The paper trembled in Aria's hand, its red-inked warning burning into her mind like a brand.
It's time you chose sides.
She backed away from the door, chest tightening. Her instincts screamed at her to run, to hide, to breathe. But where could she go when the war was already inside her walls?
She folded the slip and stuffed it into the journal, locking it in the drawer. Her phone sat nearby, untouched. She could call Liam. She could call… Damon.
But wasn't he the very reason her hands were shaking?
She paced the apartment, barefoot on cold floors, mind spinning with fragmented memories. The letter. The silver ring. The argument behind velvet curtains. Darius—Damon? Were they the same man?
She needed answers.
Aria pulled on a hoodie, slid on shoes, and grabbed her keys. The night had claws, but she'd grown tired of hiding. If Damon was lying to her, she wanted to look him in the eye when he did it.
---
It was past midnight when she stepped out into the city. Lights flickered like nervous breaths, and a soft drizzle misted the air. She hailed a cab with shaking fingers, gave Damon's address without hesitating.
The driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror. "You alright, miss?"
No.
But she nodded anyway.
The ride was silent. Too silent. Her thoughts filled every second.
What if the letter was wrong? What if Damon had nothing to do with her past?
And yet, the ring.
The timing.
The silence behind the door.
It didn't feel like a coincidence anymore.
The cab stopped in front of Damon's penthouse building. A fortress of glass and steel. The doorman recognized her and let her up without question. Her reflection in the elevator doors looked paler than usual. Eyes too wide. A woman walking into fire.
She stepped into the hallway, heart in her throat.
She knocked.
No answer.
She raised her fist again—when the door opened from the inside.
Damon stood there. No shirt. Tension in every muscle like a held breath. His eyes—stormy, unreadable—narrowed the moment he saw her face.
"Aria?" he rasped. "What happened?"
She stepped in without asking permission.
"I need to know the truth," she said.
He closed the door behind her. "About what?"
She turned to face him.
"You," she whispered. "Who are you really?"
Damon didn't answer right away.
Instead, he looked at her—really looked at her. The rain had misted her hair, leaving her lashes damp and clinging. Her breath came fast, like she'd sprinted through fire to get here. And maybe she had.
He took a step toward her. "Aria…"
She flinched, just barely.
That hesitation cut deeper than any accusation.
"I'm not who I used to be," he said quietly. "But I never lied about what I feel for you."
She crossed her arms, voice a shaky whisper. "You have a silver wolf ring."
He didn't deny it. "It belonged to someone I once was. That man… isn't dead. But he's not the one who kissed you under starlight. Not the one who watches you sleep like you're the first peace he's ever known."
She blinked fast.
"You changed your name," she said.
"I had to."
"Because of my family?"
His silence was answer enough.
Her throat tightened. "Then you knew who I was. From the start."
He nodded once.
That was it. The moment should've shattered something between them—but instead, the pain bloomed into something else. Raw. Desperate. Real.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered.
"Because the moment I did…" he stepped closer, "you'd never look at me the same."
"I'm not sure I do now," she said.
His jaw clenched. "Then let me show you who I am now."
She didn't respond—couldn't—before his mouth covered hers.
The kiss wasn't careful. It was storm meeting storm. Fire licking at the edges of fear. Her hands rose to his bare chest on instinct, finding the steady thud of a heart that had once belonged to a stranger—but no longer did.
He backed her up until her spine met the cold wall. Her hoodie fell to the floor, forgotten. His hands trembled as they gripped her waist like he didn't know how to hold something that mattered so much.
"Tell me to stop," he breathed, forehead pressed to hers. "And I will."
She searched his eyes—those storms she'd drowned in too many times to count.
"I don't want you to."
Clothes peeled away. His lips traced apologies down her skin. She didn't ask questions anymore—she just listened to the way he touched her, the way he held her like a promise.
The ache between them turned molten, slow and intimate. He took his time—like she was the only truth left in his fractured world.
And when it was over, when the heat faded into soft breaths and tangled limbs, Aria rested her head on his chest, listening to the silence that followed.
But silence with Damon now… wasn't empty. It was a warning waiting to be understood.
They lay in the hush of early night, where the only sound was the quiet thrum of Damon's heartbeat against Aria's cheek. Rain tapped gently at the windows, as if the storm outside had softened out of respect for them.
But the one inside her was just beginning to stir.
His fingers traced idle circles on her bare back, a silent reverence in every touch. She didn't want to move. Didn't want to ask the questions curled like thorns in her chest.
But she couldn't pretend nothing had shifted.
"Damon…" she murmured against his skin.
"Mmm?"
"Why me?"
He stiffened. Just enough for her to notice. Just enough for her breath to catch.
She sat up slowly, holding the sheet against her. "Out of everyone. Why did you find me?"
He propped himself on his elbow, gaze unreadable. "I didn't find you, Aria. I ran into you. On accident."
"That's not what it feels like."
A long silence.
Finally, he said, "I recognized you. Not right away. But I remembered your mother. And I remembered him."
She blinked, throat dry. "You knew Darius?"
"I was raised under him," Damon said, voice flat. "He took me in after my father died. Trained me. Molded me. Taught me what loyalty cost—and how it always came with blood."
Aria felt the air leave her lungs.
"You worked for him?"
