The door slammed behind Damian with a force that rattled the chandelier.
Aria jumped at the sound, heart thundering as the lock engaged with a metallic snap—one of those heavy biometric latches only Damian and Jaxon controlled. For the first time since she’d met him, Damian Wolfe wasn’t composed, or cold, or surgical with his rage.
He was unraveling.
He moved across the private suite like a storm caged in human skin—pacing from wall to wall, dragging both hands through his hair, breath uneven. The muscles in his jaw flexed hard enough to crack bone. Aria pressed her back to the opposite wall, unsure whether to approach or stay still.
Damian hit the wall with a closed fist.
Aria flinched. The sound echoed like thunder.
“Damian—”
“Don’t.” His voice was strangled, low, dangerous. He didn’t even look at her. “Don’t say my name right now.”
He wasn’t talking to her—he was talking to the fury inside him.
Aria swallowed hard, her fingers shaking. She had seen him furious before. She had seen him lethal. But she had never seen him like this—one breath from breaking apart.
Damian’s pacing grew shorter, tighter, sharp as a blade. He kicked a chair out of his way, sending it skidding across the polished floor. His breathing turned ragged.
Every attack on her had been chipping at him.
But tonight?
Tonight cracked him open.
Aria stepped forward anyway.
“You’re scaring me,” she whispered.
That stopped him.
Damian froze, shoulders rising, falling—then rising again like the breath itself trembled inside his chest. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head toward her.
His eyes were wildfire.
“You think I want this?” he rasped. “You think I like feeling—” He cut himself off, chest straining, fist curling. “Every time someone touches you, I lose control. When I heard your scream in that elevator, I—”
He stopped again, like admitting the truth was more dangerous than any gun.
Aria took another step.
“Damian…”
His breath caught. The sound was almost pained.
“Stop.” His voice broke. “Don’t come closer.”
Aria didn’t stop.
She crossed the remaining distance, so slowly it made his throat tighten. When she reached him, she lifted a trembling hand and placed it on his chest—right over the scars that lived beneath his shirt.
Damian inhaled sharply. His body rocked forward involuntarily, his hand shooting out to catch the wall behind her head so he wouldn’t collapse into her.
Her palm was small. Warm. Too gentle for a man built from cages and violence.
“I trust you,” she whispered.
Damian’s eyes fluttered shut.
“Don’t,” he breathed. “Don’t trust me. You shouldn’t.”
“But I do.”
His jaw clenched so violently it shook. A sound escaped him—low, tortured, half-snarl, half-groan. He pressed his forehead to the wall beside her head, breath shuddering against her cheek.
“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I can’t keep you safe. Not here. Not with traitors in my ranks. Not with the Syndicate watching every move I make. Not even with every guard armed and every door sealed. Every time you’re out of my sight, something tries to kill you. And I—”
His breath fractured.
“I’m losing you faster than I can protect you.”
Aria felt her chest ache. She slid her hand from his chest to his jaw. Damian jerked at the touch like he’d been struck—then exhaled, leaning helplessly into her palm.
“Damian,” she whispered, “I’m still here. I’m right here.”
He opened his eyes. They were raw. Wounded. Almost desperate.
“I’m here,” she repeated softly.
Something inside Damian shattered.
With a guttural sound, he grabbed her waist, dragging her forward until her body collided with his. The force stole Aria’s breath. His forehead dropped against hers—hard, almost bruising—but somehow still tender, still searching.
Their chests pressed together. Their breaths mingled. Her hands braced on his shoulders.
Damian’s fingers dug into her hips, anchoring her as if she were the only thing preventing him from falling apart completely.
“Aria,” he whispered, voice breaking, “don’t do this to me.”
She didn’t move.
“I’m not doing anything,” she whispered. “You came to me.”
Damian’s grip tightened.
“And that’s the problem.”
Silence stretched—thick, trembling, scorching.
Then Damian tilted her chin up with both hands, thumbs brushing the corners of her mouth. His eyes dropped to her lips like gravity itself dragged his gaze there.
Aria’s breath trembled.
“Damian…”
He swallowed. Once. Hard.
Then he leaned in.
Slowly.
Devastatingly.
His lips grazed hers—not a kiss, not yet, just a ghost of one—testing, trembling, starving. Aria’s knees weakened. Damian inhaled sharply, the sound guttural, hungry.
He almost closed the distance.
Almost claimed her.
Almost surrendered.
But at the final heartbeat, Damian tore himself backward with a strangled curse, slamming his palm onto the biometric lock so the door swung open.
He didn’t look at her.
He couldn’t.
“If I touch you before you ask,” he said hoarsely, voice barely holding together, “I won’t stop at kissing you.”
Aria’s breath caught.
Damian still didn’t turn around.
“And I meant it when I said I won’t touch you until you ask for me.”
His hand trembled on the doorframe.
“God help me,” he whispered, “because I’m one breath away from begging you to.”
He walked out.
The lock clicked again.
Aria slid down to the floor, shaking, her lips still tingling from the kiss that almost happened—and the hunger that absolutely did.