The blood dripping from Damian’s shoulder left a trail down the hallway—dark, steady, alarming—but he ignored every medic who reached for him. He held Aria by the wrist, his grip bruising, his breath sharp with fury as he dragged her toward the elevator that led to the tower’s underground bunker. His suit jacket was half torn, soaked in red, but his pace never slowed.
Armed guards lined the route, radios crackling with frantic updates.
“Professional team.”
“Military precision.”
“They weren’t after Wolfe—they were aiming for the girl.”
The words sliced through Aria like a blade.
Damian heard them too. His jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack. He shoved Aria through the armored elevator doors, slammed the override code, and the car dropped down into the depths of Wolfe Tower.
When the doors opened to the bunker level, Damian yanked her out as if she weighed nothing, ignoring the medics rushing toward him.
“Sir, you’re losing blood—”
“Move,” he snarled, his voice cold enough to freeze stone. “I said move.”
They scattered instantly.
The bunker doors were thick steel, reinforced, silent. Damian shoved Aria inside, then slammed the locking mechanism. The echo was final—like a prison gate closing. The bunker lights glowed dim and sterile, casting cold shadows across the concrete walls. Surveillance monitors lined one side, showing fractured feeds of the chaos above.
Aria swallowed. “Damian—your shoulder—”
“Don’t,” he snapped.
His breathing was harsh, the muscles in his arms trembling with the effort of staying upright. But he stood tall, fury radiating from him in waves. He turned his back on her, gripping the edge of the console so tightly his knuckles whitened.
Aria stepped closer anyway.
“You’re bleeding badly—just let me see—”
His head whipped toward her.
“Are you stupid?” His voice cut her open. “You stepped into that bullet’s path. Do you have a death wish? Is that what this is?”
“I didn’t—”
“You think this is a game?” He stalked toward her, shaking with anger, with adrenaline, with something deeper that he refused to name. “You think you can argue with me in hallways, wander around my tower at night, question my decisions like you’re anyone to me?”
She backed up until her spine hit the wall. “I didn’t ask you to get shot.”
“And yet,” he growled, stepping closer, “here we are.”
His arm braced against the wall beside her head, trapping her between his body and cold concrete. She couldn’t escape his presence, couldn’t look away from the fury burning in his eyes.
She forced herself to speak. “Then why did you do it? Why did you take that bullet? Why didn’t you let me die if you hate me so much?”
For a moment, the bunker seemed to hold its breath.
Damian’s fist slammed into the wall beside her, leaving a dent in the steel panel. His voice broke—just once—on the edge of something raw.
“Because I can’t lose you.”
Aria froze. “What?”
His breathing was ragged now, strained, wounded. He stepped back like the confession physically burned him.
“I can’t lose you,” he repeated, quieter, darker. “Not to them. Not to anyone. Not until I am done with you.”
The words were a confession and a threat tangled together.
Aria felt her heart crack open—not in softness, but in fear, in confusion, in the terrible realization that Damian’s hatred was twisting into something far more dangerous.
He looked away, swallowing hard, blood dripping from his fingers. The monitors flickered with movement. Footsteps echoed outside the bunker—fast, too close.
Without thinking, Damian grabbed her and shoved her behind him, body coiled like a predator ready to kill. His gun appeared in his hand so fast she didn’t see him draw it. His stance was rigid, shoulders squared, blood trailing down his arm.
Aria pressed herself against the wall, breath caught in her throat. She watched his muscles tighten, watched the barrel of the gun lift steadily. He didn’t shake. He didn’t blink. He was a weapon forged from ruin.
The footsteps stopped.
Two guards’ shadows crossed the crack under the door.
“Perimeter secure!” one shouted.
Damian didn’t relax until their voices faded completely.
When he holstered the gun, Aria saw it—his hands shaking. Just barely. But shaking.
Damian Wolfe wasn’t unkillable. He wasn’t made of stone or vengeance or rage alone.
He was bleeding. He was human. And he was still chained to the nightmares her father built. Aria exhaled softly, the truth settling heavy inside her chest.
Damian wasn’t afraid of their enemies.
He was afraid of himself.
And of the girl he could not bring himself to let go.