Damian didn’t wait for the hallway to clear. He grabbed the chain connected to Aria’s collar with white-knuckled fury and yanked her forward so suddenly she stumbled. The elevator doors slid open with a sharp metallic hiss, and he shoved her inside hard enough that her back hit the glass wall. His movements weren’t careless—they were controlled, vicious, and trembling beneath the surface with something he refused to name.
The doors sealed them in.
Silence.
Heavy, suffocating, charged like a storm trapped in steel.
Damian stood in front of her, breathing hard, every line of his body carved with anger—anger at the Syndicate, at the vote, at Navarro’s shadow still reaching for him, but most of all at himself. His jaw flexed, eyes burning in a way that made her spine press tighter against the cold glass.
He didn’t look at her.
He glared at the floor like he was one second away from shattering it.
Aria swallowed, feeling the weight of everything that had just happened. The room full of men who wanted to destroy her. Damian standing against all of them. His hand slamming the table. His voice promising war.
Her voice came out raw. “Why did you do that?”
He didn’t answer. The elevator hummed softly as it climbed.
“Damian,” she whispered, trying again, “why did you risk everything for me?”
This time he snapped.
His head lifted, eyes slashing into hers, sharp enough to cut. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not.” His voice was low, dangerous, vibrating with restraint. “I didn’t do it for you.”
He took a step forward.
Aria’s breath stumbled.
“I did it because no one—” he jerked the chain sharply, pulling her closer until her chest nearly brushed his “—no one takes from me.”
His breath hit her cheek, hot and furious.
“No one touches what I own.”
Aria’s heart slammed against her ribs. “I’m not—”
He cut her off, leaning closer, voice turning darker, more intimate in a way that made her bones shake.
“You already belong to me,” he said, each word a quiet threat. “I put that collar on you. I hold the chain. And I will not let them lay a hand on what’s mine.”
Her knees weakened. Not because of the words.
Because of the way he said them—like the thought of someone else touching her ignited a violence even he couldn’t control.
“You hate me,” she breathed, trembling.
Damian’s eyes flickered—hatred, yes, but tangled in something far worse.
“I do.” His voice was gravel. “I hate everything about you. Your blood. Your name. Your softness. The way you look at me like I’m something other than what I am.”
He moved even closer until the heat of his body swallowed her air. His gloved fingers lifted—slow, unthinking—hovering near her jaw as if drawn there by the very thing he despised.
“And that,” he whispered, voice breaking at the edges, “is exactly why I won’t let them touch you.”
Aria couldn’t breathe.
Damian suddenly stiffened, realization slicing through him like a blade. His hand dropped. His body jerked back as if burned, his eyes widening a fraction—horror at himself, at the closeness, at what he nearly did, at what he nearly admitted.
He turned away violently, fists curling.
“Go,” he said, but the order cracked halfway through, betraying him. “Go to your room. Now.”
Aria didn’t move at first.
She watched him—all rage and restraint, all hatred and something dark beneath it. Something he was losing control over. Something dangerous. Something hers.
Her legs finally obeyed. She stepped out when the doors opened, the chain falling slack between them with a sharp metallic sound. The moment she crossed the threshold, Damian slammed the elevator panel with shaking hands, refusing to look at her again.
The doors closed on his trembling breath.
Aria stood alone in the hallway, hand pressed to her racing heart, realization sinking into her like poison and fire combined:
Damian’s hatred wasn’t fading.
It was mutating. Into something far, far darker—something that could save her or destroy her or both at once.