Aria’s legs trembled when she stepped off the stage, but not from exhaustion.

Her body was still buzzing, her blood still roaring with a high no drug could give her. She could feel the thump of the music in her chest, feel the slick sweat cooling on her skin, but none of that compared to the way her pulse still stuttered from him.

Damian.

He hadn’t clapped. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t even blinked. Just sat there like a carved monument, his gaze pinning her in place harder than any hand ever had.

And then—he left.

The scrape of his chair had been louder than the beat of the bass, louder than the whistles and the bills fluttering against the stage. The ache that ripped through her chest as he rose and walked out was worse than any craving she’d ever fought. He hadn’t looked back. He hadn’t given her a nod, a smirk, a shred of acknowledgment. He just left.

But he left because of her.

He hadn’t stayed to drink. Hadn’t stayed for another dancer. He’d walked out the second she was finished—as if she’d undone him, as if he couldn’t stand another second in that room without breaking.

And maybe she had. Maybe she’d chipped a crack into his stone façade.

“Holy shit, girl.”

One of the other dancers brushed her shoulder as she swept by, still buzzing herself. “What the hell was that?”

Aria blinked, realizing she was standing frozen in the backstage hallway, heart hammering like she was still mid-performance. Her mouth tugged into a smirk, too sharp to be real. “What do you mean?”

“You mean you don’t know?” The girl’s laugh was half-admiration, half-terror. “Half the club saw you eye-fucking Moretti the whole time. You’ve got a death wish.”

Aria forced a light laugh, but it came out thin, brittle. “Story of my life.”

The woman shook her head, muttering something about “crazy bitches” before disappearing into the dressing room.

Aria shoved the door open next, the too-bright fluorescent lights stabbing into her skull. Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror—flushed skin, glitter smeared into streaks, pupils wide and wild. She looked drunk on something, but it wasn’t the pills she’d stashed in her bag.

It was him.

She turned on the faucet, splashing cold water across her face. Drops slid down her neck, soaking the thin fabric clinging to her chest. Her hands gripped the edge of the sink until her knuckles turned white.

God, what had she done?

She’d dared.

It wasn’t about survival tonight. It wasn’t about the money on the stage or the men waving their bills like leashes. No—her veins were lit with something hotter, sharper. She’d wanted his attention, needed it like oxygen.

And she’d gotten it.

For a few stolen minutes, Damian Moretti had looked at her like she wasn’t just another girl on a stage. Not an addict. Not a body for sale. But a woman who mattered.

And it was poison. Pure, sweet poison dripping down her throat. Because she’d burn herself alive to feel that look again.

Her hands shook as she stuffed her things into her bag, ignoring the whispers that clung to the dressing room like smoke. Ignoring the men still spilling out of the club, drunk and loud, some of them calling after her. She tugged her hoodie over her head, pulling it low as she pushed through the door and into the night.

The cold air slapped her lungs, sharp and unforgiving. But it wasn’t enough to cool the fever rolling through her. Her boots hit the pavement fast, almost a run, until the neon glow of the club dissolved behind her.

By the time she reached her block, her heart still hadn’t slowed.

Her apartment lights glowed faintly through the cracked blinds. The second she opened the door, barking hit her like a wave.

“There you are,” she whispered, dropping to her knees.

Two mutts barreled into her chest, their claws scraping against her thighs, their tails wagging hard enough to bruise. She laughed, an ugly, broken sound, burying her face in their scruffy fur.

They didn’t care who she danced for. They didn’t care who Damian Moretti was. To them, she was just Aria—food-giver, belly-scratcher, safe place.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m home.”

She fed them, let them race around the apartment, then curled onto her bed. The silence pressed down on her, heavier than the smoke still clinging to her clothes.

But her body didn’t calm.

Her veins still hummed. Her skin still burned. Not from pills. Not from the stage. From him.

She rolled onto her back, staring at the water-stained ceiling. Her hoodie slipped, baring her collarbone. Her fingers traced along the ridge, sliding lower, as her breath came quicker.

Damian Moretti hadn’t even touched her. But his gaze had stripped her bare, torn her open, made her ache in places she didn’t know still existed.

Her hand slipped under her waistband before she could stop it.

“Fuck,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut.

She imagined his voice—low, harsh, warning her she didn’t know what she was playing with. She imagined his hand slamming hers against the wall, pinning her wrists above her head. His mouth at her ear, his breath hot and furious, telling her she’d gone too far.

And in her mind, she didn’t beg him to stop. She begged him to break her.

Her hips arched against her own touch, chasing a fantasy she hated herself for. Shame curled through her like smoke, but it only made the heat sharper.

The dogs barked suddenly, claws clicking against the floorboards.

Aria froze. Her hand stilled.

Her heart slammed into her ribs as her gaze darted to the shadowed corner of her room. For one wild, sick second, she swore he was there. Standing in the dark. Watching.

And maybe he was.

The thought made her shiver, thighs pressing together hard, her pulse sprinting.

She ripped her hand away, dragging it over her face, gasping for air like she’d nearly drowned.

She shouldn’t want this. She shouldn’t want him. Damian was danger wrapped in human form. Control and violence and ruin dressed in black.

But she wanted him anyway.

And some twisted, broken part of her prayed he wanted her too.