Night settles over Wolfe Tower like a threat holding its breath. Damian’s office glows with low amber light when Aria steps inside, summoned without explanation. The door clicks shut behind her with a finality that makes her spine lock. Damian stands near the window, back turned, shoulders rigid beneath his tailored shirt. The skyline burns behind him in shards of gold and red, reflected in the glass like flames eating the world he built.
“Do you know what the entire tower is saying about you?” Damian’s voice slices through the quiet—low, cold, trembling with something sharper than anger. He turns slowly, eyes darkening when they land on her. “You think I don’t hear the whispers? You think I don’t see you making staff feel sorry for you, making my executives look at you like you’re some fragile little—”
Aria steps back, breath shuddering. “I’m not manipulating anyone.” Her voice wavers, but she holds her ground. “I’m just trying to survive.”
Damian stalks forward in three predatory strides, cornering her near the bookshelves. “Survive?” His laugh is hollow, bitter. “You walk around this tower acting helpless, acting innocent—like you don’t understand the power you wield by simply existing in my space.”
“That is not—” she starts, but he cuts her off with a snarl.
“You are your father’s blood. You carry his face. You carry the shadow he left on my life. And you expect sympathy?”
Aria’s chest tightens. She looks him dead in the eyes. “You don’t see me. You see him. And you punish me for being his daughter.”
Something inside Damian snaps.
He slams his palm against the shelf beside her head, boxing her in with his body. Books tremble from the force. Aria flinches but refuses to look away. Her defiance hits him like a blow. His jaw clenches, breath fogging between them, heat rolling off his body in violent waves.
“You think I treat you like a possession?” Damian growls, leaning closer. “A possession is easier. A possession doesn’t look back at me like I’m more than a monster. A possession doesn’t make me question every line I swore I’d never cross.”
Aria whispers, voice breaking, “Then stop pretending you hate me when the truth scares you more.”
His hand shoots out, gripping her chin, forcing her to hold his gaze. His thumb strokes the corner of her mouth—barely, accidentally, disastrously intimate. Aria sucks in a breath, pulse stumbling. Damian’s eyes flick downward, tracking the movement of her lips like something forbidden, something lethal, something he has dreamed of crushing and tasting and claiming.
The room goes still.
Their bodies press close enough that her heartbeat taps against his ribs. Her fingers curl into the edge of the shelf behind her, trying to keep from reaching for him. His breath drags, slow and hungry, as the space between their mouths shrinks to a whisper.
Damian’s forehead drops toward hers.
His nose brushes her cheek.
Her lips part without thinking.
His breath trembles.
Then—Damian jolts back as if scalded.
He shoves her away with a curse, stumbling a step backward like he barely escaped a fire that should have consumed them both. His chest rises and falls violently, pupils blown wide with desire he refuses to name.
“Don’t,” he rasps, running a hand through his hair in a desperate attempt to regain control. “Don’t make me want something I swore I’d burn before I ever let myself touch.”
Aria stands there shaking, lips tingling, heart splitting open at the truth he tried and failed to hide.
Damian turns his back to her again—because if he looks at her now, he won’t stop.
He won’t survive stopping.
And neither will she.