My father never wasted words.
So when he called Damon into his office that morning, I knew something was wrong.
I wasn't supposed to be there. But I lingered outside the door, ear pressed against the polished wood, heart thundering in my chest.
"I don't like what I saw at the gala," my father's voice was sharp, cold, the same tone he used on employees who didn't last long afterward. "You touched my daughter. In front of everyone."
My blood turned to ice.
Damon's voice came steady, low. "I was doing my job. Harrow crossed a line. I removed him."
"You removed him," my father repeated, mocking. "And in the process, made the Kingsleys look weak. My daughter is not a toy, Cross. She's not your property."
My hands trembled. My father wasn't just angry. He was suspicious.
"From now on," my father continued, "you'll follow stricter orders. You'll escort Aria to the charity ball tonight. You'll keep her in line. And you'll remember your place."
The silence that followed was suffocating. I could almost feel Damon weighing his words.
Finally, he spoke. "Yes, sir."
And that was it. The conversation ended.
But the way my father's voice had curved around the word property stayed with me, like a warning I couldn't ignore.
⸻
That evening, Damon stood outside my bedroom door, waiting to escort me. His black suit was immaculate, his tie knotted with military precision, his jaw a line of steel.
"You heard everything, didn't you?" I whispered as I stepped out.
His eyes flicked to mine, cold, unreadable. "Get in the car, Aria."
"No." I planted myself in front of him, silk gown shimmering beneath the hallway light. "Tell me what he meant. Why does my father think you—"
"Get in the car," he repeated, sharper this time.
The command cut through me, but it wasn't his words that scared me. It was his eyes. Because for the first time, they weren't just hard. They were conflicted.
And Damon Cross didn't do conflicted.
⸻
The charity ball was another glittering nightmare. Chandeliers, champagne, women in jewels worth more than most people's houses. But I barely noticed any of it.
All I noticed was Damon.
The way he stayed close, hovering like a shadow I couldn't shake. The way his eyes followed every man who glanced at me. The way his hand lingered just a fraction longer when he guided me up the steps.
Every move screamed control. Discipline. Distance.
But beneath it, I felt the storm again.
And I couldn't stop myself from pushing.
⸻
A young heir approached me near the champagne tower. Daniel Quinn. Blonde, rich, cocky in that entitled way men like him always were.
"You must be Aria," he said with a smirk, handing me a glass. "I've been dying to meet the most beautiful girl in the room."
I smiled sweetly, taking the glass. "Is that so?"
His eyes swept down my body, slow and deliberate. "Definitely so."
I felt Damon's stare before I saw it. Burning into the back of my neck, sharp and furious.
So I leaned closer to Daniel, my voice low, teasing. "Careful. My bodyguard might kill you for saying that."
Daniel chuckled. "Let him try."
And just like that, Damon was beside us.
He stepped between me and Daniel, his broad frame blocking me completely, his voice a low growl. "She's not interested."
Daniel raised his hands in mock surrender, smirking. "Relax, man. I was just talking."
"Walk away," Damon said, his tone lethal.
For a moment, I thought Daniel might push back. But one look at Damon's eyes—the storm raging there, the unspoken promise of violence—and Daniel backed off quickly, muttering something under his breath as he disappeared into the crowd.
⸻
The moment he was gone, Damon turned on me.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice was harsh, his eyes blazing.
I lifted my chin, refusing to flinch. "Talking."
"Talking?" His hand closed around my arm, pulling me close enough that his breath brushed my lips. "You were provoking me. Again."
My pulse skipped, heat rushing through me at the fury in his gaze. "And what if I was?"
For a second, just a second, his mask cracked. His grip tightened, his jaw clenched, his eyes dropping to my mouth like he wanted nothing more than to claim it.
Then he shoved me back, his voice a dangerous whisper. "You're going to get me killed, Aria."
The words stole my breath. "What do you mean?"
But he didn't answer. His eyes darted past me, scanning the room, and in that moment I realized—this wasn't just about us.
Something else was happening. Something bigger.
Because for the first time since I'd met him, Damon looked… worried.
⸻
He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear, his voice low and rough.
"Stay close to me tonight. Don't leave my sight. No matter what happens."
A shiver raced down my spine. "Damon—what's going on?"
His gaze swept the room again, sharp, calculating. His jaw tightened.
"Someone's here who shouldn't be."
My stomach dropped. "Who?"
His eyes flicked to mine, stormy and fierce. "Your father's enemies."
And before I could breathe, before I could ask another question—he grabbed my hand, pulling me into the shadows of the ballroom.
Straight toward danger.