I turn to Damian. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to demand to know what’s going on. Instead, I whisper the only thing I can manage. “Tell me everything.” My voice shakes, but I hold his gaze. “Start talking. I need to know what the hell is going on. Every piece. No more secrets.”
Damian nods once, his voice rough. “Come on. First, let’s get some clothes on you guys.”
I glance over at Neve and let out a loud raspy laugh that turns into a hacking cough. She’s still wearing the hospital gown, tied up at her waist. Both of us still wearing the damn hospital wristbands.
Bridger steps past us and disappears into a room down the hall. “I’ve got some stuff they can wear,” he says.
A moment later, he’s back with an armful of clothes—oversized sweatpants, a few T-shirts worn soft from too many washes. He sets them down on the couch without ceremony.
Damian reaches into his pocket, pulls out a knife, and flips the blade open. He grabs my wrist gently, turns it, and slides the edge beneath the wristband. One clean cut, and it falls away.
Neve grabs a shirt and a pair of sweatpants off the pile, holding them up like she’s already imagining the comfort. “CanI take a shower?” she asks, already stepping toward the hallway. “And maybe we should give them some privacy.”
Her eyes flick briefly to me, then to Damian, like she knows what’s about to happen isn’t her story to sit in on.
Bridger nods and follows her. “Bathroom’s down the hall, last door. Towels are under the sink.”
They disappear together, and for a moment I let myself wonder. No—hope. Maybe he can be there for her. Not just a shield when shit gets bad. But something real. Something more than just a friend. The thought vanishes almost as quickly as it comes. Because the second they’re gone, I realize how badly I want that shower too. Instead, I peel off my ruined clothes in front of Damian.
The crop top clings to my ribs, sticky with dried sweat and smoke. The boy shorts feel like they’re barely hanging on, frayed from the fire and everything that came after. I slide them off, step out, and reach for the oversized clothes Bridger left behind.
The sweatpants hang low on my hips. The T-shirt swallows me whole.
And when I glance up, I catch Damian watching.
His eyes are dark, roaming every inch of me like he’s starving. Like he doesn’t know whether to worship me or wreck me. His hunger is written across every line of his face, plain and brutal and unmistakable. I look away fast, blood surging beneath my skin. “We need to talk,” I say, sharp and quiet. “So stop looking at me like you’re ready to fuck me.”
His eyes snap to mine. The heat doesn’t vanish—if anything, it sharpens. “I told you, Angel,” he says, voice low. “I’m not fucking you again until you know how much you mean to me.”
I ignore the way his words settle in my chest. Ignore the heat still lingering in his eyes. “Just start talking, Damian. Now.”
He lets out a low breath, jaw flexing as he looks away for a second like he needs to steady himself. When his gaze returns tomine, it’s locked in. Serious. Steel. “My father. Clay. He’s out of jail.”
I blink. “Okay. And why is that making you lose your mind?”
His eyes go darker, voice dropping into that low, dangerous place that always makes me feel like the world’s about to change. “Because he’s a fucking psychopath,” he says. “Because he doesn’t stop. Because he will burn through anything that looks like it belongs to me.”
My stomach drops. “And?”
“And you belong to me.”
“What makes you think he’s going to do that?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, even as something cold creeps into my bloodstream.
Damian moves. Paces once. Then runs a hand through his hair and turns back toward me. “Because that’s what he’s telling everyone,” he says. “He got out of prison and no one showed up. No Joel. No Zero. None of us. His wife. His kids. Nobody.” He walks into the kitchen and opens a cabinet. Grabs a glass. Fills it with water from the tap. His shoulders are tight, like every word is costing him. “He’s been gone for seventeen years, Lo. And he’s not the kind of man who comes back quietly.” Damian crosses back to me and hands me the glass without a word. I didn’t even realize how dry my mouth was until I take it.
I sip, and the water hits my throat wrong. I start coughing, hard and sudden.
Damian’s there in an instant. He sits beside me on the couch, slides his hand across my back and rubs in slow, steady circles. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”
The touch steadies me, but it doesn’t soothe anything. My heart is still racing.
“He doesn’t know about Delilah,” Damian says once the coughs settle. “And I want to keep it that way. He doesn’t havethe right to know anything about her. Not where she is. Not what she’s going through. Nothing.”
He pulls his hand back and leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the floor like he’s afraid of what’s coming out of his own mouth. “I sold the house,” he says. “All of the land. Put all the money into the memory care facility. You know how expensive that place is.”
I blink. “Wait… what? You sold the house?”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
