And Cole—God help him—he’s chirping still. “Curls—you—better carry me—when I collapse. Hero’s funeral. Stair-shaped coffin—”
I cackle even though my chest is on fire. “Nah, Hollywood. I’ll trip you on the way down.”
We’re loud. Too loud. So loud that by the time we thunder past the second floor for what feels like the fiftieth time, the inn’s guests are peeking out their doors.
Old lady in a floral robe—staring like we’ve escaped from a madhouse.
Couple in matching pajamas—glaring at us like we’ve ruined their romantic getaway.
Some guy in a business suit—phone raised like he’s about to call the cops.
“Don’t mind us!” Cole hums between gasps, stumbling past them like a dying clown. “Just—training to die young!”
The looks we get could curdle milk.
And Damian?
Still smiling.
It’s sick. He’s at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes following us every lap, lips curved faintly like this is his masterpiece. Like he’s painting our misery into art. Every grunt, every gasp, every complaint is fuel to him. He’s not tired. He’s not sweating. He’s just watching. Enjoying.
My legs are giving out. My ribs still ache from Haverton. But I keep going. Because every time I glance down, he’s there. Smiling. Watching me.
I want that smile again. I want it bigger. Wider. I want it aimed just at me.
So I run harder. Until my thighs are screaming. Until my knees buckle. Until, on the forty-somethingth lap, my legs finally betray me.
I stumble. My foot catches. The world tilts.
And the only thing I see as I pitch forward is Damian—smirking at the bottom of the stairs like he knew this would happen all along.
My legs give out completely. I trip the last few steps, arms pinwheeling, vision tunneling, the kind of stumble that should send me sprawling face-first onto the dusty wooden floor.
Except I don’t fall.
Because Damian catches me.
One second I’m crashing forward, the next—his hand fists the back of my jersey, the other bracing hard against my chest, hauling me upright like I weigh nothing. My ribs slaminto the steel of his arm, my legs buckle, and I’m caged against him—saved in front of the entire goddamn team.
“Such a good boy,” he murmurs. Just for me.
But the word echoes.
Because the stairwell’s gone silent, everyone else wheezing to a stop, staring down at us from the landings above. Cole’s mouth hangs open, Mats’s brows shoot up, Shane looks like he just witnessed a resurrection. Tyler looks like he’s about to faint harder than I almost did.
My face is burning. My ribs are screaming. My chest is full of wildfire.
Because he said it out loud.
I melt against him like he carved the words straight into my spine.
But Damian doesn’t let me linger. He sets me down steady on my feet, eyes sweeping up the staircase. “You’re all too loud for this building,” he says, calm but final. “We’re going deeper.”
Cole blinks. “Deeper…where?”
The smile Damian gives him is lethal. “The station.”
The inn is built into an old railway station, and I don’t realize how creepy that is until we’re down there. The air smells of dust and rust, of old smoke trapped in the walls. The ceilings are high, rafters exposed, the floors cracked concrete instead of creaky wood. Our footsteps echo.
