Aria wasn’t sure what she expected when Damian dragged her into the penthouse ballroom—a room she hadn’t even known existed until tonight—but it wasn’t this.
Soft amber lights. Marble floors. A polished gramophone in the corner that looked untouched for years. Damian standing at the center of the room in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking like sin carved into the shape of a man.
He didn’t speak at first.
Just watched her.
Aria’s pulse stumbled. “You said we had work to do. Not—whatever this is.”
Damian’s eyes dropped briefly to her mouth before lifting again. “The Syndicate gala is in three days. As Second, you will enter with me. Every step, every breath, every glance will be judged.”
A slow inhale. “We practice now.”
He hit a button on the wall. Music unfurled—smooth, old-world strings that drifted through the room like smoke.
Aria swallows. “I don’t know how to dance like this.”
Damian steps closer, extending his hand. “Then learn.”
She hesitates, not because she’s afraid of dancing, but because she’s afraid of touching him. Every time their skin meets lately, the world shifts under her feet.
But she places her hand in his.
Damian’s fingers close around hers—warm, firm, reverent in a way he probably didn’t intend. His other hand settles at the small of her back, guiding her into position. Aria’s breath catches at the contact, heat spiraling up her spine.
“Relax,” he murmurs.
“I am relaxed.”
“Your pulse says otherwise.”
Her cheeks burn. “Then stop listening to it.”
Damian smirks—slow, lethal. “Impossible.”
He moves first. Aria follows. The first few steps are clumsy; her toes bump his boot, her heel slips on the marble.
Damian stops abruptly. “Your posture.”
“What about it?”
He steps behind her, chest to her back, one hand sliding up her spine in a line of molten heat.
Aria shivers.
“You’re stiff,” he says softly, almost a whisper against her ear. “You think dancing is about control. It’s not. It’s trust.”
“I trust you,” she blurts.
Silence.
Damian’s breath hitches—actually hitches. His hand pauses on her shoulder blade, fingers trembling once before he regains control.
“Then prove it,” he whispers.
The music swells. Damian turns her to face him again. Their eyes lock, an entire storm of tension charged between them. He takes her hand. They move.
One step. Two.
Closer than before, as if his earlier restraint has melted.
Aria tries to focus on the steps, but Damian’s body is too warm, his scent too close, his gaze too intense. He’s not even pretending to look at her like an asset anymore.
This is something else.
Something dangerous.
Something she isn’t sure she’s ready for.
But she doesn’t pull away.
Damian guides her into a turn, his hand sliding briefly along her waist. Aria’s breath stutters.
“You hesitated,” he murmurs.
“You’re distracting.”
“Good.”
She glares at him. “That’s not how teaching works.”
Damian leans in, lips brushing her cheek only because the dance pulls him toward her. “I’m not trying to teach you, Aria. I’m trying to prepare you.”
“For what?”
“For a world where the men staring at you at that gala will want to own you, ruin you, break you.” His hand tightens on her waist. “And I want you to walk past them like you don’t fear any of them. Because you don’t.”
Her throat goes tight. “I only fear one man.”
Damian freezes mid-step.
One long, unbearably slow second passes before he whispers, “Me.”
Aria doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.
He guides them back into motion, but the air has changed—thicker, hotter, charged enough to burn. Their bodies stay too close. Their breaths mingle too easily. Aria steps on his boot again, intentionally this time.
Damian stops. “Did you just—?”
“Maybe if you weren’t hovering—”
“Hovering?” he echoes, incredulous. “You’re lucky I haven’t carried you the entire dance.”
“You wouldn’t.”
His eyes drop to her mouth. “Try me.”
Her stomach flips. “You’re terrible at dancing.”
Damian’s laugh is a low, warm rumble she feels more than hears. “Say that again and I’ll punish you.”
She stops breathing.
“Punish?” she echoes, voice too soft.
Damian steps closer, erasing the space between them. “For stepping on my toes. Nothing else.”
She exhales shakily.
“Oh.”
A slow smile curves his mouth. “Disappointed?”
She steps on his boot again.
Damian grabs her waist and pulls her flush against him. “Careful,” he growls. “I know you’re provoking me.”
“Maybe I am.”
His hand on her lower back tightens. “Why?”
“Because you hide behind rules,” she whispers. “Because you keep running from what we both feel.”
Damian goes still—so still it’s like the world stops spinning.
A new song begins, softer, slower. He doesn’t move to change the distance between them.
“Aria,” he says, her name breaking out of him like a confession. “If I touch you wrong, I’ll lose every piece of control I have left.”
“Then lose it,” she whispers.
Damian’s jaw locks, his eyes burning with desire and conflict. “No. Not unless you ask for me.”
Her breath catches. “And if I do?”
His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “Then I won’t stop.”
The music continues, but they aren’t dancing anymore. They’re just standing there, breathing each other in, hearts colliding in the silence between beats.
Damian lifts a hand and brushes a strand of her hair behind her ear. The touch is gentle, reverent—wrong for a man like him. His fingers trail down her jaw.
Aria leans into it.
Damian swallows. “Dinner tonight?”
It’s not a command.
It’s not even an order disguised as a question.
It’s a request.
Aria’s lips twitch into a small, trembling smile.
“Yes.”
Damian releases a breath like he’d been holding it for hours. He steps back, breaking the spell, but the hunger in his eyes doesn’t fade.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Then go get ready.”
Aria turns toward the elevator, legs almost shaking—but Damian catches her wrist. She looks back at him.
He doesn’t yank her.
Doesn’t cage her.
He just holds her hand.
“Aria,” he murmurs, voice rough, “don’t make me wait too long.”
Her breath stutters. “I won’t.”
She leaves the ballroom feeling like the floor is still moving beneath her feet.
Damian watches her go, chest rising and falling too fast, hands clenched at his sides as if he’s fighting something inside himself.
For now, he lets her walk away.
But the war between restraint and desire has already started—and the next time they dance, one of them is going to lose.