Damien Sinclair stood in the center of the living room, staring at his phone like it was a bomb that had failed to detonate.
He was shirtless, wearing only grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was a ss from running his hands through it a dozen tis in the last hour.
It was 2:00 AM.
He had tried to give her space. He knew she needed to blow off steam after the weeks she’d had, and he refused to be the controlling husband who put a curfew on his wife. But when midnight ca and went without a text, and then 1:00 AM passed with her calls going straight to voicemail, his restraint had snapped.
To make matters worse, Kai—his so-called eyes on the ground—wasn’t picking up either.
The line connected to Aria’s driver and bodyguard’s phone.
He didn’t hear a voice imdiately. He heard the thumping bass of the club, the roar of a drunken crowd, and the rustle of movent as the phone was handed over.
"Aria Sinclair," Damien said, his voice a low, lethal command that cut through the static.
There was a pause. A hiccup. And then, a voice that was soft, sweet, and undeniably slurred lted through the speaker.
"Yes, Daddy?"
Damien’s breath hitched in his throat. His hand tightened on the phone until the tal creaked.
The anger that had been boiling in his gut—the fury at her silence, at Kai’s incompetence—didn’t vanish. It transmuted instantly into a dark, heavy heat that pooled in his groin.
She sounded wrecked. She sounded sweet. She sounded like trouble.
"Your phone is off," he ground out, forcing himself to focus on why he was angry and not the way her voice curled around that word. "And Kai is MIA. I was five minutes away from tearing that building apart."
"My battery died," Aria giggled, the sound vibrating against his ear. "And I lost Kai. And Zoe. I think they’re hooking up."
"He’s dead," Damien muttered. "You’re coming ho. Now."
"Mmm," Aria humd. "Are you going to punish ?"
Damien closed his eyes. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the window.
’Fuck.’
"Don’t push , Aria," he warned, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Get your ass ho."
"Okay, Daddy," she whispered back. "I’ll be good."
"Give the phone back to Richard," Damien ordered, his voice snapping back to steel before he lost his resolve completely. "Now."
"Bye-bye," she sang.
There was a fumbling sound, and then Richard’s calm, professional voice ca back on the line.
"Sir?"
"Bring her ho," Damien ordered. "Don’t stop. And give her water."
"Understood, sir. ETA twenty minutes."
Damien hung up. He threw the phone onto the sofa.
He couldn’t wait up here. The penthouse felt too big, too quiet. He needed to be downstairs when she arrived. He needed to get his hands on her to make sure she was actually safe.
He grabbed a black t-shirt from the floor, pulling it on. He didn’t bother with shoes; he slid into a pair of loafers. He grabbed his cigarettes and his lighter.
He took the private elevator down to the garage.
The underground parking lot was cold, slling of concrete and gasoline. It was a fortress of silence.
Damien leaned against a concrete pillar near the entrance, lighting a cigarette. The fla flared, illuminating the hard, sharp angles of his face. He inhaled deeply, the smoke filling his lungs, calming the tremor in his hands.
He checked his watch. Seventeen minutes.
"Excuse ?"
Damien didn’t look up. He took another drag, staring at the ramp where the SUV would appear.
"Excuse , sir?"
The voice was persistent. Annoyingly so.
Damien turned his head slowly.
A woman was standing a few feet away. She was young, maybe twenty-sothing, dressed in a matching set of flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers. She was holding a phone, looking anxious.
"Do you have the ti?" she asked.
Damien exhaled a plu of smoke, blowing it away from her face out of basic reflex, not courtesy. "It’s late."
"I know," the woman sighed, stepping closer, seemingly oblivious to the ’Do Not Disturb’ sign tattooed on Damien’s entire aura. "My brother is late. Again. He said his Uber was five minutes away, like, twenty minutes ago."
Damien didn’t respond. He turned back to the ramp.
"He’s new to the city," the woman continued, apparently taking his silence for listening. "He’s an actor. Or trying to be. He went to so wrap party tonight. The Rusty Anchor? Do you know it?"
Damien’s eyes narrowed slightly. The Rusty Anchor. That was where Aria had been.
"He’s nineteen," the woman babbled on, shivering in her pajamas. "He thinks he’s grown, but he still loses his wallet twice a week. I told him, ’Leo, if you aren’t back by midnight, I’m locking the deadbolt.’ But does he listen? No."
’Leo.’
The na registered vaguely in Damien’s mind.
"Boys," the woman laughed nervously. "They never listen, do they? Are you waiting for soone too?"
Damien took a final drag of his cigarette. He dropped it to the concrete and crushed it out with the toe of his loafer.
"I am," he said coldly.
"Oh! A girlfriend? Or..."
"My wife," Damien cut her off.
He turned to face her fully. He was tall, imposing, and looking at her with eyes that were cold enough to freeze water.
"And I really don’t care about your brother, your Uber, or your opinion on boys," Damien said, his voice flat. "Stop talking to ."
The woman’s mouth snapped shut. She took a step back, her eyes widening as she finally registered the danger radiating off him.
"Right. Sorry," she squeaked, backing away toward the elevators.
Damien turned away, dismissing her existence instantly.
Headlights swept across the garage walls.
A black SUV turned the corner, the tires squealing softly on the polished concrete.
Damien pushed off the pillar. He walked toward the car before it even ca to a full stop. He didn’t wait for Richard to get out.
He ripped the back door open.
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