My father loved parties.
Lavish, glittering, suffocating parties filled with people who pretended they cared about his business when all they really wanted was a slice of the Kingsley empire.
I hated them.
But tonight, I saw an opportunity.
Damon had been colder than ever since his whispered warning outside my bedroom door. He shadowed me like a soldier, silent, unreadable, a fortress of self-control.
So I decided to break that fortress.
⸻
The ballroom was alive with music and champagne. Golden chandeliers sparkled above polished marble floors. Laughter and conversation swirled around me, but all I could feel was Damon's presence against the wall, his gaze sweeping the crowd with military precision.
I wore red.
Danger red.
Silk that clung to every curve, slit high enough to tease with every step. I'd chosen it for one reason: Damon Cross would notice.
And when I caught his eyes across the room, his jaw clenched. Victory.
But I wanted more.
⸻
He wasn't the only man watching me. Ethan Harrow, son of my father's business partner, cut through the crowd with practiced charm. Ethan was handsome in that polished, boring way—perfect hair, perfect smile, expensive cologne. The type of man my father wanted for me.
"Aria," Ethan drawled, leaning in to kiss my hand. "You look… breathtaking tonight."
I smiled sweetly, but my eyes flicked past him—to Damon.
And there it was. That flicker. That tightening of his fists at his sides.
Good. Let him burn.
Ethan offered me his arm. "Dance with me?"
Normally, I'd refuse. But tonight wasn't about Ethan. It was about Damon. So I let Ethan lead me to the dance floor, silk sliding against my skin, my body swaying far too close to Ethan's as violins swelled around us.
I laughed when Ethan whispered something in my ear. Too loud. Too bright. Fake. But Damon didn't know that.
From across the room, I felt his stare sharpen into a blade.
⸻
Ethan's hand slid a little lower on my back.
Too low.
I should've stopped him. But I didn't. I wanted Damon to see.
Because Damon's silence was killing me. His restraint was torture. I wanted him to break. To lose control. To show me the fire I'd tasted in the backseat of that car.
And for one dangerous moment, I thought I succeeded.
Because Damon moved.
He strode across the ballroom like a storm, his tall frame cutting through dancers and waiters alike. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—God, those eyes—were locked on me, burning like wildfire.
My heart skipped, adrenaline spiking.
This was it.
But then—
He stopped.
Not beside me. Not to rip me away from Ethan's arms like I expected. No. Damon planted himself near the bar, muscles taut, jaw carved from stone, watching. Controlling. Waiting.
Punishing me with distance.
And somehow, that hurt more than if he'd dragged me out by the wrist.
⸻
Ethan spun me across the floor, oblivious to the silent war happening behind us. "You're distracted," he murmured, his hand tightening on my waist.
I forced a smile. "Maybe."
"Then let me remind you why you shouldn't be." His lips brushed against my ear, his breath hot.
I stiffened. Wrong. Too wrong. Damon wasn't wrong. Damon was danger, sin, fire. Ethan was… nothing.
But Damon didn't know that.
I let Ethan's lips linger just long enough. Just long enough for Damon to see—
And then everything snapped.
⸻
In an instant, Damon was there. One second across the room, the next tearing Ethan off me with a grip so brutal Ethan yelped. Gasps erupted across the ballroom, whispers rushing like wildfire.
Damon shoved Ethan back, eyes blazing, voice low and lethal. "Touch her again, and I'll break your hand."
Ethan stammered, pale and trembling. "W-What the hell—she—she asked me to—"
"Get out." Damon's voice was pure command, a growl that silenced the music, the chatter, everything.
And Ethan did. He bolted, red-faced, humiliated, leaving me breathless in Damon's grip.
The entire ballroom stared. My father's allies. His rivals. Everyone.
And in that moment, I realized Damon had crossed a line.
Not just with me.
But with the entire world.
⸻
He dragged me out of the ballroom, his hand crushing mine, his strides long and merciless. I stumbled to keep up, my pulse wild, heat rushing through my veins.
"Damon—" I started.
"Shut up," he snapped, voice raw with something I'd never heard before.
Rage. Possession. Desire.
He didn't stop until we were in a deserted hallway, the music fading behind us, shadows swallowing us whole. He slammed me against the wall, his body caging mine, his breath ragged against my ear.
"Do you think this is a game, Aria?" His voice was gravel, sharp and furious. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
I met his eyes, chest heaving, heat sparking between us like wildfire. "Yes," I whispered. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
His hand pressed against the wall beside my head, his body so close I could feel the heat radiating from him. For the first time, the mask of control cracked—his pupils blown wide, his lips parted, his restraint unraveling.
And then he leaned closer, his mouth a breath away from mine, his voice breaking into something dangerous, forbidden, inevitable—
"God help me, Aria, if you ever push me like that again…"
He didn't finish.
Because finishing would mean admitting what we both knew—
That next time, he wouldn't stop.