The safehouse smelled like steel, gun oil, and the faint trace of rain leaking through the old ventilation shafts. It was deeper underground than any place Aria had ever been—reinforced concrete walls, no windows, a single flickering overhead bulb that buzzed like an electric wasp. This wasn’t one of Damian’s polished penthouse cages or marble-floored offices. This place was real. Raw. Built for war.
Damian stood across from her in the training room, sleeves rolled up, veins tight in his forearms, expression unreadable except for the dangerous patience simmering beneath the surface. He watched her like a creature he didn’t quite understand yet—but wanted to.
“Again,” he ordered, voice low enough to crawl under her skin.
Aria tightened her grip on the gun. The metal trembled in her shaky hands. She aimed at the paper silhouette pinned against the far wall—the outline of a man holding a knife. Her father had used real knives. Real men. Damian was giving her something different. A controlled nightmare.
She fired.
The bullet stuttered through the air and hit slightly off-center, tearing into the paper shoulder instead of the heart.
Damian exhaled slowly. Not disappointed—something else. Something heavier.
He stepped behind her. Aria stiffened when she felt his chest nearly brush her back, the heat of him radiating like a second heartbeat. He reached down and placed his hands around her hips, firm but careful, adjusting her stance.
“You’re leaning back,” he murmured against her ear. “That makes you an easy target. Lean forward. Own the shot.”
Aria’s pulse thudded hard enough she could barely hear him over it.
“You’re too close…” she whispered.
Damian didn’t move. If anything, he stepped closer, the air evaporating between them. “The world will get closer. I’m teaching you to win anyway.”
He guided her with slow, decisive pressure of his hands, sliding one up her spine, flattening her shoulder. His breath dragged across the back of her neck, and Aria felt heat coil low in her stomach.
“Try again.”
She fired.
The bullet punched dead center into the paper heart.
Damian’s voice dropped, rough and quiet, a sinful whisper brushing the shell of her ear.
“Good girl.”
Her knees almost buckled.
He stepped back abruptly, jaw tight, as if the words had broken something in him too. Aria lowered the gun slowly, trying to breathe through the heavy throb in her chest. Damian circled around her, eyes burning with a mixture of pride and something darker—something he refused to name.
“Again,” he commanded.
Aria lifted the gun.
He corrected her grip again—this time sliding his fingers over hers, curling her hand tighter around the handle. The contact was intimate, nearly obscene for how gently he touched her. Damian Wolfe did not do gentle. But he did with her. Even when it terrified him.
She fired. Another perfect shot.
Damian’s lips twitched—almost a smile, but sharper. “See what you can do when you stop being afraid?”
“I’m not afraid,” Aria lied.
Damian stepped closer, lifting her chin with two fingers. “You’re terrified,” he whispered. “But you don’t run. That’s the difference.”
Aria felt her breath catch. “I’m trying,” she said softly.
His gaze darkened. “I know.”
He moved behind her again, this time handing her a knife. “Next lesson.”
Aria swallowed. “Damian, I—”
“You said you want to understand this world.” He pushed the blade into her palm, curling her fingers around the handle. “Then you learn everything. Including how to hurt people who try to kill you.”
His knuckles brushed hers—warm, rough, trembling slightly, even though Damian would rather stab himself than admit weakness.
Aria raised the knife.
He moved faster than she could blink.
He grabbed her wrist, twisted gently but firmly, and forced her to feel the resistance, the leverage, the power in using someone’s weight against them.
“Every predator in the Syndicate will test you,” Damian murmured, lowering his head beside hers. “Including me.”
Aria’s breath hitched. “Are you testing me now?”
Damian’s eyes flicked to her lips. “I’m teaching you how to survive me.”
Her pulse ricocheted through her. She tightened her grip and tried the movement again. Damian let her twist his wrist, allowing her to guide his arm backward until his elbow bent.
“Good,” he murmured.
She froze.
That voice again.
She hated how her body reacted. She hated how he knew it.
“Again.” He stepped back. “You hesitate too much.”
“I’m learning,” Aria snapped, heat rising in her cheeks.
“Then learn faster.” Damian’s tone softened almost imperceptibly. “You don’t hesitate when someone points a gun at you.”
Aria stared at him. “Because you’re always between me and the gun.”
Something flickered in his eyes—pain, desire, guilt, all tangled into something unmanageable.
“Not forever,” he said quietly. “If I die, you live. That’s the rule.”
“No,” Aria said, shaking her head. “Not anymore.”
Damian froze.
“Not anymore,” she repeated, stronger this time.
He stepped toward her slowly, the air tightening with each movement. “Aria.”
She lifted the knife—point down, respectful, not threatening. “Teach me everything,” she whispered. “Every weakness. Every tactic. Every dark secret. I don’t want to be someone you protect. I want to be someone who stands beside you.”
Damian’s chest rose sharply.
He reached out and took the knife from her hand. Not roughly. Not gently. Carefully.
“Then listen,” he said, voice low and deadly. “And don’t ever look away.”
He flipped the switch on the overhead lights. New targets rose from the floor—silhouettes representing Syndicate traitors, Navarro loyalists, rival assassins. Aria’s breath caught, but she squared her shoulders.
“I’m ready.”
Damian stared at her—not the way a kingpin looks at an asset. The way a storm watches lightning hit the ground.
“You’re changing,” he whispered.
“You’re the one changing me,” she whispered back.
His jaw flexed. “I don’t know if that makes you powerful… or doomed.”
Aria stepped forward, raising the gun with a steadiness she didn’t know she possessed.
“Then show me which.”
Damian’s expression twisted—pride and terror at war inside him.
He nodded once.
“Then let’s begin.”