Closer

# Chapter 4: Closer

The safe house was a cage.

Evelyn stood at the window of the third-floor apartment, watching rain streak down the glass like tears. Below, the streets of the Upper East Side gleamed wet and empty—the kind of quiet that only came after midnight in a city that never truly slept. Somewhere out there, Victor Mercer was hunting her.

And she was trapped here with the devil's watchdog.

The apartment was small—a studio with a galley kitchen, a bathroom barely large enough to turn around in, and a single window that faced the fire escape. Damon had chosen it for its exits, she knew. Three ways out, he'd said when he'd shoved her through the door two hours ago. Fire escape, service elevator, roof access. He'd checked each one twice before declaring them acceptable.

Evelyn pressed her palm against the cold glass. The ring was still in her pocket, a weight she couldn't escape. Her mother's voice echoed in her memory—*trust no one, not even the ones who bleed for you*—but what did that mean now? What did any of it mean?

"Heat's not working."

She turned. Damon stood in the kitchenette, one hand braced against the counter, the other holding his phone. He'd taken off his jacket, and in the dim light of the single lamp, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set hard as granite.

"Call the landlord," she said flatly.

"Not an option." He didn't look up from his phone. "We keep a low profile. No maintenance requests, no deliveries, no contact with anyone who might remember our faces."

"Of course." She wrapped her arms around herself. The apartment was cold, but that wasn't what made her shiver. "How long are we supposed to stay here?"

"Until I figure out Victor's next move."

"And how long will that take?"

Damon finally looked at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable, the same flat black as the city skyline outside. "As long as it takes."

Evelyn turned back to the window. She could feel him watching her, that heavy, assessing gaze that made her skin prickle. He'd been like this since they'd arrived—watching, waiting, saying nothing. It was worse than the threats. At least when he was threatening her, she knew where she stood.

"The couch pulls out," he said after a long moment. "You can sleep there."

"And where will you sleep?"

"By the door."

Of course. The door. The only exit he hadn't already checked three times. Evelyn watched his reflection in the glass as he moved to the small armchair near the entrance, settling into it with the practiced ease of a man who'd spent many nights in worse positions.

"You don't have to guard me," she said. "I'm not going to run."

"I know."

"Then why—"

"Because Victor doesn't know about this place yet. And I intend to keep it that way."

She turned from the window, crossing her arms. "You said you were my bodyguard. But you're not, are you? You're something else."

Damon's expression didn't change. "I'm what you need me to be."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're going to get."

Evelyn felt a flash of anger, hot and sharp. She'd spent the last three years running, hiding, letting men like him dictate her every move. She was tired of it. Tired of the fear, the secrets, the feeling that she was nothing more than a pawn in someone else's game.

"I'm going to take a shower," she said, her voice colder than she intended.

"There's towels in the cabinet. Don't use all the hot water."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

She grabbed the bag of clothes Sienna had packed for her—jeans, sweaters, things that smelled like her friend's apartment and felt like the last shred of normalcy she had left—and retreated to the bathroom. The lock clicked into place with a satisfying sound, a small barrier between her and the man who watched her like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve.

The shower was small, the water pressure weak, but the heat was a mercy. Evelyn stood under the spray, letting it wash away the grime of the last few days. The gallery. The attack. Damon's hands on her, pulling her to safety.

She pressed her forehead against the tile.

*Why did he save me?*

It was the question that kept circling back, no matter how many times she tried to push it away. Victor wanted her dead. Damon worked for the Blackwoods, who had their own reasons for wanting her alive. But the way he'd looked at her in that alley—the way he'd held her like she was something precious—that hadn't been professional. That had been personal.

Or she was imagining things. Reading meaning where there was none.

She stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, then dressed in the softest sweater Sienna had packed and padded barefoot back into the main room. Damon was still in the armchair, but his eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even.

Asleep. He was actually asleep.

