Chapter Seven – The Devil’s Shadow

(Elena’s POV)

The silence after he left was unbearable.

I stood frozen by the bed, the cool night air still swirling in from the open window. My skin tingled everywhere his fingers had brushed, as though his touch had branded me with fire.

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of my heart.

What was wrong with me?

I should have screamed for the guards, raised the alarm, done anything but let him stand in my room, let him whisper those words. Instead, I had leaned into him. I had breathed him in.

I was a fool.

The Rossi heir wasn’t a man to be tempted by. He was a warning dressed in flesh. My father’s sworn enemy, the shadow that haunted every business deal, every whispered conversation behind closed doors.

And yet…

When he touched me, I hadn’t thought of war. I hadn’t thought of betrayal. I had thought only of the way his eyes locked onto mine as if he saw through every layer I had built around myself.

I sank to the floor, pulling the pendant chain from beneath the pillow. The crown glittered in the moonlight, dark jewels flashing with each tremor of my hands.

One day, Elena, you’ll stop fighting it.

His voice clung to me like smoke.

I shoved the necklace into the drawer of my nightstand and slammed it shut. Out of sight. But the damage was done. His presence lingered, in the air, in my skin, in the frantic whispers of my thoughts.

Sleep was impossible.

I lay awake for hours, tossing and turning, replaying every second of his visit. His calm defiance. His dangerous confidence. The way he had known I would open the door.

And the worst part? He was right. I had opened it.

The question gnawed at me: why me?

He could have any woman in the city. Dozens probably threw themselves at him, desperate for a taste of his power, his name, his empire. Yet he had chosen to sneak into my home, into my room, risking bloodshed for… what?

For me.

But why?

By dawn, my body felt hollow, drained. The mirror betrayed the shadows under my eyes, the faint redness of sleeplessness. Sophia would notice if I went down to breakfast. My mother too. So I stayed in my room, feigning illness, clutching a book I never read as the hours passed.

Every knock at the door made me jump. Every voice outside made me stiffen, waiting to hear if it was him again.

But Damian Rossi didn’t return. Not that night, not the next.

And somehow, that made it worse.

By the third day, the silence had begun to wear me thin.

The world outside moved on—my father barking orders at the dining table, my mother’s charity meetings, Sophia chattering endlessly about her fiancé. But I was elsewhere. My body sat through conversations, nodded at questions, smiled when expected, yet my mind lived in the shadow he had left behind.

It was madness, this constant tug-of-war inside me. One moment, I loathed him with every bone in my body. The next, I found myself scanning the crowd when we drove through the city, wondering if he was watching me from some unseen corner.

I told myself it was fear. That I only thought of him because of the danger he posed. But deep down, I knew better.

This was not fear. This was fascination.

And fascination was far deadlier.

That evening, Sophia burst into my room uninvited, as she often did. She tossed herself onto my bed, her silk dress spilling around her like a curtain.

“You look like death,” she said cheerfully.

“Thank you,” I muttered, too tired to argue.

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love. You always look like this when you’re hiding something.”

Heat shot up my neck. “I’m not hiding anything.”

Sophia smirked knowingly. “Please. I know you better than you think. There’s someone, isn’t there?”

My heart skipped a beat. For a terrifying second, I thought she might see right through me. But I forced a scoff, trying to play it off. “No. And even if there were, Father would never allow it.”

“True,” she sighed dramatically. “He’s worse than a prison guard. I’m lucky Marco comes from a family he respects, or he’d lock me in a tower.”

I wanted to laugh, but the truth was too bitter. She didn’t know how close to reality her words were.

Sophia leaned closer, her grin mischievous. “If there is someone, at least tell me this—does he kiss well?”

I nearly choked. Images of Damian’s lips inches from mine, his voice curling into my ear, flooded me with shameful heat. I shoved a pillow at her. “You’re impossible!”

She laughed, unbothered, and soon drifted into chatter about wedding plans. I let her words wash over me, nodding when required, though my thoughts were far away—back in the midnight silence, back to the man who haunted me.

That night, when I finally collapsed into bed, exhaustion should have claimed me. Instead, my dreams betrayed me again.

I dreamed of the crown pendant, heavy around my neck. I dreamed of Damian’s hand at the base of my spine, guiding me through a ballroom filled with faceless figures. I dreamed of fire, of shadows, of his voice whispering my name until it became the only sound in the world.

When I woke, tangled in sheets damp with sweat, I pressed my palms to my face, shuddering.

This had to end.

I couldn’t keep letting him live in my head, couldn’t let his shadow consume me. I had to bury whatever this was—fear, desire, madness—before it destroyed me.

But deep down, I knew it was already too late.

Because no matter how much I lied to myself, no matter how fiercely I tried to resist…

Part of me was waiting for him to return.

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