Down the stairs. Out the front door. Into the street with nothing but adrenaline and aching in my chest.
He doesn’t come after me.
And to me, that’s worse than if he had.
Chapter Eight
DAMIAN
She’s gone.
The door slams, and the silence that follows feels like a chokehold. I stare at the mess I made—takeout cartons ripped open, soy sauce bleeding into the wood, chopsticks snapped like bones. The whole kitchen looks like it got hit by a storm, and somehow I’m still the eye of it.
I’m motionless, yet breathing too hard.
My fists ache from clenching. My teeth grind until my jaw threatens to splinter. I don’t know what to do with the heat under my skin, the pressure in my chest, the words I don’t fucking have. Everything I wanted to say is trapped behind my ribs, and now she’s gone again. Gone with questions I refused to answer. Gone thinking the worst because I gave her nothing but silence.
My silence is poison. I know that. But I still drink it every time.
I move without thinking. I justexplode. My arm sweeps across the counter, knocking every pot, pan, and glass dish to the floor with a roar that sounds like it’s tearing out of my spine. Everything crashes. Metal on tile. Shattering ceramic. A fryingpan bounces once before slamming into the cabinet with a dent that’ll stay there like a scar.
It's still not enough. Nothing touches the fury in me. The way it writhes under my skin, alive and blistering. I reach for the edge of the counter, grip it so hard the tendons in my forearm scream, and I feel a sting—sharp and immediate. My hand’s bleeding. A thick, deep cut across my palm. I must’ve caught the edge of a knife blade on the swing. Doesn’t matter. I barely look at it. I don’t even flinch. Ilikethe pain. It’s the first thing that makes sense.
I lean back against the wall. Something soft squelches behind me—rice and noodles, the guts of an egg roll. The salty smell of soy sauce and sesame oil clings to everything, and I let myself sink down, slow and heavy, until my ass hits the floor.
The wall’s filthy. The floor’s worse. But I don’t move to clean any of it. I just sit there, back against drywall, hand bleeding, chest heaving. No tears. No shaking. Just pressure. And rage. Just the sound of my own heart throbbing in the wreckage I made. It thump, thump, thumps. It’s all I hear.
Voices come in slow, muffled, like they’re underwater. Like I’m underwater.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here.
One minute I’m staring at the tile, breathing like my chest is full of fire, and the next?—
“Damian!”
A sharp sting explodes across my cheek. My head jerks to the side. Blindingly fast. Real. I blink hard. Bridger is crouched in front of me, his face tight, eyes wild. Neve is standing behind him, hand over her mouth, pale like she’s about to pass out. “Damian, Jesus Christ,” Bridger barks. “Can you hear me?”
My lips move, but nothing comes out.
The kitchen’s spinning. It’s trashed—obliterated. Shards of glass everywhere. Chunks of broccoli stick to the ceiling. I don’teven know how that’s physically possible. A pan is halfway lodged under the fridge. Soy sauce is smeared across the floor like someone was dragged.
Neve stumbles forward, eyes darting like she’s trying to make sense of what she’s seeing. “Where is she?”
I blink up at her. “What?”
“Where is Marlowe?” Her voice is sharp and shaking. “Whereisshe?”
“I—she’s not?—”
Neve bolts before I can finish, running through the apartment, opening every door like she’s expecting to find a body behind one of them.
My stomach flips. Acid-hot.
I look down at my hand.
Blood.
A lot of it. Dried and fresh. Streaked across my fingers, coating my palm. My jeans are stained dark from where I must’ve wiped it. I didn’t even notice. “I didn’t—” I shake my head, throat dry. “I would never hurt her.”
