Her door slammed shut behind him, but it didn’t matter.

The echo of him was everywhere.

Aria stood frozen in the silence, back pressed to the wall, breath tearing in and out of her lungs like she’d run a mile. Her lips tingled, swollen with the ghost of something that hadn’t even happened, her pulse ricocheting so hard it rattled her ribs.

She touched her hip with a trembling hand. The spot burned. Where his fingers had locked onto her, she swore she could still feel the imprint—like phantom bruises blooming beneath the skin. Each throb of her heartbeat pressed against them, a reminder, a brand.

And God help her, she wanted those marks to last.

The dogs whined at her ankles, claws clicking against the floor as they circled her like they sensed her unraveling. Aria slid down the wall until she was crouched on the floor, pulling both into her lap, burying her face into their warm fur. Their weight should have grounded her. Their unconditional loyalty should have soothed the storm ripping through her veins.

But even as she clung to them, all she could hear was him.

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

The words weren’t just a memory—they were still lodged in her ear, gravel and smoke, sharp enough to cut through every layer of armor she wore. Not a threat. A promise.

And she wanted it.

Aria squeezed her eyes shut, shame coiling hot and thick in her chest. She shouldn’t want him to follow through. Damian Moretti was not a man you invited closer. He was darkness, violence, hunger with teeth. Every rumor whispered about him in the club—every story of blood and shadows—she knew they were true.

She knew.

And yet, her skin still burned for his touch.

She shot to her feet, pacing her tiny apartment, hoodie pulled tight around her trembling body. Every inch of her screamed for escape, for something to take the edge off before she shattered into pieces. Her gaze snapped to the dresser—the one drawer she never opened anymore. Pills. Powder. Poison that had once been her lifeline.

Her fingers twitched. Her body craved.

But it wasn’t the high she wanted.

It was him.

Because what Damian gave her with one look, one breath, one cruel, deliberate touch—was more potent than anything she had ever swallowed. No chemical, no rush, no drug had ever hit her veins like him.

Her knees bumped the side of the bed, and she collapsed onto it, staring at the cracked ceiling above, heart pounding. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, seeking some pathetic relief from the ache he’d left behind. Her body betrayed her shame, her dignity, her sanity.

And the reel in her mind wouldn’t stop.

Him, caging her in the doorway. Him pressing her against the wall, his hand digging into her hip, his mouth so close she’d tasted his breath.

What if he hadn’t stopped?

The thought gutted her. Sweet, sharp, unbearable. What if he’d kissed her? What if he’d dragged her into bed, used that rough voice to rip her apart, piece by piece, until she was nothing but his?

Aria groaned, shoving both hands over her face, muffling the sound. She shouldn’t think like this. Shouldn’t want this. But her body pulsed with the fantasy, her chest heaving, her core aching as the “what ifs” spilled into endless, dangerous possibilities.

Damian wasn’t a savior. He was a monster with blood on his hands. For all she knew, the same fingers that had bruised her hip tonight had slit a man’s throat an hour earlier.

She should have slammed the door in his face. Should have run, should have screamed.

Instead, she was burning.

At some point exhaustion stole her. She didn’t remember closing her eyes, but she woke tangled in damp sheets, sweat sticking her hoodie to her skin, the dogs sprawled heavy across her legs like anchors. Her body still hummed, the ache between her thighs a cruel reminder.

And deep down, she knew.

She was already too far gone.

---

The next night, the club felt different the moment she walked through the back door.

The air vibrated with whispers.

Heads turned. Eyes lingered. Conversations dropped mid-sentence only to restart in hushed tones as she passed. Dancers leaned against doorframes with knowing smirks. Bouncers tracked her movements with sidelong glances. Even the DJ arched a brow when she handed him her song request, like he knew too.

Of course they knew. Everyone had seen.

Damian Moretti wasn’t a man you danced for unless you were either suicidal or already his. She hadn’t just danced for him. She had touched him. Reached for him in front of everyone like she was untouchable.

Like she belonged to him.

Aria forced her chin up, masking the coil of nerves with her perfected smirk. Let them talk. Let them stare. She had learned years ago how to use their attention, how to twist whispers into power, even when her insides were screaming.

But the second she stepped onto the stage, the mask cracked.

The lights blinded her. The music hit like a second pulse, pounding through her blood. She moved on autopilot, hips swaying, hands gliding over her body with practiced seduction. The crowd roared, bills fluttering, drinks spilling—none of it touched her.

Because all she could think was:

Was he here?

Her gaze flicked desperately over the crowd, sliding past faces, past shadows, searching for that one figure that always stood out from the rest. Her chest tightened with every second he didn’t appear. Booths were full, tables crowded, laughter spilling loud. But not him.

Her stomach hollowed as the song dragged on. Her movements grew sharper, frantic, like she could call him into existence if she pushed hard enough. But by the final beat, the chair he usually occupied was still empty.

The crowd screamed for more. Aria smiled like it didn’t cost her, bowed like it wasn’t tearing her apart, and slipped off the stage.

Backstage, the laughter of the other girls sliced into her ears. She ignored them, ignored the teasing, ignored the sting of their smug glances. She didn’t want their attention. She wanted his.

In the dressing room, her reflection mocked her—flushed, sweaty, eyes too bright, lips parted like she was still gasping for something that wasn’t there.

Pathetic.

“Get a grip,” she hissed, slamming her palms against the table. Lipsticks rattled, compacts toppled. The sound barely pierced the haze of need clawing at her insides.

The door creaked open. One of the girls poked her head in, a smirk already painted across her face. “Your stalker’s here.”

Aria’s head snapped up. Her heart lurched. “Who?”

The girl rolled her eyes, chewing her gum loud. “Tall. Dark. Scary as hell. Moretti.”

For one dizzying second, Aria forgot how to breathe.

She shoved past the girl before she could think, before reason could claw her back. Her feet carried her down the hallway like they had a will of their own. And then she saw him.

Damian.

Dressed in black, broad shoulders swallowing the narrow space, his presence so heavy the chaos of the club bent around him. People moved without realizing, giving him distance, like their bodies knew to fear what their brains hadn’t caught up to yet.

And his eyes—dark, sharp, unrelenting—locked straight onto her.

The air snapped tight.

Her knees wobbled. Her pulse stuttered. But she didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

He didn’t move. Didn’t call her. Just watched. Waiting. Daring her.

And like a moth to flame, she walked right into it.

Every step was fire licking at her skin, every breath shallow and burning. By the time she reached him, the world had gone silent.

“You didn’t come,” she whispered, her voice raw, stripped bare.

His gaze burned through her, unreadable, dangerous. “And yet here I am.”

The way he said it—like a vow, like a warning—made her shiver.He hadn’t come for the show. He hadn’t come for the crowd.

He had come for her.

And she didn’t know if that terrified her more… or thrilled her.