Chapter 223 I let myself rest
Aria’s POV
He paused, his brow furrowing, voice low and strained with the effort of pulling the memory into focus. "He had a tattoo."
My pulse quickened. "A tattoo? Wolves don’t usually—"
"I know. That’s why I remember it." Damian’s eyes snapped open.
"It was on his front leg, just above the paw. I remember seeing it when he lunged at me. The ink was still dark—fresh, maybe only a few weeks old."
"What did it look like? Can you describe it?"
"I don’t..." He frowned, clearly trying to pull the image into sharp focus. "Hold on."
He reached for the notepad and pen sitting on the bedside table.
I watched as he sketched quickly, his hand moving with surprising confidence despite the injuries. The pen scratched against paper, lines forming and connecting in ways that made my stomach twist with unease.
When he turned the paper toward me, my breath caught.
It was a symbol. Circular, roughly the size of a silver dollar. Three curved lines spiraled inward toward a central point, like a triskelion but... wrong somehow. Distorted.
There were smaller marks around the edges—runes, maybe, or stylized letters in a language I didn’t recognize.
"Do you recognize it?" Damian asked, watching my face carefully.
I stared at the drawing, turning it over in my mind. It looked vaguely familiar—like something I’d seen in passing but never paid attention to. Something glimpsed in an old book or a half-remembered documentary.
But no. Nothing concrete clicked into place.
"I don’t know," I admitted, frustration creeping into my voice. "But someone might. This is too distinctive to be random. If this rogue had it tattooed on him, it means something. It’s connected to whoever sent him."
"We should show it to Ronan." Damian set the notepad aside. "He’s got connections all over the East Coast. If anyone’s seen this symbol before—"
He didn’t finish the sentence because I was already on my feet, heading for the door.
"Wait here. I’ll get him."
"Aria—"
But I was already out in the hallway, my heart pounding with renewed purpose. We had something. It wasn’t much, but it was *something*. A thread to pull. A direction to move in.
I found Ronan in what looked like his office—a wood-paneled room lined with bookshelves and dominated by a massive oak desk. He looked up when I burst through the door, one eyebrow rising.
"Miss Smith. I take it the reunion went well?"
"We need you to look at something." I didn’t bother with pleasantries. "Damian remembered a detail from the attack. A tattoo on one of the rogues."
Ronan was on his feet immediately, his Alpha instincts clearly kicking in. "Show me."
We walked back to Damian’s room together. Ronan closed the door behind us and crossed to the bed, taking the notepad Damian offered him.
I watched his face as he studied the symbol. Watched the way his expression shifted from curiosity to confusion to something that looked almost like... concern.
"Do you recognize it?" I asked.
"No." Ronan handed the notepad back to Damian, his jaw tight. "But I know people who might. This kind of marking—it’s ritual. Ceremonial. Not something rogues typically use."
"Meaning what?" Damian demanded.
"Meaning whoever sent these rogues after you didn’t just hire random muscle." Ronan crossed his arms over his chest. "They sent wolves who’d been initiated into something. A group. Maybe even a cult."
The word hung in the air between us, heavy and ominous.
"A cult," I repeated slowly. "You’re saying there’s some kind of organized group targeting Damian?"
"I’m saying it’s a possibility we need to investigate." Ronan pulled out his phone. "I’ll reach out to my contacts. Show this symbol around. Someone has to have seen it before."
"How long will that take?" I asked.
"Could be hours. Could be days." He headed for the door. "I’ll let you know the second I hear anything."
The door clicked shut behind him, and suddenly it was just Damian and me again.
I wanted to follow Ronan out. Wanted to pace the hallways until he came back with answers. Wanted to *do* something instead of sitting here waiting.
But Damian’s hand caught my wrist, gently pulling me back toward the bed.
"Aria. Stop."
"We need to—"
"We need to wait." His voice was firm but not unkind. "And you need to rest. You’ve been on planes and helicopters for hours. You’re exhausted."
"I’m fine."
"You’re shaking."
I looked down at my hands and realized he was right. A fine tremor ran through my fingers—adrenaline crash mixed with exhaustion mixed with the lingering fear that hadn’t quite left my system.
"I just..." My voice came out small. Fragile in a way I hated. "I just need to make sure you’re okay. That’s all. I need to know you’re really here and this isn’t some kind of dream that I’m going to wake up from."
"Come here." He tugged me down onto the bed beside him, careful of his injuries. "I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you. Not for a while."
I settled against his uninjured side, my head resting on his shoulder. His arm came around me, holding me close, and I felt some of the tension drain out of my body.
"I’m sorry," I whispered. "I just—when I thought you were dead, I—"
"I know." His lips pressed against the top of my head. "I know, sweetheart. But I’m here. I’m healing. And as long as you’re here with me, I’m exactly where I need to be."
I closed my eyes and let myself sink into him. Let the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his breathing anchor me to this moment.
He was alive. He was here. He was *mine*.
And whoever had tried to take him from me was going to pay.
But for now—just for now—I let myself rest.