The storm outside the safehouse hit the metal roof like fists, each strike vibrating through the walls as if the city itself was trying to tear its way in. Inside, the dim room was cramped—single bed, peeling wallpaper, no electricity except for a dying lantern in the corner. Water dripped from the ceiling. Rotten floorboards creaked. The air was cold enough to sting.
Damian Wolfe paced like a caged predator along the narrow strip of space near the window, soaked from the rain, hair slicked back, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. His white shirt was ripped open from the fight, smeared with dried blood—some his, some not. He looked like the devil had climbed out of hell and borrowed a human body.
Aria sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself, still shaking after the ambush at Wolfe Tower. Her shoulder throbbed. Her throat burned. Her breath stuttered every few seconds, unable to find a normal rhythm. Damian hadn’t stopped pacing since they arrived. He hadn’t even looked at her properly. Just moved like a man trying not to tear the world apart.
“You could have died back there,” Damian said suddenly, voice low and razor-sharp. He didn’t turn. His fists tightened at his sides. “Do you understand that? Do you actually comprehend how close that bullet was?”
Aria swallowed, the sting of his tone cutting her deeper than the graze on her arm. “I know what happened,” she whispered. “I was there.”
He spun. “Then why did you put yourself in front of me like that?” The words crashed into the room like a thrown knife. His eyes were wild, burning with something too sharp, too raw to name. “Why would you do something that reckless?”
Aria stood on trembling legs. “Because I’m not just going to watch you die!”
Damian stepped forward so fast she flinched. It enraged him that she did. He grabbed the wall beside her head and slammed his palm against it, trapping her between the peeling wallpaper and his body. The impact shook dust loose from the ceiling. His other hand hovered near her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt as if resisting the urge to grab her.
“Don’t you ever—” Damian bent his head close enough that she felt his breath tremble against her cheek. “Don’t you ever put yourself in front of a bullet again.”
Aria’s voice cracked. “And don’t you ever act like I’m property. I’m not cargo. I’m not a trophy. I don’t exist to be kept two steps behind you like some ornament to protect.”
Damian’s eyes flashed. Something hot and dangerous flickered there, something that burned darker than anger. He leaned even closer, their chests brushing, her heartbeat stumbling against the wall of his body.
“You are not cargo,” he hissed. “You’re—” He stopped, jaw flexing, as if forcing the words back down. “You’re something I can’t lose.”
Aria’s breath hitched. “Then stop treating me like I’m chained to you.”
He let out a short, broken laugh—no humor, only pain. “I don’t know how to stop.” His forehead lowered until it touched hers, their breaths mingling, warm and uneven. “I don’t know how to protect you without trying to own every piece of you. I don’t know how to want you without wanting to cage you. I don’t know how to keep you safe without locking the whole world out.”
He swallowed. It looked like it hurt.
“I don’t know how to stop wanting you,” he whispered, voice barely audible over the storm. “And it’s driving me insane.”
Aria’s pulse hammered. “Damian…”
He slammed his hand against the wall again, trembling this time, not from rage—but from restraint. His body boxed her in completely now, every inch of him radiating heat and danger and a desperation he didn’t know how to mask.
“I almost lost you,” he growled, breath shaking. “I almost watched you die because you refuse to understand what you are in the middle of.”
Aria’s voice trembled with something between fear and fury. “I’m in the middle of your war.”
“No.” Damian’s hands moved to her hips, gripping hard enough to make her gasp. “You’re in the middle of mine.”
He leaned in, lips hovering a breath away from hers, the tension snapping like electricity up both their spines. His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingered, darkened. His breathing grew ragged. Aria’s body leaned forward on instinct before she could think better of it.
“Damian…” she whispered again, but it sounded like a plea.
He closed his eyes for half a second—long enough for her to feel the moment he lost control, long enough for his thumb to drag slowly across her hip, long enough for his chest to press fully against hers.
Then he froze.
He jerked his head away, letting out a harsh exhale, slamming a fist into the wall beside her face. The plaster cracked. Dust fell like ash.
“No.” His voice was raw. Torn. “If I touch you here… If I touch you while I’m like this…” His chest heaved. His knuckles dripped blood. “I won’t stop.”
Aria’s breath stuttered painfully. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
Damian let out a sound between a groan and a curse. His hand tightened on her waist before he shoved himself back like he’d been burned. He stumbled away from her, dragging both hands through his hair, pacing again like a man possessed.
“Don’t say things you don’t understand,” he snapped, though his voice trembled. “You don’t know what happens when I lose control. You don’t know what I’ve done. You don’t know what I could do.”
Aria stepped toward him—braver than she felt. “Then tell me.”
Damian stopped pacing. His back rose and fell with rapid breaths. Rain crashed against the roof in violent sheets. He didn’t turn around.
“I want you,” he said quietly, almost painfully. “More than I ever wanted revenge. More than I ever wanted power. And wanting you is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever felt.”
Aria froze.
He turned slowly—eyes ruined, voice wrecked, body wound tight with a hunger he could barely contain.
“I can protect you,” he said. “I can kill for you. I can burn for you. But loving you…” He shook his head, almost terrified. “Loving you will destroy us both.”
Aria’s lips parted. She felt the truth of those words in her bones.
Damian stepped closer again, hand reaching toward her cheek—then stopping an inch away, fingers trembling in the air.
“I won’t touch you again,” he whispered, breath unsteady, “until you ask me to.”
The storm outside raged. The lantern flickered. The safehouse walls seemed to hold their breath.
Damian turned away first, walking toward the door with steps that looked like they cost him something vital. He paused there, shoulders tense, without looking back.
Then he locked the door behind him.
Not to keep her inside.
To keep himself out.