing at in the middle of the night?" he growled, his breath hot against my cheek, eyes blazing with fury.

"Making a scene at the club wasn't enough? Now you want separate beds? Elara, do you think I've been too soft on you?"

He thought I was playing games.

He was used to my compliance, used to me clinging to him like ivy on a wall.

Any resistance from me registered as attention-seeking.

I didn't struggle.

I lay there beneath him, looking up at the face I'd loved for five years.

No tears. No hysteria. Not even much pain anymore.

"I'm not playing games," I said, and my voice sounded strange even to me—too calm, too detached.

Damian let out a cold laugh, his lips curling into a mocking smile.

He didn't believe me.

I met his sharp gaze head-on.

"I know how important this heart is to Vivian. The doctors said the donor can't have extreme emotional reactions, needs adequate sleep and a stable mood. Sleeping next to you keeps me awake. That's bad for the heart. In the guest room, I'll sleep better. I promise I'll keep this heart in perfect condition until next month."

The words hit him like a slap across the face.

His entire body went rigid.

The fury in his eyes flickered out, replaced by something close to shock.

He stared at me as if searching for a trace of manipulation, hurt, or pretense.

There was none.

I looked back at him evenly, like a product calmly assuring its buyer of quality control.

The muscles in his jaw worked furiously, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, but no words came out.

All that vaunted control he prided himself on had nothing to grip onto in the face of my rational compliance.

The silence was suffocating.

Finally, he released my wrists and pushed himself off me.

He stared down at me for a few seconds longer, his expression unreadable, before turning and striding out of the room.

The door slammed behind him with a deafening crash.

I sat up slowly, smoothed my clothes, and walked calmly to the guest room at the end of the hall.

Not long after, the butler knocked softly, carrying a steaming bowl on a tray.

"Mrs. Montgomery, the master had the kitchen prepare this sleep tonic for you." His tone was respectful, his eyes lowered.

"He instructed me to make sure you drink it."

I looked at the bowl and didn't refuse.

I picked it up and drained it in one go.

If I was going to leave next month, I needed to be in peak condition.

For the next thirty days, I couldn't afford any mistakes with my health.

The next morning, I didn't wake at six-thirty like I had for the past five years.

I didn't go to the kitchen to oversee Damian's black coffee.

I didn't lay out his suit for the syndicate meeting.

I didn't prepare Caleb's allergen-free breakfast.

I slept until eight.

After washing up and pulling on a comfortable casual outfit, I made my way downstairs at a leisurely pace.

The atmosphere in the dining room was tense.

Damian sat at the head of the long table in a charcoal shirt, collar slightly open, his expression cold as he scrolled through something on his tablet.

The coffee in front of him sat untouched.

Caleb was in his high chair, shoving away a small dish of medication and protesting loudly.

"I don't want it! It's too bitter! I want the strawberry kind!" He threw his spoon down, splattering milk across the table.

He suffered a severe allergic reaction yesterday, so the doctor prescribed oral antihistamines.

The medicine tasted absolutely foul.

In the past, I would have crushed the pills into powder and mixed them into his favorite applesauce, coaxing him through every spoonful.

If he so much as frowned, I'd ache for him.

When Caleb saw me coming down the stairs, his eyes lit up briefly.

Then he lifted his chin and raised his voice deliberately, his tone petulant.

"I want Mommy Vivian to feed me! I don't want you!"

He probably expected me to rush over and coax him patiently like always, or maybe to look hurt when he mentioned Vivian's name.