The spy’s screams echoed down the concrete hallway long before Aria reached the interrogation chamber, but the sound no longer sent her running. Not anymore. Not after everything she had survived. Not after everything she had become under Damian Wolfe’s shadow.
Jaxon opened the reinforced door for her. His jaw was tight, his eyes darting between her face and the room behind him, as if silently asking whether Damian knew what he was doing by letting her into this world. By letting her become this version of herself.
“He’s inside,” Jaxon said quietly. “And he’s… not calm.”
He didn’t need to explain. Damian hadn’t been calm in weeks.
Aria stepped past him.
The room was ice-cold, lit only by a single overhead bulb that flickered like it was afraid of the monster standing beneath it. Damian towered over the kneeling spy—blood on his gloves, fury in every taut muscle across his back. He didn’t turn around when Aria entered, but she knew he felt her presence. He always did.
The spy lifted his head, smirking through split lips. “Wolfe brought his little pet,” he rasped. “Cute.”
Aria stiffened, but Damian didn’t react—not outwardly. The only sign he’d heard the insult was the slight twitch in his jaw, the kind that usually came right before someone died.
“Aria,” Damian said without looking at her, his voice low, steady, deadly. “Stand here.”
He pointed to a spot beside him.
Not behind him.
Not away from the danger.
Beside him.
The symbolism struck her like a pulse to the collar she no longer wore. A place at his side. A place he didn’t give lightly.
Aria moved to the spot, though her legs trembled. Damian finally met her eyes, his gaze scanning her face quickly—checking she was steady, present, unafraid. When he confirmed she was, he turned back to the spy.
“You know why you’re here,” Damian said.
The spy spat blood. “Because you’re obsessed with Navarro’s little girl.”
Aria sucked in a breath.
Damian didn’t blink.
“I’m obsessed with rooting out traitors,” he replied calmly.
The spy laughed—a wet, broken sound. “Then why is she here? To watch her king crumble?”
Aria stepped forward before she realized she was moving.
“What did you tell them?” she demanded.
The spy’s gaze flicked to her, surprised, amused. “Ah. The princess speaks.”
Aria ignored the mockery. She kept her voice steady.
“You leaked safehouse locations. You coordinated the ambush on Wolfe Tower. You sent the sniper.” Her tone sharpened. “Why?”
The spy smirked. “Because Navarro’s blood is worth more than Wolfe’s power. They want her alive. Or dead. Depends who pays more.”
Damian’s fist slammed into the spy’s jaw so fast Aria barely saw the movement. The spy collapsed sideways, coughing blood.
Damian grabbed him by the hair, yanking his face upward.
“Say her name again,” he growled. “Say it and watch me peel your skin off your bones.”
Aria’s pulse hammered. She knew Damian meant every word.
The spy coughed, wheezing. “You’re losing yourself over a girl who doesn’t even belong to you.”
Damian’s grip tightened—
—but Aria’s voice stopped him.
“Let him speak.”
Damian turned sharply toward her, eyes flashing something dangerous and incredulous. “Aria—”
“No.” Her voice shook, but she stood firm. “If he knows something about Navarro’s loyalists… I need to hear it. I need to know who’s still out there. Who’s coming for me. For us.”
Damian went still at that last word.
For us.
The spy laughed again—until Aria stepped forward and slapped him across the face so hard the crack echoed off the walls.
Silence.
Damian froze.
Jaxon, watching through the one-way glass, swore under his breath.
Aria stared down at the spy, hand still raised, chest heaving. “Tell the truth,” she whispered. “Tell me who sent you. Tell me who still serves Navarro.”
The spy’s smile twisted. “The same man who put Wolfe in the cage all those years ago.”
Aria’s breath left her body.
Damian stepped between them so fast the air shifted. He grabbed Aria’s wrist—not harshly, but firmly, grounding her, steadying her, warning her.
“That’s enough,” he murmured.
His fingertips trembled against her skin.
Aria looked down at his hand, at the tension in his shoulders, at the darkness swirling behind his eyes. He wasn’t angry at her. He was afraid. Afraid of how far she was willing to go.
Damian turned back to the spy. “Give me names,” he said, voice like ice. “Now.”
When the spy only smirked, Damian lifted his gun.
Aria touched his arm.
Soft. Human. Undoing.
“Damian,” she whispered. “Let me.”
He stared at her as if she’d asked him to stop breathing.
“You don’t need to see this,” he said, voice cracking.
“I already have,” she said softly. “My whole life.”
Something broke between them—quiet, deep, irreversible.
The spy sneered. “Look at the two of you. A broken king and a trembling little—”
Aria’s hand moved before Damian’s.
She slapped him again.
Harder.
Damian caught her wrist mid-air, stunned. “Aria.”
Her eyes were bright with heat and fear and a new, rising fire she hadn’t known she possessed.
“I won’t be afraid of ghosts anymore,” she whispered.
Damian stared at her—like she was evolution happening right in front of him.
The spy spat more blood. “You think you’re becoming strong? Navarro made monsters. Wolfe is just making another one.”
Aria’s breath hitched.
Damian stepped forward, blocking her from the words, from the spy, from the world.
“You don’t speak another word,” Damian growled, “or I carve the truth out of your ribs.”
The spy finally broke.
He talked.
Names spilled out. Safehouses. Codes. Navarro loyalists working from the shadows. A network weaving through the Syndicate like rot in bone.
When it was over, Damian knocked the spy unconscious with a single brutal blow.
Then he turned to Aria.
His chest rose and fell sharply, breath uneven, eyes searching her face as if trying to memorize the version of her that existed before she crossed this line.
“Aria,” he whispered, stepping closer. “Are you… alright?”
Aria swallowed hard. “I’m not fragile, Damian.”
He cupped her cheek gently, thumb brushing a streak of blood that didn’t belong to her. His voice was barely audible.
“God help me… I know.”
Her heart twisted.
Because he wasn’t afraid she would break.
He was afraid she wouldn’t.
He was afraid she was becoming a creature shaped by his world, by his violence, by his shadows—a creature he might not be able to let go of.
Or live without.