The room Lucas had given her was warm, softly lit, and entirely too peaceful for a night like this. Camilla closed the door behind her and stood there for a long moment, her hand still resting on the handle as if the act of letting go might allow everything to rush back in at once.

Her body felt heavier now that the adrenaline had drained away; the tremor in her fingers had begun only after the danger was gone. When she finally moved, it was slow, almost mechanical, the way one moves after surviving something the body still hasn't understood.

She peeled the robe from her shoulders and turned on the bathroom light. The mirror caught her before she was ready. There were streaks of dried blood along her collarbone and a dark smear across her shoulder where someone else's life had ended inches from her skin. She stared at herself for a long moment, not recognizing the woman in front of her. Her hair, once carefully styled, hung in loose strands around her face. Her eyes looked older than they had that morning — sharper, hollowed, watchful.

She turned on the tap and let the water run until steam began to fog the mirror. When she stepped under the spray, the heat struck her skin with a sting that made her inhale sharply. Pink water spiraled toward the drain as she scrubbed at her arms, her shoulders, her throat, as if the blood had seeped deeper than the surface. Only when she reached her ribs did she notice the bruises blooming there, dark and spreading beneath her skin — fingerprints from a struggle she hadn't felt in the moment. She pressed her fingers against one and watched the pain arrive late, delayed by survival.

She lifted her face into the water and closed her eyes.

The red room returned without warning.

Velvet. Leather. The metallic smell of restraint. The quiet, suffocating knowledge of what was expected of her. Nights she had split herself in two — body and mind — so she could endure them. The echo of a laugh she hated. The weight of hands she did not want. The hollow ritual of pretending desire where there was none.

Her breath caught.

She turned the water off abruptly, bracing both hands on the tile wall, her head lowered.

No. Not here. Not now.

She wrapped a towel around herself and stepped back into the bedroom, leaving damp footprints across the floor. The mirror above the dresser reflected her again — raw, unguarded, stripped of Katia, stripped of pretense. She stared at her own face, searching for something familiar.

Who are you right now?

Camilla.

Katia.

Something in between.

Her hand rose unconsciously to her throat, fingers resting where a blade had pressed only hours earlier.

And then — uninvited but steady — another memory surfaced.

Damiano's hands at the back of her neck, firm but grounding. His thumbs near her cheekbones. His voice cutting through the noise inside her head.

We're going to kill him. Just bear with me.

She remembered the steadiness in his eyes — dark, unflinching, not demanding, not judging. Anchoring. He hadn't asked her to be strong. He hadn't asked her to explain. He had simply been there, immovable, as if the world could tilt and he would still hold his ground.

She sank slowly onto the edge of the bed, towel still wrapped around her, staring at nothing.

For the first time since that moment, she allowed herself to feel it: the strange, unwelcome safety she had felt standing in front of him.

Her chest tightened.

She lay back without drying her hair, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion pressing down on her bones.

Sleep did not come.

In another room down the corridor, Damiano closed his door with the quiet precision of a man accustomed to listening more than speaking. He removed his jacket and laid it across the chair, the fabric stiff with dried blood. For a moment he stood still, shoulders squared, breathing slow and measured, as if cataloging the night before allowing it to exist.

He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off, pausing when the movement pulled at the stitches along his shoulder. The wound throbbed now that the fight was over. He examined the bandage — already marked faintly red — and pressed two fingers lightly against the skin around it, testing the damage. There were smaller cuts along his ribs and a bruise forming near his hip. He had ignored them all.

Pain was information. Nothing more.

He washed his hands in the sink, watching diluted blood swirl away, then braced his palms against the counter and lowered his head.

Her face in the red room.

Not present. Not seeing him. Somewhere far beyond reach.

He had seen that look before — in men after torture, in soldiers after battle, in operatives who stayed too long inside identities that were not their own. Dissociation: the mind stepping away to survive what the body could not.

He dried his hands slowly, jaw tightening.

Then another memory pushed forward: her knife flashing in the hallway, efficient, merciless, precise. No hesitation. No wasted movement.

She had not been the same woman.

And then, again — later — the trembling in her hands by the fire. The way she had wrapped the robe tighter around herself. The subtle shiver she had tried to hide.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor.

Strength and fracture in the same body.

He exhaled slowly.

After a long moment he lay back, one arm folded beneath his head, eyes open to the dark ceiling. The house had quieted; distant footsteps faded, doors closed, the city beyond the walls murmured faintly.

He did not sleep.

Minutes passed. Perhaps an hour.

Without thinking about it — without deciding to — he listened.

To the corridor.

To the faint creak of pipes.

To the possibility of footsteps.

His head turned slightly toward the door.

It was not strategy. Not precaution.

Instinct.

His eyes remained open in the dark.

Waiting.

