He looks young.
Almost human.
My chest aches.
I hate how much I want this to be real.
I close my eyes again, press my forehead against his collarbone, and let myself pretend.
That this is normal.
This is what it looks like being held instead of hunted.
That the man wrapped around me wasn’t the one who whispered “Little Spider” into my skin until I trembled.
He told me last night.
Everything.
His silence was a confession.
And I accepted it.
Not because I forgive him.
But because I understand what it means to survive ugly.
I’m tired of pretending that my own reflection isn’t cracked in the same places.
My fingers curl around the edge of his shirt. His heartbeat is slow, deep beneath muscle and bone. The beat that doesn’t lie.
And I whisper so softly I barely hear it myself.
“I’m still here.”
Because I am.
And that matters.
That has to matter.
I exhale, slow. Try not to notice the soreness between my legs. The heat in my core. The way my body still echoes with what he did to me—what I let him do. It doesn’t feel wrong. Just haunted. Like a cathedral after a storm.
I shift again, this time to ease the cramp in my hip.
Damien stirs.
His fingers flex once, and I feel the press of his thumb move against my spine—slow, instinctive.
“Raven,” he murmurs, low and gravel-slick.
I look up.
His eyes are open now, just barely.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
