Chapter 3

Aria Blake

When I opened my eyes, everything hurt.

The world was too bright at first, white light pouring down on me from somewhere above, burning against the backs of my eyelids. For a few seconds, I couldn’t remember where I was or why my ribs felt like someone had used them for target practice. The smell hit next smoke and antiseptic, metal polish, linen that didn’t belong to me.

I tried to move. My muscles disagreed.

A small sound escaped my throat, half-breath, half-whimper. It startled me more than the pain did. The sound made the room feel smaller, like I’d broken a rule I didn’t know existed.

The last thing I remembered clearly was the noise the gunfire, the shouting, the way the ground kept shaking as if the building itself was panicking. I’d hidden behind a beam, pressed my face to the cold floor, tried to pretend I was somewhere else. There’d been men’s voices. Then one voice low, calm, cutting through the chaos.

And then nothing.

Now I was here. Alive. Somehow.

The bed beneath me was too soft. Sheets that smelled of starch and money. My right shoulder throbbed where someone had bandaged it. I looked down and saw a line of gauze taped to my skin. The sight of it the careful neatness made my stomach twist. Whoever had done it had been gentle. That scared me more than pain would have.

I pushed myself up on my elbows, slow, teeth clenched. The room tilted. When the blur cleared, I saw that it wasn’t a hospital. Hospitals didn’t have walls like this dark wood, expensive art, the quiet hum of machines that weren’t for healing but for surveillance.

A single chair sat near the window, leather so black it almost disappeared into its shadow. A suit jacket hung over the back of it. Big. Male. The kind of detail you notice only because you don’t want to.

I swung my legs off the bed and felt the floor under my feet cold stone, smooth enough to reflect the light. My body protested every inch of movement, but I needed to see where I was. I needed proof that I wasn’t still underground somewhere waiting for a man to open a cage.

The door was on the far side of the room. I tried it. Locked.

Of course it was locked.

A sound came out of me again, but this time it was a laugh small, broken, nothing funny about it. I pressed my palm to the wood anyway, as if touch alone could make it open. My heart was hammering so hard it felt like I was shaking the door from the inside.

Breathe, I told myself. You’re not there anymore. But where the hell was I now??

I turned back to the bed and sat down before my legs gave out. The mirror on the opposite wall caught my reflection, and for a moment I didn’t recognize the girl staring back. Hair matted, smoke still clinging to the ends. Face pale, lips cracked, eyes wide enough to hold a hundred versions of fear.

I looked like someone who’d survived by accident.

The sound of footsteps pulled me out of it. Somewhere down the hallway, it was heavy. My chest tightened. Every step sounded like he was coming for me

I scanned the room for anything I could use lamp, vase, even the glass of water on the nightstand to protect myself. What if I had been kidnapped? but my hands were shaking too much to hold anything steady. The handle turned once. Then stopped. Silence. Whoever was outside knew I was awake.

I waited. Nothing.

The silence stretched until I could hear the clock ticking somewhere behind me. I was almost grateful when my shoulder started throbbing again pain was easier to understand than anticipation.

I thought about the man in the fire the one who’d pulled the beam off me. I hadn’t seen his face properly, but I remembered the way he’d looked at me. Not like I was a victim. Like I was a question he needed to answer. That kind of attention burns hotter than flames.

The lock clicked.

.

The door opened just enough to let light spill across the floor. A tall figure stood there, blocking most of it. For a second all I saw was the outline broad shoulders, dark clothes, a face carved in shadow. His eyes found mine and held them.

Everything in me went still.

He didn’t speak right away. Neither did I. We just stared at each other, two people who shouldn’t be in the same room for entirely different reasons.

“Awake,” he said finally, voice low, the single word more statement than question.

I swallowed, throat raw. My own voice wouldn’t come.

He stepped inside, slowly . He came Up close he looked… too composed. The suit, the watch, the faint smell of smoke that hadn’t been washed off yet. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to make people confess.

“ You shouldn’t be up and worrying, I won’t hurt you” he paused for a second

“What’s your name?” he asked.

I hesitated to respond, I just met this dangerous looking man in a strange place I couldn’t just tell him about me, not yet

He repeated the question this time in a harsher tone like he was ready to force it out of me

“Aria “ I didn’t realize when it came out of me

“You remember last night?” He asked again

Images hit me like flashbulbs fire, shouting, his hand on my arm, the way he’d said something I hadn’t understood. I forced the words out, rough and quiet. “You were there.”

He gave a single nod. “I was.”

The silence after that felt heavier than the smoke had. He watched me for a moment longer, then looked toward the bandage on my shoulder.

“You were lucky,” he said. “It missed bone.”

Lucky. That word didn’t belong here.

“I want to leave,” I said.

He smiled without humor. “You’re not ready.”

“I don’t care.”

He tilted his head, studying me like a puzzle he didn’t want to solve too quickly. “You will.”

Something in his tone calm, certain made me want to throw something. I gripped the sheet instead, twisting it around my fingers until the blood drained from them.

He turned slightly, looking toward the window, then back at me. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

That almost made me laugh. “Then unlock the door.”

He didn’t. “You need rest. Food. After that, we’ll talk.”

“About what?”

His eyes met mine, steady, unreadable. “About why you were there.”

The room shrank around those words. I opened my mouth, closed it again. I didn’t know what he wanted me to say. I didn’t even know what was true anymore.

He watched me struggle for an answer and, for the first time, his expression shifted something small, almost regretful, gone in a heartbeat. He nodded once, as if making some private decision.

“Mara will bring you something to eat,” he said. “Don’t try the door again. The lock only opens from my side.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait,” I blurted.

He stopped but didn’t face me. “What?”

I hesitated, the word clawing its way out of me. “Who are you?”

He looked over his shoulder, eyes catching the light. “Damien Wolfe.”

The name hit like an echo from the night before the name whispered by men who were dying.

He saw the recognition in my face, and something cold flickered behind his expression. “You’ll be safe here,” he said. “But safety comes with rules. Break them, and you’ll see what happens when I stop trying to be gentle.”

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, lock sliding back into place.

I sat there for a long time, listening to the quiet. My pulse was still hammering. The sheet twisted tighter around my hands.

Safe. He’d said the word like it meant something different to him than it did to me.

I looked toward the window, at the thin slice of morning beyond it, and tried to remember what it felt like to believe in words like that.

I had only one question in mind

“Who is this man?”