Chaos hit Wolfe Tower like a pulse bomb.
One second the executive floor hummed with quiet unease; the next, thunderous footsteps and the metallic hiss of a blade shattered the air. Aria pressed her back against Damian’s desk, her breath hitching as something slammed against the door. A muffled voice. A heavy thud. Silence—then the gentle click of a latch turning.
Her heart stuttered.
He’s inside.
She dropped to her knees behind the desk, hands shaking so violently she could barely clamp them over her mouth. The footsteps were soft, deliberate, predatory. They moved with a confidence only a trained killer possessed.
Aria curled tighter into herself, every instinct screaming. Damian isn’t here. Damian isn’t here.
A shadow stretched across the floor. A gloved hand closed around the edge of the desk. The assassin leaned down—BANG.
The office door exploded open.
A blur of black suit, gunfire, and unrestrained violence tore into the room. Damian Wolfe moved like a beast unleashed, each shot precise, merciless. The assassin jerked backward, blood spraying across the tile—all of it happening mere inches from where Aria crouched trembling.
The killer hit the floor with a sickening thud.
Silence swallowed the room.
Damian lowered his gun only when the corpse stopped twitching. His chest heaved, his teeth clenched, eyes wild like he hadn’t come down from the adrenaline yet. Then his gaze snapped toward the desk.
Toward her.
“Aria,” he rasped.
She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. She could only stare back, stunned, paralyzed by terror and relief fused into something unbearable.
Damian strode toward her, kicking the assassin’s body out of his way without so much as glancing at it. He dropped to his knees in front of her, hands closing around her arms—not gentle, not controlled, but frantic.
“Are you hurt?” His voice cracked. Actually cracked. “Tell me. Now.”
Aria shook her head, unable to form words. Damian’s fingers moved to her shoulders, then her face, skimming over her skin as though searching for wounds the way a blind man searches for light.
“Did he touch you?” His voice deepened to a growl. “Did he touch you, Aria?”
“No,” she whispered finally.
Damian exhaled shakily, but his grip stayed firm, thumbs trembling as they brushed her cheeks. He looked unhinged—dark hair tousled from the fight, jaw set so tightly it looked carved from stone, blood spatter flecked across his suit.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he said, voice hoarse.
Aria froze.
His forehead almost touched hers as he lowered his head, breathing hard, as if dragging air into his lungs required monumental effort. His hands still cupped her face, a lifeline he refused to let go of.
“Damian…” she whispered.
At her voice, he closed his eyes—slowly, painfully—like the sound itself hurt. When he opened them again, the mask was gone. All that remained was raw, violent fear.
“You don’t understand,” he murmured. “Walking into this room and not seeing you—”
He swallowed hard. “It felt like someone ripped out my spine.”
Her throat tightened.
Damian wasn’t a man who admitted weakness. Not ever. Not even when stabbed. Not even when shot. But here he knelt in front of her, trembling.
His hands moved again, more desperate. He checked her arms, her ribs, the back of her neck—his touch frantic, shaky, lingering.
“I’m fine,” she whispered shakily. “Damian… I’m really—”
“You are not fine,” he cut in, voice sharp but cracking. “If I had been five seconds later—”
He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t say the words.
Aria reached up, her hand brushing his cheek.
Damian stiffened like she’d struck him. His breath hitched sharply—not from pain, but something far more dangerous.
For the first time since she’d known him, Damian leaned into her touch.
His eyes fluttered closed for one brief, fragile moment.
Then opened again—wild, stormy, ruined.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Aria… don’t do that.”
“Why?” she breathed.
His voice was barely a breath.
“Because I’ll break.”
Her chest twisted.
The overhead lights flickered—emergency power rattled by the explosion—but neither of them moved. Damian stayed on his knees, still touching her, still breathing as if each inhale fought demons she couldn’t see.
Jaxon burst into the doorway, gun raised. “Damian! Are you—”
He froze at the sight of them. “She okay?”
Damian didn’t even look up. His eyes stayed locked on Aria’s.
“Get out,” he said quietly.
“Boss, security needs—”
“GET. OUT.”
The door slammed shut behind Jaxon.
Aria swallowed hard. “Damian, you’re hurt.”
He looked down only when she placed her hand over his shoulder. Blood soaked the fabric of his suit. He frowned, almost surprised.
“It’s not important.”
“It is,” she insisted. “You saved me. Again. Let me—”
He grabbed her wrist—not painfully, but firmly—and pressed her hand flat against his chest.
Right over his heart.
“Aria.” His voice dropped into something low and trembling. “He almost killed you. I’m the one who’s supposed to hurt. Not you.”
A single tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it.
Damian stared at it like it was the most frightening thing in the world.
Then he brushed it away with his thumb… slowly. Softly. With a tenderness so jarringly out of place it stole her breath.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured. “Not because of them. Not because of me.”
His thumb lingered at her cheekbone.
Aria’s breath shivered. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”
Damian’s jaw clenched—and she didn’t understand it until she saw it in his eyes.
Her doubt hurt him.
“There is nowhere on this earth,” Damian said softly, dangerously, “that you could call for me and I wouldn’t come.”
Her heartbeat stuttered.
He leaned closer, their noses almost touching, breath brushing against her lips.
His voice was a broken confession:
“I don’t pull away from your screams. I run to them.”
Aria exhaled shakily, her fingers curling into the fabric of his suit.
Outside the office, alarms wailed. Guards yelled orders. Phones rang. The world demanded Damian’s attention.
But he didn’t move.
Not an inch.
He stayed there on the floor, holding her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
And maybe she was.
Finally, Damian stood—but only to lift her into his arms. She looped her arms around his neck instinctively. His jaw tightened at the contact, as if trying desperately not to feel what he felt.
He carried her out of the office in front of everyone—executives, guards, staff—all of them staring.
None dared to speak.
Because Damian Wolfe looked like a man willing to wage war on the entire world for the girl in his arms.
And nothing was more dangerous than that.