Blood had never bothered him.

Damian rinsed his hands in the sink, watching the crimson swirl into the drain until the water ran clear. It was routine—mechanical, methodical. His reflection in the cracked mirror was steady, expressionless, the same mask he’d worn since he was old enough to kill without flinching.

Tonight should’ve been no different.

The man he’d carved open deserved worse. He’d begged, cried, cursed in languages Damian didn’t care to translate. The only thing that mattered was the silence at the end, the limp slump of a body that would never betray the family again.

It was work. It was survival. It was what he did best.

And yet—something was different.

His hands were clean now, pale skin stretched over raised veins, but his chest still burned like he hadn’t washed at all. Because all through the kill, all through the blood, a pair of eyes had haunted him.Aria’s eyes.

Wide, glittering, locked on him in a club filled with wolves. She’d stripped her soul bare on that stage, made a spectacle of herself, made him a spectacle—and worse, she’d done it for him. Not for the bills, not for survival. For him.

His jaw tightened. He should’ve hated her for it.

Instead, he’d walked out, not because he wanted to, but because he’d been two seconds from climbing on that stage and dragging her off.

He lit a cigarette, the flame catching with a snap. Smoke curled into his lungs, harsh and familiar. But even the nicotine didn’t quiet the memory of her hand pressing against his chest, the fire in her gaze that dared him to burn with her.

The boss’s words echoed in his skull like a hammer:

You don’t watch over things you don’t care about.

Care. The word tasted like ash. He didn’t care. He couldn’t. Care made men weak, and weakness got you killed.

But possession? Obsession? That, he understood.

And Aria was becoming both.

By the time he slid behind the wheel of his car, the decision was made. The city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow as his hands steered without thought. He told himself he was only checking on her, only making sure no one else noticed what he’d noticed.

But when he reached her block, he didn’t leave.

The street was quiet, half-broken lamps buzzing, stray cats slinking through garbage bins. Her building sat crooked among the others, a faded brick shell that looked like it should’ve caved years ago.

One window glowed soft behind cracked blinds. Hers.

Damian lit another cigarette and leaned back, watching. Waiting. The minutes bled together until the cigarette was nothing but a stub burning his fingers. He didn’t feel it. His gaze never left her window.

And then—she appeared.

Bare legs, oversized shirt hanging loose on her frame, hair a dark tangle spilling around her face. She moved through the room with an exhausted grace, bending to feed the mutts that bounded at her feet. She laughed, the sound muffled but sharp enough to cut through the walls and into him.

Damian’s hand clenched around the steering wheel. It was too human, that laugh. Too raw. Too real. He had no business wanting to hear it again.

Then her hand brushed the curtain aside, and her gaze lifted.

Straight to him.

The world narrowed to a thread.

She froze. So did he. A heartbeat, a breath, an eternity where neither of them looked away.

The cigarette burned down to ash in his hand. He should’ve left, should’ve disappeared into the night like smoke. Instead, the door of his car clicked open.

The air outside was sharp and cold as he crossed the street, boots heavy on the cracked pavement. Each step echoed like a warning, but he didn’t stop. By the time he reached her door, it was already opening.

Aria stood there, eyes wide, lips parted, breath shallow. She didn’t scream. Didn’t slam the door. She just stared at him like she had on stage—reckless, daring, alive.

“Why are you here?” Her voice was low, rough around the edges.

Damian stepped closer, filling her doorway, his shadow swallowing hers. He braced one hand against the frame beside her head, caging her in.

“Because you wanted me to be.”

Her chest rose sharply, the thin cotton of her shirt straining with each breath. “You don’t know what I want.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingered, then dragged back up. “Don’t I?”

The heat between them was suffocating. He could smell her skin, sweet with sweat and something darker. He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as his voice dropped to gravel.

“You think you can touch me in front of everyone and walk away untouched?”

Her hand trembled against the doorframe, but she didn’t pull back. Her chin lifted instead, defiant. “Maybe I wanted to see what would happen.”

A dark laugh rumbled from his chest. He pressed in, his body nearly flush with hers, the door clicking shut behind them. His hand slid from the frame down to her hip, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to make her gasp.

“You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.”

Her pulse hammered at her throat, visible in the low light. “Then burn me.”

The words hit him like gasoline to flame. His body surged forward, pressing her against the wall just inside her apartment. His mouth hovered a breath away from hers, his hand gripping her hip, his thigh pinning her legs apart.

Every cell in his body screamed to take her, to silence her mouth with his, to make good on every violent, hungry thought he’d had since the moment she first crossed his path.

But Damian Moretti was nothing if not controlled.

He forced himself back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His hand lingered at her hip for one last second before it dropped away.

“Not tonight.” His voice was jagged, torn from restraint. “You’re not ready.”

Her eyes widened, a flicker of hurt, confusion, maybe relief flashing in their depths. Before she could speak, he turned toward the door.

He paused, glancing back just once, his smirk dark and lethal. “But when you are… you won’t survive me.”

And then he was gone, swallowed by the night. Leaving her trembling in the doorway, her dogs barking in the background, her body still pressed to the wall like his touch branded her there.