Same hair. Same scar on the jawline. Same smirk I use when I know I’ve won.
But his eyes—too wide. Too still.
He’s wearing Damien Mercer like a mask, and underneath it is something feral, ancient, and absolutely fucking wrong.
“You took your time,” he says.
The voice is almost perfect.
Just off by half a second—like a corrupted recording.
I take one step forward.
He mirrors me.
I draw my blade.
He raises his empty hand.
“She still flinches when she hears your name, you know.” His voice softens, intimate.“You branded her. Broke her open. Made it easy for me to crawl back in.”
I don’t speak.
I just lunge.
Fast. Controlled.
The blade sinks in—or should have.
But he twists, catching my wrist mid-air, shoving me into the doorframe with a precision that’s too familiar. Like he’s fought me before. Like heknowshow I move.
His face is inches from mine.
“I’ve watched you longer than you’ve watched her.”
A gentle heat slips from his mouth. Steady.
“I memorised every inch of you before you even touched her throat. Before you made her beg. Before you left your fingerprints all over my obsession.”
He shoves me back.
I hit the wall. Hard.
The knife clatters to the floor.
He doesn’t reach for it.
He just stares—like he’s trying to crawl under my skin.
“You think she chose you?” he asks, tilting his head. “You think that little scream she makes at night is because of whatyoudid?” He steps closer. “I was the one who whispered her awake. I was the one who taught her how to be soft. You were just the shadow she chased to feel brave.”
Something in me snaps.
I grab him by the throat and slam him back, my hand crushing his windpipe.
He smiles.
Even as I press harder.
