Chapter 178: There’s No Easy Way Out, In Devil’s Den

Damian froze.

​The harsh, stinging retort poised on the tip of his tongue died instantly, suffocated by the sudden, violent plummet of air in the room. The rhythmic chime of the cardiac monitor seemed to fade into a hollow, distant hum, swallowed whole by the heavy, suffocating silence that fell between them.

​Slowly, his posture uncoiled from its defensive rigidity. He leaned in, his dark, bloodshot eyes boring into the side of her pale profile.

​He searched her face with savage intensity, hunting for the usual venom, the familiar bite of defiance, or even a twisted trace of mockery meant to push his buttons and rattle his iron control. He waited for the bitter curl of her lip, the sharp scoff that usually followed her reckless words.

​There was nothing.

​Her hazel eyes remained fixed on the plain, sterile paint of the hospital wall, wide and utterly drained of light. There was no theatrical pity, no weaponized guilt. It was just a quiet, hollow surrender... an exhausted confession tossed into the air as if she were simply stating a mundane fact.

​She wasn’t trying to hurt him. She was genuinely telling him her deepest wish.

​She looked at her survival not as a second chance, but as an agonizing extension of an endless sentence... and in her fractured, battered mind, ceasing to exist was the only merciful exit left on the board.

​A cold, visceral dread seized Damian’s chest, far more lethal than the venom that had burned through her veins hours earlier. His jaw locked so violently the bone popped beneath his skin, his hands curling into knuckled fists against his knees as he stared at the fragile, bruised woman lying before him.

​The realization that he could protect her from bullets, syndicates, and poison, yet remain entirely powerless against her own desire to slip into the dark.

The dread in Damian’s chest rapidly curdled into raw, combustible fury.

​He didn’t look at her with pity or sorrow. His features twisted into a mask of pure, bitter contempt, a savage scoff ripping from his throat as the silence shattered.

​"Privileged, pampered little hypocrite," he snarled, the words cutting through the sterile room like a serrated blade. "It’s so damn easy to whisper about death when you’ve spent your entire sheltered life cushioned by wealth, isn’t it? The second the real world scratches that porcelain skin... the second you face an ounce of real struggle... you throw your hands up and decide ending your miserable life is the only option left."

​Ana flinched, her brow pulling together in a sharp, startled frown.

​Through the lingering fog of medication, a cold prickle of alarm ran down her spine. She saw the lethal, wounded rage vibrating behind his dark eyes and instantly realized the catastrophic nerve she had just struck.

She knew pieces of his past... the blood, the starvation, the brutal climb through a syndicate underworld where survival had to be bought with iron and bone.

​"Damian..." Ana whispered, her raspy voice trembling with genuine regret as she tried to pull the words back. "I... I didn’t mean it like that. It was just a thought..."

​"A thought?"

​Damian stood up so violently the heavy leather armchair skidded back against the linoleum.

​In a terrifying blur of motion, he loomed over the bed, planting one broad palm flat beside her pillow while his other hand shot out, his fingers clamping like a steel vice around her jaw. He tilted her chin upward, dragging her face dangerously close to his, his dark stubble brushing her skin and his hot, jagged breath washing over her lips.

​"Don’t you dare think about taking the easy way out, Anastasia," Damian commanded, his gravelly voice dropping to a low, lethal vibration that resonated in her very marrow. "Because I won’t let you. I never have, and I sure as hell never will."

​Before she could draw a single, fragile breath to answer, his mouth slammed down onto hers.

​A muffled shriek caught in Ana’s raw throat at the sudden, suffocating impact. It was a punishing, desperate claim, rough and searing with all the furious adrenaline he had choked down through the night.

Yet beneath the bruising possessiveness, she could feel the scorching, undeniable heat of his mouth, the frantic rhythm of his pulse hammering against her cheek, demanding that she stay anchored to this earth.

​Just as her defenses began to give way... just as her trembling fingers reached toward his chest, chasing that suffocating warmth... Damian abruptly ripped himself away.

​The cold air rushed over her swollen, parted lips.

​Without uttering another syllable, Damian turned his back on her. His broad shoulders were rigid, his fists clenched tight at his sides as he strode toward the heavy suite door.

He yanked it open, stepping out into the guarded hospital corridor, and let the latch click shut behind him with final, brutal certainty.

​He didn’t look back. Not once.

​Ana lay frozen against the stiff white sheets, staring at the empty wooden doorframe as a stray tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracking a slow, burning path down her cheek.

Her chest rose and fell beneath the thin hospital blanket, feeling heavier and emptier than it ever had before.

​Just how long was she supposed to survive like this?

​How long was she doomed to live as nothing more than a hollow shell, trapped in the orbit of a man who would tear the world apart to keep her breathing, only to leave her completely alone in the dark?

******************

The heavy wooden door shut with a muffled, definitive click, locking Anastasia and her fragile despair inside.

​Damian stood anchored in the middle of the sterile, empty corridor, leaning back until his spine slammed flat against the cold drywall. His chest heaved in violent, uneven hitches, his fingers digging into his hair as he dragged a shuddering breath down his throat.

​It was impossible. The air in the pristine hospital wing felt like lead, choking him from the inside out.

​Hearing her speak of dying... hearing the casual, hollow surrender in her voice, as if ceasing to exist was a minor inconvenience she welcomed... had struck a phantom blade directly between his ribs. It wasn’t just anger. It was a sickening, suffocating paralysis he hadn’t tasted in over fifteen years.

​"Dad..."

​The word broke from his lips before his mind could catch it, an unconscious, ragged whisper scraping the empty hall.

​The memory surged through him with savage, uninvited clarity. The cold rain against the manor windows. The deafening, solitary gunshot echoing down the corridor. The sickening smell of cordite and copper.

His father, the great, untouchable man, slumped over his mahogany desk with a bullet in his temple, leaving a mountain of debts, an empire in ashes, and a teenage boy to carry the bloodied remains on his back.

​His father hadn’t stayed. He hadn’t stood his ground to clear the family’s blackened name, hadn’t lifted a single weapon to protect his terrified, weeping children, and hadn’t fought to tear down the rivals framing him.

​He had simply pulled a trigger, taking the easy way out and abandoning everyone to the wolves.

​"Coward," Damian hissed beneath his breath, his obsidian eyes burning with a venom that shook his entire frame.

​His teeth ground together so hard his jaw ached, his knuckles slamming flat against the wall with a dull, resonant thud. He had sworn to the ghosts of his ruined past that he would never let anyone close to him fold like paper.

He had bled, killed, and clawed his way to absolute dominion to ensure no one under his watch ever had the luxury of giving up.

​And now, Anastasia Vance... the woman he had torn the city apart to keep breathing... wanted to follow the exact same hollow path.

​"Not while I’m alive," he rasped into the silence, the vow tasting of ash and cold iron. "You will not make a ghost out of me again."