"Who the hell are you?"
The question hung in the freezing air, heavy with threat. Damien didn't move away. In fact, he leaned closer, his massive frame trapping Aria against the silk-wallpapered wall. His golden eyes, glowing like molten coins in the darkness, dissected her face with terrifying precision.
Aria tried to swallow, but her throat felt like sandpaper. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs—partly from the lingering terror of being strangled, but mostly from the drug Bella had spiked her drink with.
The heat in her belly was spreading. It was becoming a clawing, desperate need. Being pinned by a man who radiated danger and raw masculinity wasn't helping.
"Focus, Aria. Don't let the drug win. If you swoon now, he'll snap your neck."
"I'm..." Aria's voice cracked. She cleared her throat, forcing her emerald eyes to meet his furious gaze. "I'm the only person in this city who can make you stop shaking."
Damien narrowed his eyes. His hand, still resting dangerously close to her neck, twitched.
"A doctor?" he scoffed, his voice rough, like gravel grinding against glass. "You look like a runaway mistress."
He wasn't wrong. Her red dress was torn at the shoulder, her rose-gold hair was a wild mess, and she was sweating profusely despite the room being set to sub-zero temperatures.
"Mistress, assassin, doctor..." Aria gasped, her legs giving out slightly. She slid down the wall an inch. "Does it matter? Your head... it feels like someone is driving a rusted nail into your temple, right? Right behind the left eye?"
Damien stiffened.
She was right. The pain was blinding. It was a white-hot agony that had plagued him for three years, ever since the accident. It was a scream that never ended.
But a moment ago... when this little creature had pressed her thumb into his neck... the scream had stopped.
"Who sent you?" Damien growled, grabbing her wrist.
His grip was iron-tight. His fingers were freezing cold, contrasting sharply with her burning skin. He pulled her hand up, inspecting it.
"You're bleeding."
Aria looked down. Her palm was sliced open from the ashtray she had smashed earlier. Blood was trickling down her wrist, staining his expensive cuff.
"I broke a glass," she murmured, her head spinning. The world was tilting sideways. The pheromones in the drug were making her senses haywire. His scent—winter rain, tobacco, and antiseptic—was overwhelming her. "To stay awake."
Damien stared at the blood. Then, he looked at her dilated pupils. He felt the frantic, erratic pulse jumping under his thumb.
"Drugged," he realized. "High-grade aphrodisiac. She's burning up."
"Get out," Damien snarled, shoving her away.
He turned his back on her, stumbling toward the wet bar in the corner of the room. He grabbed a bottle of amber liquid—whiskey—and downed it straight from the bottle. Then, he grabbed a prescription bottle from the counter, popping the cap with his teeth and dry-swallowing three pills.
Aria slumped against the wall, watching him. She recognized the bottle. Oxycodone. High dose.
"Those won't work," she whispered, her voice sounding far away to her own ears. "Your body has built a tolerance. You could swallow the whole bottle, and it would just make you vomit. It won't touch the nerve pain."
Damien slammed the pill bottle down. The glass shattered.
"Shut up!" he roared.
The noise echoed in the room. He gripped the edge of the bar, his knuckles turning white. She was right. The pills were useless. They were just candy now. The pain was coming back, crashing over him like a tidal wave. The silence she had gifted him was gone, replaced by the screeching ringing in his ears.
He turned around, his chest heaving. He looked like a cornered wolf—wild, beautiful, and lethal. His silver hair stuck to his forehead with cold sweat.
"You..." He pointed a shaking finger at her. "Come here."
Aria didn't move. She couldn't. Her legs had finally given up. She slid all the way down to the carpet, hugging her knees.
"No," she panted. "You come here."
Damien's jaw tightened. No one ordered him around. He was the King of this city. People kneeled when he entered a room.
But the pain...
Fuck the pride.
He crossed the room in two long strides, looming over her. He grabbed her arm and hauled her up as if she weighed nothing.
"Do it again," he commanded, tilting his head to expose his neck.
Aria smirked weakly. Even half-dead and drugged out of her mind, she knew leverage when she saw it.
"No free trials," she whispered.
Damien stared at her, incredulous. "You're in my room. You broke my lock. I could throw you off the balcony right now."
"And then you'll suffer," Aria countered, her breath hitching as a wave of heat rolled through her. She swayed, gripping his lapels to stay upright. "I have a condition. I help you... you help me."
"Money?" Damien sneered. "How much? Ten million? Twenty?"
"Marriage," Aria said.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Damien stared at her as if she had grown a second head. "You want to be Mrs. Sinclair?" He laughed, a dark, terrifying sound. "Little girl, do you know how many women have tried to climb this bed? Do you know where they are now?"
"I don't care about your bed," Aria hissed, frustration giving her a burst of energy. "There are wolves outside that door waiting to tear me apart. I need a shield. A big, scary shield. You are the scariest thing in this hotel."
She looked up at him, her emerald eyes burning with desperation and defiance.
"I need protection. You need sleep. It's a transaction. Take it or leave it."
Damien looked at her. Really looked at her. She was trembling violently now. Her skin was flushed a deep, unhealthy red. She was clearly fighting a losing battle against the drug.
And he was fighting a losing battle against the pain.
The throbbing in his skull spiked, making his vision blur. He gritted his teeth, a low groan escaping his throat.
"Fuck it."
"One night," Damien growled. "I give you protection for tonight. We discuss the rest when you aren't high out of your mind."
"Deal," Aria breathed.
Before she could say another word, her knees buckled completely.
Damien caught her.
His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against his hard chest. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through both of them. For Aria, his cold body was like ice water on a burn—soothing, addictive. For Damien, her softness was a shock to his rigid, pain-racked system.
He froze.
He hated touch. He usually vomited if someone touched his skin. But... he didn't feel nauseous.
He felt... grounded.
The faint scent of her blood mixed with something else—something floral and cool, like moonlit orchids—wafted up to his nose. The noise in his head dialed down from a scream to a dull roar.
"What is she?" he wondered.
He didn't waste time asking. He swept her up into his arms, carrying her bridal style toward the massive king-sized bed in the center of the room.
"Don't get the wrong idea," he muttered, dropping her onto the black silk sheets. "I'm not touching you. You're touching me."
Aria lay back, the room spinning. She felt like she was floating. She watched through half-lidded eyes as Damien tore off his suit jacket, throwing it carelessly onto the floor. He loosened his tie, ripped open the top two buttons of his shirt, and climbed onto the bed next to her.
He loomed over her, his silver hair falling into his eyes. He looked like a fallen angel.
"Well?" he demanded, his voice hoarse. "Fix me."
Aria reached up. Her small, blood-stained hand cupped his jaw. She felt the tension in his muscle, the erratic beat of the pulse in his neck.
"Lie down," she whispered. "And close your eyes, Mr. Wolf. This is going to hurt."
Damien obeyed. He collapsed next to her, burying his face in the pillow.
Aria shifted, dragging her heavy body until she was kneeling beside him. She placed her thumbs on the base of his skull, found the blocked meridian, and pushed.
Damien groaned—a sound of pure, unadulterated relief that sounded dangerously like pleasure in the quiet room.
Outside the heavy mahogany door, in the hallway, Damien's personal assistant raised his hand to knock, then froze.
He heard the groan. He heard the rustle of sheets.
"...Did the Boss actually bring a woman inside?"
The assistant slowly lowered his hand, his face pale. He turned to the bodyguards stationed at the elevator.
"Clear the floor," the assistant whispered, terrified. "If anyone interrupts him tonight, we're all dead."