The air felt different when Aria stepped out of the car. Not colder. Not warmer. Just… sharper. Like the world was leaning closer, waiting for her next move. She didn't know where Cole was taking her until they were already in the city, the skyline a jagged silhouette against the morning light. When he finally pulled up outside an unmarked stone building nestled between glass towers, her brow arched. There were no signs, no logos. Just heavy double doors and a quiet doorman who opened them without a word. It wasn't a store. It wasn't a club. It was something else. Something curated. And exclusive.
Cole didn't explain. He never did. But his gaze in the rearview mirror had lingered on her a moment too long, and Aria felt it that flicker of warning he didn't speak aloud. She stepped inside anyway.
The gallery smelled like polished stone and varnished wood, with art that didn't belong to the mainstream. Sculptures twisted like bodies in pain or pleasure Aria wasn't sure which. Paintings hung in raw frames, bold strokes slashing across the canvas like violence preserved. The silence inside was different from Damien's estate. This one hummed, restless and unapologetic.
She was halfway through the gallery when she felt it eyes. Not the cold, calculated stare she'd grown used to. This one was different. Hot. Intrusive. Male. Her shoulders straightened instinctively. Her heels clicked louder against the floor as she turned a corner and saw him.
Leaning against the second-floor railing, a man watched her with the lazy interest of a predator who didn't need to chase. He was tall, dressed in black-on-black, his sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing inked skin. A jagged line of tattoos curled along his forearms, disappearing beneath the fabric. His jaw was sharp, his lips curved in the kind of smirk that promised trouble and didn't bother hiding it.
"Who the fuck is that?" he said aloud, not to anyone in particular, just loud enough for her to hear. His voice was gravel wrapped in sex and smoke. It slithered over her skin and made her throat tighten. He descended the stairs slowly, like he had all the time in the world to reach her.
She didn't move. She met his gaze and held it, letting him come to her.
"You always walk into rooms like you own them?" he asked, stopping just a few feet away. "Or just the ones filled with things too expensive to touch?"
"I wasn't aware I needed your permission to breathe," Aria replied, her tone cool, clipped.
He chuckled, a low sound that made her stomach twist. "You don't need my permission. You just walked into a place where masks don't work."
She arched a brow. "Who are you?"
"Jaxon Vale," he said, and didn't offer a handshake. "Sculptor. Owner. And apparently the first man who's told you the truth in a long fucking time."
"I wasn't told the artist's name," she replied.
"Of course you weren't." His eyes dropped to her mouth. "Your sugar daddy likes to keep you in a box, doesn't he?"
The insult sliced through her pride like a knife. She didn't think. Her hand moved on its own. The slap echoed in the empty gallery, sharp and satisfying. His face turned slightly with the impact, a red bloom rising on his cheek. But when he looked back, he was smiling. Amused. Not angry.
"Goddamn," he murmured. "That was hot."
"You're disgusting," she snapped.
"No, sweetheart. I'm interested. There's a difference. You walk like you're untouchable, but your eyes are screaming to be undone." He circled her slowly, like she was a sculpture he was studying. "I bet he doesn't even let you moan without permission, does he?"
Aria's breath caught.
"I bet you bite your pillow just to keep quiet. Because he trained you to be silent, didn't he?"
"Shut up," she hissed.
Jaxon leaned in. "I bet he makes you say 'thank you' every time you come."
Her face flushed. Her body betrayed her. Heat pulsed between her thighs like a secret trying to escape. His words shouldn't have affected her, but they did because they were close to the truth. Too close.
"You don't know anything about me," she snapped, turning away.
He followed her. His voice lowered to a growl. "No, but I know what women look like when they're starving. And baby, you're fucking ravenous."
The elevator was waiting at the far end of the gallery. She stepped inside without looking back, her chest tight, her hands trembling. But just as the doors began to close, a hand slid between them. And Jaxon stepped in.
The air inside the small space shifted instantly. He didn't touch her. Not yet. He didn't need to. His presence was too much too loud for such silence.
"Tell me to stop," he said, his breath hot against her cheek. "Say the word, and I'll keep my hands off you."
She didn't speak. She didn't trust her voice.
"I can smell it on you," he whispered. "That ache. That fucking need." He leaned closer. "Has he ever made you beg? Has he ever made you scream so loud you forgot who you were?"
His hand grazed her thigh.
Just once.
It was barely a touch. But it landed like a match to gasoline. Her breath hitched. Her legs tensed. Her core clenched with want so sudden and raw it made her dizzy.
She didn't stop him.
And he knew it.
His lips brushed her ear. "You taste like secrets. And I want all of them."
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened.
And Cole stood there.
Aria froze.
Jaxon didn't even blink. He met Cole's gaze, grinned, and walked out like he owned the fucking building. "Tame her better," he said to Cole in passing.
No one spoke on the drive back. Cole's silence was louder than usual. Stiffer. Aria stared out the window, her reflection a stranger. Her body still burned. Her lips still tingled. She hated that she could still feel Jaxon's fingers on her skin. Hated that a man she didn't know had seen something Damien never dared to touch her desire when it wasn't shackled.
When they arrived, the estate looked unchanged. Timeless. Immaculate. But something in the air buzzed. And when she stepped inside, the silence shifted.
Damien was waiting.
In the library.
He wore no shirt. No shoes. Just black pants and a glass of whiskey, half-empty in his hand. The fire behind him flickered low, casting shadows across his bare chest. His eyes were unreadable, darker than usual. More dangerous.
Aria stepped inside, her heels slow against the hardwood. "You sent me to that gallery," she said.
He didn't answer.
"Did you know he'd be there?"
Still silence.
Her heart pounded. "Did you plan it?"
Finally, he spoke. His voice was low. Controlled. Deadly calm. "Do you want to tell me what that was?"
She lifted her chin. "Nothing happened."
"Another man touched what's mine." His jaw tightened. "That's not nothing."
"I didn't invite him."
"You didn't stop him."
The room cracked with heat. He didn't yell. He didn't even move. But the way he looked at her made her knees wobble. Not with fear. With something worse shame.
"I own you, Aria," Damien said softly. "You signed that right away."
Her voice trembled. "You don't own what you don't trust."
He stepped forward. One slow, deliberate step. But he didn't touch her.
He simply looked her in the eye and said, "You've never seen what I become when I don't trust someone."
Then he walked out. Barefoot. Silent.
Gone.
That night, a velvet box appeared on her pillow. No note. No card. Just a necklace inside dark metal, cold and stunning. The tag attached said only four words:
Wear this. I want them to know.
No signature.
He didn't need one.
He was done being quiet.
And tomorrow… she would be marked.