Once.
Twice.
And they’re still standing there—both Damien.
One of them is half-dressed, chest slick with sweat and blood, lips bitten raw from the kiss I begged for ten minutes ago.
The other is at the door, gun drawn, jaw locked, eyes wild like a man walking into his own nightmare and I don’t know which one I want to scream for.
“Get away from her!” the one in the doorway barks, stepping closer.
I flinch.
Not because of the voice.
Because of the look in his eyes.
Panic. Betrayal. Fury.
“Raven,” he says—softer now. “It’s me.”
But the one behind me?
The one I just let brand me again?
He steps up behind me, warm and solid, wrapping his arms around my middle, burying his nose in my hair like he’s home.
“He’s lying,” he whispers. “He didn’t save you. I did.”
I shake my head.
“No. You?—”
“Who held you when you cried?” he murmurs. “Who touched you first? Who made you scream without shame?”
His voice is soothing.
Too calm.
The other one steps forward.
“Don’t listen to him, baby. He’s not me. He’s what I buried to protect you.”
I press my hands to my temples. The room blurs.
Both of them move the same way.
Same shoulders.
Same scar.
Same voice.
Same fucking scent.
“STOP!” I scream. “One of you—just—STOP!”
They freeze.
