“This is it,” I whisper. “Where you go when you sneak around. Why you’re always acting secretive and dodging my questions.”
“No,”he snarls. “It isn’t. Damian needs us. Please. Just do this–then forget it ever happened.”
How am I supposed to do that?
As Julian leads me down a narrow corridor, I think of the last time I saw his best friend. It was a couple of years ago—Julian’s birthday. Another part of his life he keeps carefully walled off.
I remember Damian standing poolside with a sour expression, hair perfect, arms crossed, refusing to swim because God forbid he look like he was having fun. He scanned the party like he was deciding whether to punch someone or disappear.
Now he sits on a stool, leaning against the bar, a bloody towel pressed to his arm. A cut slices across his cheek. He looks even bigger than before—shoulders broad enough to block out half the room, stuffed into a shirt that’s ripped and stained. His severe eyes turn to me slowly.
“What is she doing here?” he growls.
And just like that, I remember my crush.
Not a crush-crush. Nothing crazy. But at that party, when he was all broody and shirtless? Yeah, something in me trembled—just a tiny fault line I’d never let turn into an earthquake.
“We need to make sure the wound on your arm is nothing to worry about,” Julian says. “And that cut on your face needs tending to. Let her help.”
Damian locks me in his gaze. “Does she know?” he asks Julian.
“No,” Julian replies. “And we’re keeping it that way.”
I spin on him. Partly with anger. Partly because Damian’s eyes make my knees feel unreliable. I’m tired after a long shift. Sleep-deprived. And the last thing I need is the distraction of those impossibly dark, broody eyes.
“Stop talking about me like I’m not right here,” I snap.
Julian drags a hand through his hair, wrecking the neatness he always clings to. The sight alone tells me how bad this really is.
“Please,” he says, his voice breaking.
I turn back to Damian. “I’ll help. But if you won’t give me answers, at least do me the courtesy of not insulting me by talking about me like I’m some kid.”
“I’d never dream of insulting you, Celine,” Damian says, eyes fixed on me.
He stares as if insulting is the furthest thing from his mind.
He stares like he’s thinking something else entirely.
CHAPTER 1
DAMIAN
One Month Later
Ilook at myself in the mirror. At the cut on my cheek, healing now, but not completely healed. The wound is forming a scar, a crescent moon on my left side. I almost miss the way it stung when Julian’s baby sister first sewed it up.
It was a reminder. Of what they did. Of what I have to do.
I walk to my front window. Across the street, one of my neighbors is putting their Christmas decorations up. It’s almost time for the holidays. A time for good cheer and making memories. Yeah. Fucking hilarious.
If my neighbors were to look at my house, they wouldn’t know it’s modern and expensive on the inside. They wouldn’t see the gym and the marble counters in the kitchen, and the walk-in shower. They’d see a rundown hellhole—dirty windows, an overgrown garden, and the old stone wall around the backyard holding the place together.
That’s how I like it. Let them see the Beast. The name they gave me. The name they still use on the streets.
The Beast. One day, I’ll remind them why.
My phone pings. Groceries.