"I was his shadow," Damon said bitterly. "Until I refused to carry out the final order."
She didn't dare ask what that order had been.
"He sent someone after me," Damon continued. "I disappeared. Took a new name. Built a new life. I never planned to fall in love again, Aria. But then you… you walked in with your fire, your questions, your goddamn stubborn heart."
She stared at him.
"And you risked it," she whispered. "By being with me."
"I risked it the moment I looked into your eyes."
He reached for her hand and held it between his palms.
"I don't know how much time we have before they figure out who I really am—or who you are to them. But I won't let history repeat itself."
She swallowed hard. "What happens now?"
Damon looked at her like a man preparing for war—but cradling the one fragile thing he couldn't afford to lose.
"Now," he said quietly, "we prepare for the truth. Even if it destroys everything."
The morning arrived too quickly.
Sunlight crept through the blinds like an unwelcome truth, casting long, golden bars across the floor of Damon's penthouse. Aria lay awake, her mind replaying every word, every whisper from the night before. Her body still ached from their closeness—but it was her heart that felt bruised.
Damon was in the kitchen, shirtless, focused on pouring coffee like it was an act of redemption. He moved with the careful grace of someone used to controlling chaos.
"You didn't sleep," he said without turning around.
Neither did you, she almost replied—but bit her tongue.
Instead, she walked toward him, barefoot, dragging the sheet around her like armor.
"You said you defied Darius," she murmured. "That you disappeared. But people like him… they don't let go."
He finally looked at her. "No. They don't. That's why I changed everything—my name, my business, my allies. I cut out every trace that linked me to the past."
"Except me," she whispered.
His jaw tensed. "I didn't know who you were at first. I swear it, Aria. But when I found out—when I realized—I couldn't walk away. I didn't want to."
She wrapped her arms around herself, eyes falling on the silver ring he always wore.
"Your ring," she said. "My mother mentioned it. Warned me."
His expression flickered. He pulled the ring from his finger and set it on the counter between them.
"It belonged to Darius. He gave it to me before I left. A reminder of everything I owed him. But it means nothing now."
"Then why keep it?" she asked softly.
"Because part of me knew I couldn't run forever. That someday, someone would come looking."
"And now?" she asked. "Do you think they've found you?"
Damon stepped closer, cupping her face. "No," he said. "I think they've found you."
A chill ran down her spine.
She stepped back, heart pounding. "Why me? I don't remember anything. I was just a kid—"
"That's exactly why," he said darkly. "You were a threat even then. And now? You're a wildcard. The only daughter of the woman who betrayed Darius. And possibly… the only person who can stop what's coming."
She shook her head, dizzy. "You're talking in riddles, Damon."
"I'm talking in warnings," he said. "Your memories—they're surfacing for a reason. Your mother knew something. She wrote something. That journal wasn't random."
Aria's pulse quickened. She remembered the letter, the flowers, the ink bleeding into the pages of her mother's journal.
"There's more," she whispered. "More I haven't read."
"Then we start there," Damon said. "We follow every clue, no matter how small. Because the clock is ticking, Aria—and if we don't find the truth first…"
"…they'll find us," she finished.
He nodded grimly.
Just then, his phone buzzed. One glance, and the blood drained from his face.
"What is it?" she asked.
He handed it to her.
A photo.
Of her.
Taken this morning.
Standing in Damon's kitchen.
From across the street.
Aria's breath caught.
The photograph felt like a snare tightening around her throat. Her image—still, exposed, vulnerable—captured from a distance. Someone had been watching them. Not just Damon. Her.
She stared out the window, instinctively wrapping her arms around herself. "That photo… it was taken from the rooftop across the street."
Damon was already moving—grabbing a jacket, reaching into a drawer beneath the bookshelf and pulling out a sleek black case. Inside: a pistol. Matte. Cold. Efficient.
"You have a gun?" she whispered.
He didn't answer. He didn't have to.
"Stay inside," he said, voice low. "Don't answer the door. Don't speak to anyone but me."
"Damon—"
"I'll handle this," he cut in, his tone iron-sharp.
But Aria stepped forward, her voice steady despite the fear curling in her chest. "No. Not this time. You said we're in this together, remember? I'm not going to be the helpless girl hiding while you take all the hits."
Something in his expression cracked—pride, perhaps. Or the wall he always tried to keep between them.
He exhaled slowly and handed her a phone. "Call Liam if anything happens. He'll come. No questions."
She nodded, even though her fingers shook as she gripped the device.
Then Damon was gone, slipping through the door like a ghost.
Silence settled.
But not for long.
Aria turned to the journal, drawn to it like it called her name. She opened it again, carefully thumbing through the fragile pages until she found a passage she hadn't noticed before.
> "They think keeping secrets will protect the ones they love. But the truth… the truth always finds a way to bleed through the cracks. Even in the dark."
Something rattled inside her. She looked up, feeling it again—that same pull. The memory. The bruise.
She pressed her fingers to her temples.
And suddenly—
She was in a dark hallway.
A child again.
Running.
Heavy bo
ots behind her.
A hand reached for her shoulder—
"No!" she gasped, jerking herself back to the present.
But she wasn't alone.
A note was pinned to the front door now, fluttering slightly with the air.
She approached slowly.
Five more words, same red ink.
> "He won't save you forever."