The Devil Feels Nothing
Fear didn't always scream.
Sometimes…
It stayed.
Quiet.
Lingering.
Elara hadn't spoken the entire ride back.
Not a word.
Not a glance.
Not even a breath out of place.
Because what she saw tonight…
Wasn't something you talked about.
Damian getting shot.
Standing like it meant nothing.
Smiling like it was part of a plan.
That wasn't power.
That wasn't control.
That was something else.
Something she couldn't understand.
And didn't want to.
The moment they returned, Damian didn't slow down.
Didn't rest.
Didn't even acknowledge the blood still staining his shirt.
He walked straight into the meeting room.
Sat down.
And started planning another operation.
Like nothing had happened.
Elara stood at a distance, watching.
Her chest tight.
Her thoughts heavy.
He feels nothing…
The bullet was still inside him.
She knew it.
She saw it.
And yet—
He spoke.
Commanded.
Planned.
Like pain didn't exist in his world.
By the time the meeting ended, the crew dispersed quickly.
Focused.
Prepared.
Used to this.
Lucas gave her a small glance as he passed.
Not questioning.
Not surprised.
As if he already knew—
She had seen too much.
Later that night…
Damian's room was dark.
Completely dark.
No lights.
No sound.
No movement.
Elara stood at the door for a moment before stepping in.
Her heart beat slowly.
Carefully.
"I just came to check—"
"Elara."
She froze.
His voice.
Low.
Calm.
From somewhere in the darkness.
"Yes…" she stammered softly.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Unmoving.
"I just wanted to check your injury," she said quickly.
"You didn't get treated and I thought maybe I should—"
The lights flicked on.
And her words died instantly.
Damian sat there.
Shirtless.
Unbothered.
Her eyes moved before she could stop them.
Across his chest.
The defined lines of his body.
The scars.
Old.
Deep.
Telling stories she didn't want to imagine.
Then lower—
She swallowed.
Hard.
A sudden heat rushed through her body, catching her completely off guard.
"Don't just stand there staring," Damian said calmly.
A faint edge of amusement in his voice.
"Come do what you came for."
Elara snapped out of it instantly, her face flushing with embarrassment.
"I wasn't—"
She stopped herself.
There was no point.
He already saw everything.
She moved quickly toward him, opening the first aid box with slightly shaky hands.
Focus.
Just focus.
Her fingers steadied as she reached for the wound.
Careful.
Precise.
She saw the bullet still lodged inside.
Her breath hitched slightly.
"You didn't even try to remove it…" she murmured.
Damian didn't respond.
He was watching her.
Closely.
Every movement.
Every reaction.
Every breath.
Elara carefully worked, her hands surprisingly gentle as she cleaned the wound.
Her face closer now.
Too close.
She could feel his presence.
His heat.
His stillness.
And his eyes.
Always on her.
She looked up for just a second—
And their eyes met.
Her heart skipped.
But this time…
It wasn't fear.
She quickly looked away, focusing on finishing the treatment.
After a moment, she pulled back slightly.
"It's done," she said softly.
A pause.
Then—
"Have you eaten?"
"No."
"Why?"
Damian's gaze didn't shift.
"Don't feel hungry."
Elara frowned slightly.
"I'll get you something."
She turned and left before he could respond.
But as she walked away…
Her mind betrayed her.
Flashes.
Moments.
Thoughts she didn't expect.
Didn't want.
She shut them down immediately.
Focus.
In the kitchen, the quiet didn't last long.
The smell of food slowly filled the air.
Rich.
Warm.
Comforting.
Lucas walked in first, drawn by it.
"What are you making?"
Elara glanced back slightly.
"Garlic butter steak with herb rice."
Lucas smiled faintly.
"What about us?" another guard asked.
Elara bit her lip slightly.
"Tomorrow morning, I'll cook for all of you before you leave."
A small cheer went around.
Lucas gave her a thumbs up.
But one person didn't come.
Damian.
She carried the tray into his room quietly.
He was sitting on the bed.
Waiting.
She climbed onto the bed beside him, placing the tray on the small table nearby.
Then she picked up the spoon.
Paused.
Then held it toward him.
He looked at her.
"I know," she said softly.
"But your arm…"
A small pause.
"You shouldn't stress it."
For once—
He didn't argue.
She fed him.
Slowly.
Quietly.
The room filled with something unfamiliar.
Not fear.
Not tension.
Something softer.
But just as dangerous.
When he finished, she set the tray aside and helped him lie back.
"If the pain gets worse, call the maids," she said, standing up.
"They're outside."
She turned to leave.
But suddenly—
Her wrist was caught.
She froze.
Damian's hand.
Firm.
Warm.
Unmoving.
His eyes were closed.
But his grip didn't loosen.
"Stay."
One word.
Low.
Quiet.
But it wasn't a command.
It felt… different.
Elara's heart beat slowly.
Uncertain.
Conflicted.
Because for the first time—
The Devil didn't sound like a monster.
He sounded… human.