Evelyn stood in the doorway, watching him. In sleep, the hard edges of his face softened. He looked younger, almost vulnerable, though she knew better than to believe that. A man like Damon Blackwood didn't have vulnerabilities. He had weaknesses he'd learned to weaponize.

She moved quietly to the couch, pulling out the thin mattress and the single blanket Sienna had thought to include. The fabric was rough against her skin, the pillow flat and lumpy. She lay down, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of rain against the glass and the soft rhythm of Damon's breathing.

Sleep didn't come.

She lay awake for hours, her mind churning. Her mother's warning. Victor's threat. The ring in her pocket, warm against her thigh. And Damon, always Damon, a shadow at the edge of every thought.

It must have been close to three in the morning when she heard it.

A sound from the armchair. Low. Guttural. The sound of a man in pain.

Evelyn sat up, her heart hammering. Damon was thrashing in his sleep, his hands clenched into fists, his face twisted in a grimace. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his breath came in ragged gasps.

"Don't," he muttered, the word barely audible. "Don't make me..."

She should wake him. That was the rational thing to do. But something held her back—a morbid curiosity, a need to see the cracks in his carefully constructed armor.

"Please," he whispered, and the word was so raw, so broken, that it cut through her like a blade. "Please, I can't..."

Evelyn moved before she could think. She crossed the room in three steps, knelt beside the armchair, and reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Damon."

He jerked awake, his hand flying up to grab her wrist. His grip was iron, his eyes wild and unfocused. For a moment, he didn't seem to see her—he was somewhere else, in some other room, fighting some other battle.

"It's me," she said, her voice steady despite the fear that coiled in her chest. "It's Evelyn. You're safe."

He blinked. The wildness receded, replaced by a dawning recognition. His grip loosened, but he didn't let go.

"Evelyn." Her name on his lips sounded different than it had before. Softer. Almost reverent.

"You were having a nightmare," she said.

"I know." He released her wrist, running a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." She stayed where she was, kneeling beside him. "What was it about?"

He was silent for a long moment. The rain had stopped, and the apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant wail of a siren.

"The war," he said finally. "The things I did there."

"You were a soldier?"

"I was a weapon." He looked at her, and in the dim light, she saw something she hadn't seen before. Pain. Real, raw, human pain. "They trained me to be efficient. To follow orders without question. To do things that..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "You don't want to know."

"Maybe I do."

"Why? So you can use it against me?"

The accusation stung, mostly because it was true. She had been cataloging his weaknesses, filing away every crack in his armor for future use. But hearing him say it made her feel small.

"No," she said, and was surprised to find she meant it. "Because I want to understand."

Damon studied her for a long moment. Then he let out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Understanding me is a dangerous thing, Evelyn Cross."

"I've been handling dangerous things my whole life."

"Have you?" He leaned forward, his face inches from hers. "Have you ever had to choose between your conscience and your survival? Have you ever had to look at yourself in the mirror and not recognize the person staring back?"

She should have pulled away. She should have retreated to the safety of the couch, put distance between them. But she didn't.

"No," she admitted. "But I've spent the last three years running from a man who wants me dead. I've lost my family, my home, my entire identity. I've had to become someone I don't recognize just to survive." She met his eyes. "So yes. I think I understand more than you give me credit for."

Something shifted in his expression. The hardness softened, just a fraction, and for a moment, she saw the man beneath the mask.

"Victor killed my mother," he said quietly. "Did you know that?"

Evelyn's breath caught. "No. I didn't."

"Three years ago. She was the only person I ever trusted." His voice was flat, emotionless, but she could hear the pain beneath it. "I was supposed to protect her. I failed."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was a long time ago." He leaned back in the chair, his eyes closing. "You should get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

Evelyn hesitated. There was more she wanted to say, more she wanted to ask. But the walls were back up, higher than before, and she knew better than to push.

She returned to the couch, pulling the blanket up to her chin. But sleep still didn't come. She lay awake, replaying the conversation, the way his voice had cracked when he'd said his mother's name.

