The ambush happens so fast Aria doesn’t even have time to inhale.
One second she’s walking beside Jaxon in the private garage beneath Wolfe Tower—dim lights buzzing overhead, concrete echoing with their footsteps—and the next, the entire world erupts into violence.
“Down!” Jaxon shouts, shoving her behind a column just as gunfire splits the air. Bullets punch into steel and concrete. Sparks explode across the ground. Aria screams as the sound rattles her bones.
Three masked men sprint from behind parked cars, weapons raised, movements precise and practiced.
Not street thugs.
Assassins.
Her collar vibrates violently, reacting to her pulse, her terror, her proximity to danger. Jaxon fires back, dragging Aria behind a black SUV. “Stay down!” he growls, breath ragged.
Aria presses her palms over her ears as another barrage of bullets tears through the garage. One ricochets off the hood, narrowly missing her head. She feels the sting of metal shrapnel graze her cheek.
Jaxon curses. “There’s too many—shit—stay behind me!”
But there’s no behind him left.
The attackers swarm.
One grabs Aria by the hair, yanking her violently to her feet. She gasps, stumbling, pain blinding her. Another attacker shoves a hand over her mouth, muffling her scream as he drags her backward toward a van with the doors already open.
Jaxon leaps forward to intercept, but a boot slams into his ribs and knocks him to the floor, gun skittering out of reach.
“Stop! Let go of me!” Aria chokes, kicking, clawing, panic consuming every rational thought. The man holding her laughs through his mask, grip tightening as he drags her closer to the open van.
They’re going to take her.
She knows it.
She feels it in her blood.
She digs her nails into the attacker’s wrist, thrashing, but he only laughs harder. “You’re coming with us, princess.”
A second man presses a knife to her throat.
The blade is cold.
The intent behind it is colder.
Aria’s breath stutters—until the entire garage drops into a killing silence that vibrates through the concrete.
Because Damian Wolfe arrives.
Not walking.
Not running.
But descending—like violence wearing a tailored suit.
He emerges from the shadows with a gun already raised, eyes black with lethal fury. The temperature of the entire room changes. Even the assassins freeze for a heartbeat.
Then Damian fires.
Two shots.
Two bodies drop.
Perfect kills.
Precision born from years of survival, hate, and war.
The last attacker jerks Aria against his chest, the knife pressing deeper into her throat. She whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut.
Damian doesn’t point his gun at the man.
He points it through him. Over the shoulder. Directly into his skull.
“Let. Her. Go.” His voice is not a voice at all—it’s a death sentence spoken calmly.
“She’s coming with us,” the attacker snarls. “She’s Syndicate property. Tribute Night—”
“Finish that sentence,” Damian growls, “and I will peel off your skin and make you watch yourself die.”
Aria’s breath catches.
The attacker hesitates—but the blade stays steady.
Damian steps closer, slowly, like he’s taming a rabid beast. His gun stays lifted, unwavering. His voice drops lower—dangerously calm, terrifyingly soft.
“You think killing her will save you?” He tilts his head. “No. Killing her means I keep you alive. And I take. My. Time.”
The man’s hands begin to tremble.
Aria feels it.
Damian’s eyes never leave hers as he speaks again. “Put the knife down.”
The attacker swallows. His grip loosens.
The knife drops.
Aria gasps the moment the blade leaves her skin.
And Damian shoots him anyway.
Once. Clean. Final.
Aria flinches when the body collapses. Her knees give out entirely—but before she touches the ground, Damian is there. His arms wrap around her, pulling her against him with a force so desperate it knocks the air from her lungs.
His heart is racing. His breath is uneven. His hands are shaking.
He holds her as if the world nearly ended—and almost did. Not gently. Not tenderly.
But possessively. Violently. Like someone who has just faced the one fear he didn’t know he had.
Aria sobs into his chest, gripping his shirt, trembling uncontrollably. Damian buries one hand in her hair, the other locking around her waist, his voice a rough whisper against her ear.
“They touched you,” he says, broken and enraged.
“They touched what’s mine.”
She shivers.
Because it doesn’t sound like ownership this time.
It sounds like panic. It sounds like confession. It sounds like Damian Wolfe—monster, executioner, king of Manhattan—just realized he can’t lose her.
Not now. Not ever.