Damian’s brows pull together. “Who?”
“The Order of Disorder.” Swallow. Blink. “It’s where I came from. Billy Manning was my boyfriend. We grew up together in foster care.”
He goes very still. Only his eyes move, tracking as he thinks. The faint curve at his mouth disappears.
“When you found me,” I continue, “I didn’t tell you where I came from because I didn’t know who you were, or what you would think of me. I wanted a clean start. And then…it got harder over time.”
I sigh, remembering. Wyatt and me watching the news, O.D. guys beating someone half to death on camera. His voice—“I hate motorcycle clubs”—pure loathing.“Ryder does too.”After that, it just felt too late. I didn’t know how to say it anymore.
He hasn’t perceptively changed, yet every inch of Damian seems coiled tight right now. Wired. His jaw is clenched, brow furrowed.
“Damian,” I say softly, reaching for his arm. “I’m sorry.”
But he sucks in a breath and flinches in a way that makes me drop my hand.
“Max…” he says, voice tight and severe. “You walked into our lives carrying a lit fuse and you…didn’t bother saying anything?”
My lungs feel tight.I’m such an asshole.But I can’t back away from this.
“I know,” I whisper, and then I drag in a breath. “I wasn’t trying to play you. I wasn’t trying to risk you. I just…I didn’t think I got to ask for protection, for starters.”
His eyes never leave my face. His shoulders are tense, but he’s not reactive in the same way that Ryder is. He’s listening, at least.
“Ineverthought it could hurt you,” I say. “I just thought…I could leave it behind.”
He blows out a breath and finally looks away, turning to look out over the lake again, jaw still working. “So you were just never going to mention your past to us ever?”
It’s a softening. The question isn’t an accusation, it’s disbelief.
I sigh, and look out at the lake, too. “Yeah…Damian, my whole life has been like that.”
He turns his head to me, eyes narrowed. They look green in this light, like Jake’s.
“New houses, new people, new rules,” I explain. “You can’t hold onto your old identity when you’re a foster kid. Nobody wants the kid who comes with baggage. I guess I thought that was how life works.”
He exhales heavily, but the tight knot of his brow loosens. And then he nods.
“I guess if you grow up never knowing if the next place is safe, lying probably starts to feel like a life skill,” he says softly. “I can relate to that. Learning to read people, to give them the version of you they can handle.”
I blink at him, caught off guard by how close he’s hit to the truth.
He lifts a hand to his forehead and massages his temples. “But this fucking sucks, Max. You lied to us.”
I close my eyes for a long second—and nod.
“You can’t ever do that again. Not to us.”
I nod again.
He holds my gaze for a beat and doesn’t say anything, and then he wraps his arms around me and pulls me in against him.
The familiar smell and feel of him hits me in a wave as I wrap my arms around his back. I bury my face against his chest, fingers twisting in the cotton at his back, and just inhale the heat of him. It’s comfort and something deeper, the ache of missing him.
“You should have told us,” he says again, murmuring into my hair.
“I know,” I answer. “I know.”
We each carry an armful of logs into the house and stack them beside the fireplace. Ryder’s awake, prepping food in the kitchen. Peppers and onions stacked on a cutting board, cans of beans and tomatoes out on the counter. His hair is wet from a shower and he’s dressed in the same generic cotton clothing as Damian and I—white t-shirt and gray jogging pants. The three of us look like a Hanes ad, except that Damian and I are sweaty and covered in dust.