*He's not what I thought he was.*

It was a dangerous realization. Because if Damon Blackwood was capable of vulnerability, then he was capable of something else, too.

Something she wasn't ready to name.

---

Morning came gray and cold.

Evelyn woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Damon moving around the kitchen. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and found him standing at the counter, a mug in his hand.

"There's food in the fridge," he said, not looking at her. "Eggs. Bread. I'll make breakfast."

"I can cook for myself."

"I know." He turned, and there was something almost like amusement in his eyes. "But I'm better at it."

She wanted to argue, but she was too tired. Instead, she shuffled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair a mess. The face of a woman who hadn't slept in days.

*Get it together, Evelyn. You can't fall apart now.*

When she came out, Damon had two plates of scrambled eggs and toast on the small table by the window. He was already eating, his movements efficient, controlled.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the empty chair. "Eat."

She sat. The eggs were surprisingly good—fluffy, seasoned perfectly. She ate in silence, watching the city wake up through the window. Cars began to fill the streets. People hurried to work, umbrellas raised against the drizzle.

"I need to go to the gallery today," she said.

"No."

"I have work. A restoration project that's due next week."

"Victor knows about the gallery. It's the first place he'll look."

"Then I'll be careful."

Damon set down his fork. "Evelyn, I'm not going to let you walk into a trap."

"Let me?" She felt a flash of anger. "I'm not a child, Damon. I don't need your permission."

"You need to stay alive. That's what I'm trying to ensure."

"And what about my life?" She stood, the chair scraping against the floor. "What about my work, my friends, everything I've built? Am I supposed to just abandon all of it because Victor Mercer wants me dead?"

"Yes."

The word was flat. Final.

Evelyn stared at him, her hands trembling. "You don't get to decide that for me."

"I'm not deciding anything. I'm telling you the truth." He stood, closing the distance between them. "Victor will use anyone you care about to get to you. Sienna. Your clients. Anyone who's ever been kind to you. He'll destroy them, and he'll make you watch."

"How do you know that?"

"Because that's what he did to my mother."

The words hung in the air between them. Evelyn felt the anger drain out of her, replaced by something colder. Fear. Not for herself, but for everyone she loved.

"I can't just hide," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"I know." Damon reached out, his hand hovering near her face. "But you can trust me to keep you safe."

She should have pulled away. She should have reminded herself that he was a Blackwood, that he worked for the family that had destroyed hers. But she didn't.

"Why?" she asked. "Why do you care what happens to me?"

Damon's hand dropped. He turned away, his jaw tight.

"Because you remind me of her," he said. "My mother. She had the same fire in her eyes. The same refusal to bend." He paused. "And I couldn't save her. But I can save you."

Evelyn didn't know what to say. The vulnerability in his voice was raw, unguarded, and it made her chest ache in a way she didn't want to examine.

"I should get dressed," she said finally. "If I'm going to be stuck here, I might as well be productive."

"There's a laptop in the drawer. I had it brought over last night. You can work remotely."

She nodded, not trusting her voice. As she turned to go, her eyes caught something on the counter—a small leather bag, unzipped, its contents spilling out.

A photograph.

Her photograph.

She reached for it before she could stop herself, her fingers brushing the worn edges. It was her, three years ago, at a charity gala. She was laughing, her head thrown back, a glass of champagne in her hand. She barely recognized herself.

"Where did you get this?"

Damon's face went still. "It's nothing."

"This is me." She held it up, her hand shaking. "This is me, months before my family fell. Before everything. How did you get this?"

He didn't answer. He just stood there, his eyes dark, his expression unreadable.

"Damon." Her voice was sharper now. "How long have you been watching me?"

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

And in that moment, Evelyn realized the truth.

He hadn't been watching her because she was a target.

He'd been watching her because she was something else.

Something more.

She just didn't know what.