The interrogation room is silent after the last mafia boss leaves, but the silence doesn’t soften—it sharpens. It tightens around Damian’s ribs like a noose. The moment the door clicks shut, something in him snaps with frightening clarity. He stalks toward the one-way mirror, jaw clenched so tight a vein throbs in his neck. He stares at his reflection for half a second before unleashing a punch so forceful the glass splinters outward, spiderwebbing in a violent burst before it shatters entirely. Pieces rain down across the concrete floor, glittering like fragments of his own restraint. Blood immediately pours down his knuckles in thick, red lines. He doesn’t stop. He hits the wall next—once, twice, again—every strike fueled by panic and fury and desire he can’t cage.
Aria startles at the sound, heart thudding painfully. She rushes toward him without thinking, her chains rattling against the table. “Damian—stop—please—” Her voice cracks. She reaches out with trembling hands, fingers barely brushing his wrist in a desperate attempt to keep him from hurting himself further.
Damian whips around so fast she almost flinches. His chest heaves. His eyes burn like open flames. And when he steps back from her touch, it isn’t out of hatred—it’s fear. Fear of what her touch does to him. Fear of how quickly his resolve crumbles when she whispers his name like that. “Don’t,” he hisses, voice raw, ragged, shredded at the edges. “Don’t touch me.”
Aria’s breath trembles. “You’re bleeding—”
“I don’t care.” His voice breaks. Actually breaks. He drags a hand through his hair, smearing blood through the dark strands. “You don’t understand what this is doing to me.” He turns away, digging his fingers into the metal table so hard it dents under the pressure. “Wanting you is ruining me.”
Aria freezes. Her heartbeat stutters painfully. She swallows hard. “I didn’t ask to be wanted,” she whispers, voice soft, wounded, terrified of the truth curling between them.
Damian moves before she can blink. One second he is across the room; the next, he slams her back against the interrogation table with a force that knocks the breath from her lungs. Not to hurt her—never to hurt her. But to stop himself from falling apart. His hands cage her in. His breath is hot against her cheek, uneven, fighting for control. Their bodies almost touch, heat bleeding between them in dangerous waves. His forehead nearly grazes hers. His voice is a low, trembling growl when he speaks. “You are destroying every rule I built myself on. Every promise. Every wall.”
Aria’s lips part on a broken breath. “Then stop wanting me,” she whispers helplessly.
Damian releases a sound that isn’t quite a laugh and isn’t quite a curse—something dark, something desperate. He grips her waist, fingers digging into her hips in a bruising, possessive hold. He leans closer, nose brushing hers, breath mingling. The air thickens. Heavy. Volatile. His gaze drops to her lips like he’s fighting gravity itself. The moment is electric, the world collapsing into the inch of space between them.
For one unbearable heartbeat, Damian almost gives in.
Almost.
His lips nearly touch hers—soft, inevitable, surrendering.
Then he tears himself away with a violent jerk, stumbling back like he’s been burned. His chest rises and falls in ragged, tortured breaths. “If I touch you,” he says, voice hoarse, ruined, completely undone, “I’ll never let you go.”
The confession hangs in the air like a loaded gun.
Blood drips from his knuckles onto the floor, each drop echoing in the silence as he turns his back on her and storms out of the room, leaving her chained, breathless, shattered, and craving the kiss he refused to give.
Longing—and something darker—lingers like smoke in the air he abandoned.