Damian didn’t make mistakes.

Not in this life. Not in any life.

He wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t the kind of man who let ghosts into his head or lingered outside women’s apartments like some lovesick fool with nothing better to do.

And yet—last night, he had.

The image seared itself into him. She’d been standing in the window, bare shoulders bathed in neon light, hair messy from sleep, lips parted as though she had been whispering his name without realizing it. One trembling hand pressed to the glass, reaching—no, offering—like she wanted to tear down the barrier between them.

She hadn’t spoken. But he’d heard her anyway.

Her name had echoed in his chest like the crack of a gunshot, reckless and loud.

And now he couldn’t fucking shake it.

Damian shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket, boots striking hard against the pavement as he stalked down the narrow alley behind headquarters. His pulse beat heavy in his throat, thick with leftover adrenaline. A body cooled in the dumpster he had left it in, neck snapped, eyes wide and frozen. Blood still dripped from the blade tucked at his hip.

That should’ve been enough.

It always was. Violence cleared his head. Death had a way of cleansing distraction. But tonight?

Not tonight.

Not when every pulse of neon dragged him back to her face at the window. Not when the weight of her eyes on him clung like heat in his veins. Not when his body remembered her touch more vividly than the last man’s throat breaking under his hands.

He cursed under his breath, dragging a cigarette from his pocket. The lighter clicked. Smoke filled his lungs, bitter and grounding, but it wasn’t enough to drown the hunger she’d left behind.

“Damian.”

The voice snapped through the fog.

He turned.

The boss stood in the doorway, framed by the golden light spilling out of the lounge. A cigar glowed between his fingers, smoke curling lazily around his sharp features.

“You’re slipping.”

Not an accusation. An observation. And worse, a true one.

“I’m fine.”

The word landed flat, too fast, too tight. A man like him never explained himself, but tonight his control felt stretched thin enough to show.

The boss exhaled smoke, eyes narrowing with that old, infuriating knowing. “Fine men don’t stand outside a stripper’s building at three in the morning like they’re on guard duty.”

Damian’s jaw clenched, muscles ticking beneath his skin. He hated being read this easily.

“I was making sure no one touched her,” he said, low, clipped. “That’s all.”

The boss’s smirk was sharp enough to cut. “You don’t watch over things you don’t care about.”

Care.

The word burned like acid in his throat. He wasn’t built for it. Not anymore. His hands were made for breaking bones, not holding someone together.

And yet—those same hands still burned from the ghost of her touch.

Damian didn’t answer. He flicked his lighter again instead, lit another cigarette off the last glowing ember, and drew in deep. The smoke scorched his lungs, but it wasn’t the smoke he tasted.

It was her.

Sweet. Sharp. Dangerous.

The boss clapped his shoulder, heavy with familiarity, before stepping back inside. “You can lie to yourself, brother. Just don’t lie to me. I know what this is.”

The door shut behind him. Silence fell over the alley again, thick and suffocating.

Damian stayed where he was. The night pressed closer, heavy with the scent of blood, smoke, and rain-slicked asphalt. He should’ve gone home. He should’ve stripped the night off his skin with a shower and locked himself in darkness until morning erased her from his mind.

But instead, his hand slipped into his pocket.

He pulled out his phone. The screen lit his face with sterile light, his reflection staring back at him like a stranger. He had no reason to call her. No excuse to hear her voice. No world where he should even have her number.

Still, his thumb hovered over the keys. A single move away from breaking every rule he’d carved into himself.

He didn’t call. He didn’t text.

But the fact that he wanted to… that was enough to make his stomach twist with disgust.

Damian Moretti didn’t want.

Not women. Not love. Not weakness.

His life had been sharpened into a weapon, honed until there was nothing left but control and violence. Wanting meant losing. Wanting meant bleeding.

And yet tonight—he couldn’t stop imagining her.

Her skin under his hands, not trembling from withdrawal, but shivering for him. His mouth on her neck, not because she offered it like a price, but because she begged for it.

He clenched his fists until the cigarette snapped between his fingers, ash scattering at his feet.

The thought alone terrified him.

Because the lion didn’t fall for the gazelle.

The lion devoured it.

And if he wasn’t careful, Aria wouldn’t just destroy him.

He’d destroy her first.