The rumors hit Wolfe Tower like poison seeping under a locked door.
Navarro’s daughter is going up for auction.
Highest bidder gets the girl.
Wolfe’s slipping—finally.
Damian did not breathe when Jaxon delivered the news. He only stared, jaw slowly turning to granite, eyes narrowing with a murderous calm that made the entire room fall silent. Then he stood—too still, too quiet—and said only two words:
“Prepare Aria.”
No explanation. No context. No softness.
Just command. Just fury.
The car ride to the black-market auction felt like descending into hell.
Aria sat in the backseat, wrists trembling in her lap, the collar humming faintly like it sensed war. Damian hadn’t spoken to her since he snapped the chain into place at her throat—cold metal clicking like a verdict. But his silence was worse than his rage. It vibrated. It cut. It warned.
When the car rolled into the underground district, the world shifted. Neon red lights bled through dripping alleyways. Shadows crept across rusted steel doors. Screams—real, not entertainment—echoed under the thump of bass that vibrated the pavement.
Jaxon parked. “Boss… this looks like a trap.”
Damian’s voice was ice. “Good.”
He got out, yanked Aria forward by the chain—not violently, but with terrifying certainty—and led her into the heart of the auction.
***
The venue was a cathedral of darkness.
Velvet curtains black as spilled ink. Gold cages dangling from chains. Masked men and women in sharp suits and shimmering dresses. Laughter soaked in cruelty. A stage lit blood-red where “assets” were displayed like toys.
Aria felt their eyes crawl across her skin the moment she entered.
Navarro’s girl.
The new Wolfe weakness.
Pretty little hostage.
She’ll sell for millions.
Damian walked as if he didn’t hear any of it, grip unyielding on her chain.
But Aria saw the twitch in his jaw.
The murderous tension in his shoulders.
The way he scanned every shadow like a sniper calibrating his kill list.
He hated this place. He hated the men inside it. He hated himself for bringing her. And he hated—deeply, viciously—that she looked fragile under their gaze.
***
The first man approached before they even reached the bidding floor.
Tall. Thick accent. Mask of carved bone hiding half his face.
He looked Aria up and down slowly, a cruel smile twisting his lips.
“Well, well,” he hummed, voice slipping around her like oil. “Wolfe brought a gift.”
Damian didn’t stop walking.
“She is not a gift,” he said flatly.
“Oh? Word is she’s tonight’s most valuable item.”
Aria froze.
Damian did not.
He turned so sharply the chain snapped taut. Aria stumbled into him—into his chest, his scent, his fury. Damian shoved her behind him without breaking eye contact with the masked man.
“She is under my protection,” Damian said, voice dropping to lethal softness. “Which means her blood is not for sale.”
The man chuckled. “Everything is for sale. Even kings.”
He reached out—just one hand, just one finger—toward a strand of Aria’s hair.
He never touched it.
Damian grabbed his wrist mid-air, twisting until bones cracked. The man screamed. Damian didn’t release him. He leaned close, voice a knife sliding under skin.
“Touch her again,” Damian whispered, “and I’ll pull your spine out through your throat.”
Then he threw the man aside like trash.
The entire room fell silent.
Aria’s legs trembled.
Damian didn’t look at her—but his hand slid behind her waist, steadying her for only a second before dropping away.
Too intimate. Too dangerous. Too revealing.
***
They reached the main hall.
On stage, a girl in a silver mask was being auctioned off like a pet. Men waved black cards. Women whispered bids. Security guards dragged sobbing “assets” past velvet curtains.
Aria swallowed back nausea.
Damian felt her tremor.
He didn’t turn. He didn’t ask. He didn’t comfort.
But his grip on her chain tightened—just barely, just enough to keep her close.
A rival boss stepped into their path. Scarred. Grinning. Drunk on power.
“Wolfe,” he slurred, swaying. “Name your price for the girl.”
Aria’s breath stopped.
Damian’s did not.
His voice came out like the last calm breath before a storm kills everything in its path.
“She’s not available.”
“Oh, come on,” the man laughed. “A few hours. That’s all I—”
Damian’s gun was out before anyone saw him move.
Its muzzle pressed against the man’s forehead.
“Finish that sentence,” Damian said, “and I will redecorate this room with what’s left of your skull.”
The man froze.
The crowd stopped breathing.
The auctioneer paused mid-chant.
Aria stared at Damian—at the darkness in him, the violence he wielded like breath, the way his body angled in front of hers without conscious thought.
He was a monster.
But tonight, he was her monster.
***
When the man backed away, shaking, Damian finally spoke to her. Quiet. Low. Dangerous.
“Stay close.”
Aria nodded. She couldn’t speak.
They slipped deeper into the auction, through corridors overflowing with chained bodies and whispered deals. Every time a man’s gaze lingered too long, Damian shifted imperceptibly, blocking their view.
Every time a woman smirked at Aria with cruel curiosity, Damian’s hand ghosted toward his holster.
Every step grew heavier, more suffocating.
Every look at Aria’s trembling lips, the fear in her eyes, the way she pressed closer to him to avoid being touched—
—chipped away at the wall he’d built inside himself.
By the time they reached the VIP balcony overlooking the bidding pit, Damian could barely breathe.
Aria stood beside him, flushed, anxious, fragile in a way that made every instinct in him snarl.
One man behind them murmured, “Such a pretty thing. I’d pay anything to break her in.”
Damian turned.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Murderously.
“No one,” he said, “touches her.”
The man smirked. “Not even you?”
Damian stepped forward, shadows slicing across his face. His answer was soft enough to be mistaken for a confession.
“She is mine.”
Aria’s breath hitched.
The man swallowed, nodded, backed away.
Damian didn’t realize his hand had found Aria’s waist until she startled.
He snatched it back like her skin burned him.
“Stay behind me,” he growled.
But his voice cracked.
Just barely.
***
As the auctioneer announced the next lot—a file stolen from Wolfe territory—Aria leaned close, whispering, “Why are you doing this?”
Damian didn’t look at her.
Because if he did, he’d give himself away completely.
“You know why,” he said.
His hand curled into a fist. His pulse thundered. The collar hummed. The darkness swallowed the last of the room’s noise.
Aria whispered, “Damian…”
He didn’t answer. Because wanting her felt like the most dangerous crime he’d ever committed.
And he was already guilty.