Camilla lay staring at the ceiling long after the house had settled into silence. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind replayed too many things at once — the red room, the auction, Phantom operatives falling, Damiano's voice grounding her in Moscow, his hand steady at her wrist, the way he had watched her by the fire as if memorizing something he did not intend to remember.

She turned onto her side. Then onto her back. Then onto the other side again.

The room felt too quiet.

Too still.

Too empty.

For weeks now — through captivity, through escape, through danger — she had not truly slept alone. Even when separated by walls, she had been aware of him somewhere nearby, a presence as solid as stone. A strange, unwanted comfort.

Tonight the silence pressed in.

She exhaled sharply and sat up.

"This is ridiculous," she whispered to the empty room.

She pulled the robe tighter around herself and crossed the floor, opening the door carefully so the latch would not click.

The corridor was dim, lit only by a low amber wall light.

And he was already there.

Damiano leaned against the frame of the opposite door, one shoulder resting against the wood, arms folded loosely across his chest as if he had been there long enough to grow still. His head tilted slightly when her door opened, dark eyes lifting to meet hers without surprise.

As though he had been expecting her.

For a long second neither of them spoke.

She remained in the doorway, fingers curled against the wood. He did not move from where he stood. The silence between them was not awkward — it was charged, alive, filled with everything neither of them would say.

"You couldn't sleep," he said quietly.

It wasn't a question.

She exhaled through her nose. "You either."

A corner of his mouth almost moved.

They stood facing each other across the narrow stretch of hallway, the distance no more than a few steps yet suddenly aware of every inch between them.

She became conscious of the way the robe slipped slightly at her shoulder, of the cool air against her damp hair, of the faint scent of smoke still clinging to his skin. He noticed the way she shifted her weight to one foot, the way her fingers tightened briefly in the fabric at her waist, the faint crease between her brows that appeared only when she was thinking too much.

Neither looked away.

"I was listening," he said after a moment, voice low.

"For what?"

He considered. "Movement."

Her brow lifted faintly. "You were guarding the hallway?"

"I was awake," he replied.

That was not an answer.

Her lips pressed together to hide something dangerously close to a smile.

Silence returned, but it had softened now, something warmer threading through it.

A faint draft moved through the corridor, lifting a loose strand of her hair. She shivered almost imperceptibly.

His gaze dropped to the motion, then back to her eyes.

"You're cold," he said.

"I'm fine."

He watched her for a beat longer than necessary.

"You're not."

She held his gaze stubbornly.

Another second passed.

The air between them felt thinner somehow, fragile, like something might break if either of them moved too quickly.

She shifted her weight, leaning one shoulder against her doorframe now, mirroring his posture without realizing it.

The draft slipped again through the corridor, colder this time, threading beneath the thin fabric of her robe. Camilla's shoulders tightened in a small, involuntary shiver she tried — and failed — to disguise. She straightened, lifting her chin as if defiance alone could warm her skin.

Damiano watched it happen.

Once.

Twice.

On the third tremor, his jaw tightened.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, pushing away from the doorframe.

She frowned. "What is?"

"You."

Before she could react, his hand closed around her wrist — firm, warm, undeniably solid — and he pulled her forward.

"Hey—"

"You're pissing me off," he said flatly, steering her across the corridor.

She stumbled once, more from surprise than resistance. "What does that even mean?"

"It means," he replied, opening his door and guiding her inside, "you insist on freezing when there are perfectly functional solutions available."

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

His room was warmer, dimly lit, the soft hum of a heater filling the quiet. He released her wrist only to turn and drag a chair closer to the radiator.

"Sit."

She blinked at him. "You are unbelievably bossy."

"And you are unbelievably stubborn."

He pressed a hand lightly at her shoulder and guided her into the chair before she could argue further. Warm air flowed upward, brushing against her bare ankles and hands.

She hadn't realized how cold she actually was until the heat touched her skin.

He crossed to the bed, grabbed a blanket, then another, and returned without ceremony. The first draped around her shoulders. The second he wrapped around her legs, tucking the edges in with efficient, practical movements that felt almost military.

She stared at him.

"You're treating me like a hypothermic victim."

"You were shaking."

"I was not shaking."

He lifted one brow.

She sighed. "...maybe a little."

He stepped back, assessing his work with the same critical eye he used for tactical decisions.

Better.

The warmth began to seep into her bones. Her fingers slowly relaxed from their tight curl in the blanket.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

He leaned one hip against the desk, arms folding loosely again, watching her like he was confirming she would not argue with thermodynamics.

"You're impossible," she murmured.

"So I've been told."

Silence settled between them, but it was different now — quieter, softer, threaded with warmth and the faint scent of clean linen and smoke.

She tucked the blanket closer around herself, the heat rising to her cheeks.

He watched the color return.