The rain hadn’t stopped beating against the glass walls of Wolfe Tower. It was past midnight, but Damian Wolfe was still awake—still drinking—still trying to drown the memory of Aria Navarro’s lips beneath something stronger than whiskey.
It wasn’t working.
He sat alone in the dim penthouse lounge, the city lights bleeding through the windows like open wounds. A half-empty bottle stood on the table beside him. His shirt was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, knuckles bruised from earlier interrogations. He looked like a fallen king—angry, exhausted, and dangerous in a way that made the air vibrate around him.
He hadn’t touched alcohol in years.
Not since Navarro.
Not since the cages.
Not since everything was taken from him.
But tonight… tonight he couldn’t bear the silence.
Not after the kiss.
Not after the way she whispered his name against his mouth like a prayer she wasn’t allowed to say aloud.
He hated her for it.
He hated himself more.
A soft click broke through the storm’s rumble. The door opened. Damian’s head lifted sharply.
Aria stepped inside.
She looked small, fragile, hesitant—but not afraid. Never afraid of him anymore, and that terrified him more than any weapon aimed at his heart. She shut the door quietly behind her. Their eyes met. Damian’s grip tightened around his glass.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was low, dangerous—like a storm held together by sheer will.
Aria swallowed. “I heard what happened during the interrogation.”
“Leave it,” he snapped, turning away.
But she didn’t.
She walked further into the room.
“I just…” Her voice trembled. “I’ve never seen you lose control like that.”
Damian laughed—a cold, bitter sound. “Sweetheart, that wasn’t losing control. That was me being polite.”
Her jaw tightened. “You nearly killed him.”
“He deserved worse.”
“But you didn’t stop until I screamed your name.”
His eyes shot to her, something raw flickering inside them.
Aria stepped closer. “Why?”
Damian stood so fast his chair screeched back. The glass fell from his hand and shattered across the floor. Aria instinctively flinched.
No.
He hated that.
He hated that he made her flinch.
He stalked toward her slowly, like a shadow made of fury and restraint. “You think you know me? You think because I kissed you—because I was weak for one second—you understand anything about what I am?”
Aria didn’t back away.
“Maybe I understand more than you want me to,” she whispered. “You’re not the monster you pretend to be.”
His breath hitched—barely, but enough. “Don’t say that.”
“Why? Because it’s true?”
“Because it’s a lie,” he snarled.
Their chests nearly touched. Her breath brushed his throat. He hated how much heat pooled low in his stomach. He hated how loud her heartbeat sounded against his ribs.
“You think I’m soft?” he growled.
“You think I’m turning human because of you?”
He slammed his hand beside her head on the wall—hard—caging her between his arm and his body. Aria gasped, not from fear but from the electric closeness of him. Damian’s face hovered inches from hers, his breath uneven.
“You ruin everything,” he whispered.
“Every damn plan. Every boundary. Every rule I built to survive.”
Aria’s voice shook. “Then stop wanting me.”
His eyes darkened to something feral. “I can’t.”
The confession fell out of him like a wound splitting open.
Aria’s lips parted. Damian cursed softly under his breath as his gaze dropped to her mouth—slow, deliberate, tortured.
“It started the night you arrived,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. Like I was a man.”
Aria’s throat tightened. “Because you are.”
He slammed his fist against the wall, inches from her cheek. She didn’t move.
That undid him.
“You should run from me,” he growled. “You should hate me.”
“I tried,” she whispered. “But you saved me.”
Damian’s jaw clenched, breath shaking. “I shouldn’t have. I should’ve let the Syndicate take you. I should’ve let those men at the garage kill you. I should’ve done anything except—”
He stopped himself.
Too much truth. Too close. Too dangerous. Aria lifted a hand. Slowly. Carefully. Like calming a wounded animal. She placed it on his chest.
Damian froze. Her touch was trembling. His heart was thunder.
“Damian…” she whispered. “Why are you so afraid of yourself?”
The question ripped his breath from him.
He grabbed her wrist—not harsh, just desperate—and pressed her palm harder against his chest.
“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s what you do to me.”
Her eyes widened.
“I hate that I want you,” he whispered. “I hate the way I almost kissed you in that interrogation room. I hate that I did kiss you during the storm. I hate that I can still taste you.”
Aria’s breath staggered.
And then he leaned in—slow, slow, slow—until their noses nearly touched.
“I hate,” he whispered, “that you make me feel alive again.”
She trembled. “Then stop fighting it.”
His laugh was broken. “If I stop… if I touch you…”
He leaned his forehead to hers, shaking.
“…I won’t let you go,” he whispered. “Ever.”
Aria’s breath shivered out. “Maybe I don’t want to go.”
Damian’s self-control snapped like a frayed wire.
He grabbed her hips.
Pulled her flush against him.
Her breath hitched.
His eyes flicked to her lips with unmistakable hunger.
But instead of kissing her, he turned his face away, throwing himself back from her like he’d been burned alive.
“Get out,” he choked.
“Before I ruin both of us.”
Aria didn’t move.
She stepped behind him and touched his back—just her fingers, soft and trembling.
Damian shuddered like her touch cut straight through bone.
He whispered, barely audible:
“Aria… don’t.”
But he didn’t turn around.
He didn’t leave.
He just stood there, fists clenched, breath ragged, body shaking from the effort of not dragging her back into his arms.
And Aria finally understood:
Damian Wolfe wasn’t afraid of kissing her.
He was afraid of what would happen when he did.