All Chapters of Falling for my Saviour: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Aria’s POV Three days passed, each one slow and heavy, like time itself had stopped moving inside those walls. Damien didn’t talk much during those days; he barely looked at me, and when he did, it was only long enough to remind me that his silence carried more weight than his words ever could. The tension between us never broke it just sat there, thick and alive, something neither of us was ready to touch or name. I could tell he was still angry about what had happened in the office. I could feel it in the way he moved, in the way his voice stayed calm but sharp, in the way every sound in the house seemed to wait for his permission before it dared to exist. I didn’t try to speak to him; I didn’t dare. Every attempt at peace would have sounded like a lie anyway, and lies were things that got people hurt in his world. When he finally told me to pack, his tone gave no room for questions. He said we were returning to the penthouse, and that was it. No reason, no explanation. Just an

Aria’s POV I didn’t realize it was a dream until minutes later until the sharp edges of the memory pressed into my mind and I understood how real it had felt, how heavy my chest was, how my hands still shook like the fear had followed me into the waking world. “Wake up… wake up…” I screamed, my small hands pressing against a man who didn’t move. I shook him again and again, my tears soaking his shirt, my knees digging into the floor, my whole body trembling so hard I thought I might break apart. The smell of smoke and wet earth filled the air. Then the gunshots started close, fast, splitting the silence and I ducked behind a rusted barrel, shaking, trying not to breathe, waiting for the world to stop falling apart around me. I woke up screaming. My shirt was damp with sweat, my hair clinging to my face, my heart hammering so hard that it hurt to breathe. I curled in on myself, pressing my face into the pillow, gripping the blanket tight in my fists like it could hold me together.

Aria’s POV The door banged hard and I jumped up because I knew right away it was him. Damien never came back quiet, but tonight it was worse, the sound heavy like something had broken with him. I turned and saw him standing there, his shirt dark, his hand pressed tight against his arm, and I froze because at first I thought it was dirt on him, until I smelled it. It was blood. Sharp and strong in the air, and the sight of it made my stomach twist. He walked inside without a word, his steps heavy, his shoulders bent, and he went straight for the table where he dropped his gun. The sound was loud and sharp, and I flinched because it felt like the sound of an ending. “Damien…” my voice came out small, like it wasn’t mine. He lifted his hand as if to tell me to shut up, his jaw set hard, and he started to walk past me toward the hall. But I saw the way his knees almost gave, the way his breath was rough, the way his eyes weren’t sharp like usual, and I couldn’t just let him

Damien’s POV I smelled the smoke before I saw her. It was faint at first, a thin trail of something burnt floating through the hall, the kind of smell that didn’t belong in this house. The chef was off today. I had told him to leave early, and I hadn’t thought much about it until I heard the soft clang of a pot hitting metal and a muttered curse coming from the kitchen. When I walked in, she was standing by the stove, hair tied up loosely, one strand falling against her cheek, a wooden spoon in her hand. The sight almost made me stop. Aria barefoot, in my kitchen, with the same defiance she wore like skin stirring a pot that was clearly seconds away from catching fire. “What the hell are you doing?” I asked. She jumped slightly, glancing over her shoulder. “Cooking.” “Cooking,” I repeated, stepping closer. “You have no idea how to do that.” She frowned. “You think I can’t handle soup?” “I think you’re about to burn down my house.” Her lips pressed tight, and I could

Damien’s POV “I need answers,” I said without looking at her on our way home She pressed back against the seat, hands folded in her lap, trying to disappear into the leather. I could feel her eyes on me, cautious but curious, and it made my chest tighten in a way I hated to admit. Her hands flexed once, twice, like she was testing herself against the restraint of the car. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, just kept that steady tension like she thought silence would save her. I didn’t bother asking again. I kept my eyes on the road, my good arm gripping the wheel, my injured arm pressed against my side. Every turn, every bump reminded me that I was still bleeding, still alive, still aware that she’d been watching me. She had that look of someone trying to figure me out while pretending she had no clue, and I hated how much it made my gut twist. “Did you ever hold a gun before today?” I asked finally, my voice low and hard. “No,” she said, flat, eyes forward. But there was a twitc