One look in the mirror and I shake my head.
I'm a disaster.
Disgusting. Hair greasy, dress clinging to my hips, lipstick smudged like a bad joke.
I press my hands to my temples, willing that voice to shut up. I ran from that place, and no matter how far I've come, it still claws its way to the surface.
Ivette's voice is the reason I put on lipstick before I leave the house. The reason I check my hair twice.
It's not vanity. It's a scar I can't scrub off.
Once I look human again, I step back out to an empty bedroom.
Maybe he's gone, and I won't have to throw him out.
Hope dies quickly when the smell of coffee and frying eggs drifts from the kitchen.
Damien is at the stove in nothing but worn jeans, his broad chest and tattooed arms on full display. Every inch of him is honed for violence, yet he moves with a strange precision, like even the air around him obeys.
I watch him sip from my coffee mug.My mug. The one that saysROXY'S ELIXIRin bold pink letters, a gag gift from Luna.
"Where'd you get eggs?" I ask, knowing my fridge was a wasteland last night.
On the counter sits bread, bacon, even a banana.
"Mrs. Margaret lent them to me."
My eyes go wide and I almost choke on air.
"Excuse me?"
He grins, pushing my mug toward me.
"She was happy to help when I told her I wanted to make sure you ate before work."
Fantastic. I can already imagine every scenario cooking in my sixty-four-year-old neighbor's head.
Right then, my stomach growls loudly enough to wake the dead. No surprise, considering I skipped dinner.
A few bites of banana and one of Damien's eggs later, I feel halfway human again.
When I finally glance up, he's studying me.
"So, are you going to tell me what happened?"
My fingers trace the rim of the mug. I've never told a soul about it. Not even Luna knows. Not because I don't trust her, but because some stains from the past fade better when you never speak them aloud. Or so I thought.
"I don't know every detail. They never caught the culprit, and my memories from that night are foggy."
He pulls his chair closer, his hand brushing my calf. The touch isn't sexual. It's gentle, coaxing, grounding.
"One night, my mom came into my room, terrified. She shoved me into her closet. She'd never done anything like that before. I was five, but even then I knew better than to ask questions. After a while, I heard screaming, but I couldn't move. I just froze in there."
His fingers trace slow patterns on my skin. His eyes don't waver or show boredom. Just patience.
"I wish I could say I stayed because she told me to, but the truth is, I was so scared I turned to stone." The tears come whether I want them or not.
"It wasn't your fault, Roxanne," he says quietly.
