The Heat of the Chase

Elena had spent years looking over her shoulder, waiting for the past to catch up. Now, it was no longer a question of if—it was when.

And Damian Blackwell had just put himself right in the middle of it.

The streets were wet from the evening rain, the neon glow of the city casting ghostly reflections on the pavement. As she walked beside Damian, her mind raced.

"You're too calm," she murmured, keeping her gaze ahead. "Most men would be asking a lot more questions by now."

Damian smirked, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. "Most men don't already have half the answers."

That stopped her in her tracks. She turned sharply, eyes locking onto his. "Then tell me, Damian. What do you know?"

He stepped closer, and the heat between them became tangible—electric, suffocating. "I know that you weren't just running from a man. You were running from him."

Her pulse pounded.

He was right.

The man she left for dead—the man who should have stayed dead—was back. And if Damian knew that, then he knew exactly how dangerous things were about to get.

Elena took a slow breath, forcing steel into her voice. "You don't have to do this. Walk away while you still can."

Damian let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Sweetheart, I don't think you get it. I chased this." He leaned in, his lips just inches from hers. "And I don't stop until I get what I want."

Elena's breath hitched. Not because she was afraid—but because something in her, something reckless and desperate, wanted to believe him.

She swallowed hard, stepping back. "Then you better be ready to burn."

Damian's smirk widened. "I always am."

The hunt was on.

And neither of them were ready for how deep the fire would go.