“Don’t speak.”
Damian’s voice sliced through the silence the moment the penthouse door slammed shut behind them.
Aria flinched. She hadn’t said anything—not since the club, not since the gunshots, not since Damian Wolfe had dragged her out by a diamond chain like she was something that needed restraining before it shattered. Her wrists still ached from how hard he’d gripped the leash; faint crescents from his gloves dug into her skin like bruises that wanted to bloom.
The penthouse was carved from midnight: obsidian floors, black walls, storm-gray furniture arranged with military precision. It was the highest point in Wolfe Tower, and yet Aria felt buried alive.
Damian didn’t release the chain. He walked, forcing her to walk with him, his pace sharp and furious. The chain stretched between them—a glittering reminder that she wasn’t free, wasn’t safe, wasn’t anything except a possession he resented owning.
He dragged her to the window wall, floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking Manhattan. The city glowed beneath them like a kingdom burning in slow motion. Sirens flickered in the distance, still responding to the chaos he had unleashed and ended.
He said nothing. She said nothing. Silence twisted between them, taut and painful.
Finally he turned, the city’s lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. His eyes were darker than night. “You froze,” he said, each word measured, controlled. “In the middle of a room full of men who would have carved you open for sport, you stood there like a lamb waiting for the knife.”
Aria swallowed, throat raw. “I—”
He stepped closer. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I wasn’t—” She broke off when he advanced again.
His hand snapped out, not to strike but to brace against the glass beside her head. His body caged her in a prison that didn’t require bars. The chain tightened between them when she backed away.
“Why,” he growled, “did you look at me like that?”
“Like what?” Her voice was barely a breath.
“Like I was the solution,” he snapped, leaning closer, breath hitting her cheek with the force of accusation. “Like I was your safety. Like I was anything except the man who is going to dismantle every piece of your father’s legacy.”
“I wasn’t thinking,” she whispered.
“That,” Damian hissed, “is your problem.”
He slammed the chain against the glass beside her, making her gasp. The diamond links clattered like a threat or a promise—Aria couldn’t tell which.
“You don’t get to cling to me,” he said. “You don’t get to look at me like I pulled you out of hell. I am the hell.”
Aria’s hands trembled. “I know.”
“No,” Damian said sharply. “You don’t.”
His face was inches from hers. Too close. Close enough that she could see the faint scar under his jaw, the tension in his clenched teeth, the muscles working beneath his skin as if holding himself back from something violent—or something worse.
He hated her.
She could feel it radiating off him like heat.
But beneath that hatred was something else. Something that scared him far more than violence ever could.
Her voice broke. “I didn’t mean to… to look at you like that.”
He scoffed, low and bitter. “Then what was it? What made you stare at me like salvation when you should have been begging God someone put a bullet between my eyes before I reached you?”
His fingers caught her chin—not gently, not cruelly, just firmly enough that she couldn’t look away.
“I saw you,” he said softly, deceptively calm. “In that club. When they closed in. Your eyes went straight to me. Not to the guards. Not to the exits. To me.”
“I didn’t choose that,” she whispered.
“You did,” Damian said. “Your body chose. Your fear chose.”
He leaned so close his lips almost brushed her ear. “Some part of you decided I was safer than everyone else in that room.”
Her pulse raced.
“And that,” he said, stepping back suddenly, “is unacceptable.”
He released her chin and the loss of contact hit her like a plunge into cold water. Damian paced away from her, running a hand through his hair before slamming his palm onto the edge of the marble counter.
“I should have let them use you,” he muttered. “Should have let them take what they wanted so you’d learn faster.”
Aria’s knees buckled, a tear slipping down her cheek.
Damian saw it. Something flickered in his expression—something like regret, like a muscle memory of mercy—but he crushed it immediately.
He crossed the room again and grabbed her arm, yanking her upright.
“Look at me.”
She looked.
“Don’t mistake anything I did tonight for care,” he said. “I didn’t save you. I protected my property. My asset. No one touches what belongs to me—not because I want you, but because they don’t get to take what’s mine.”
Aria’s breath trembled. “I understand.”
“Do you?” His voice sharpened. “Because you don’t get to run to me when you’re scared. You don’t get to look at me with those eyes like you hope I’ll be gentle. I won’t be gentle. Not with you. Not ever.”
She swallowed. “I don’t expect you to be.”
He moved before she saw him move—one hand gripping her waist, pulling her closer with a roughness that wasn’t violent but wasn’t kind. His other hand slid to her jaw, forcing her head back so she had no choice but to meet his gaze.
“You’re a reminder,” he said quietly. “A breathing, trembling, infuriating reminder of everything your father did to me.”
His thumb dragged across her lower lip in a motion that felt like both punishment and possession.
“And you looked at me,” he murmured, “like you wanted me to save you from him.”
A shiver ran through her.
Damian shoved her back—not hard enough to injure, just enough that she stumbled into the glass behind her.
He stepped away from her as if proximity itself burned him.
Two guards entered at his signal, standing on either side of the door.
“No one goes into her room,” Damian ordered, his voice cold steel. “No one touches her. No one speaks to her. If Sabrina even walks near this floor, I want her escorted out of the building.”
The guards nodded.
Aria stared at him, confused by the contradiction—his hatred and his protection tangled like barbed wire around the same pulse.
Damian didn’t look at her again.
“Get her out of my sight.”
The guards guided her out, the chain still attached to her collar. Her legs shook with every step. The corridor felt endless.
Her door shut behind her with a heavy mechanical lock.
The collar pulsed once around her throat. A warning. A reminder. A claim.
She sank to the floor, hands trembling, whispering to herself like a prayer she didn’t believe in.
“He hates me… but he won’t let anyone else have me.”
And in the penthouse far above, Damian stood alone, gripping the chain’s end with white-knuckled fury—furious at her, furious at himself, furious at the part of him that didn’t want to let go.