
When Elena woke again the room was filled with soft morning light. Damien was already dressed—black trousers, a dark shirt open at the throat—sitting in the chair near the window with a cup of coffee. He watched her the way he always did: calm, assessing, as if she were something he already owned and was simply deciding how to use next.
“Up,” he said. “Bathroom. Piss. Don’t flush. I want to see.”

















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