I can’t get my galloping heart rate under control.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, reaching out again to steady me. “You’re okay.”
His voice is a support and a guide, leading me to his car where he helps me into the passenger side. I perch on the very edge of the seat, back muscles pulled tight as he takes us through the dark streets. The drive taking forever and no time at all.
When he pulls alongside the curb, the house sits in darkness, and my breathing steadies. Bryan’s not yet home.
I can’t look at Damien. I babble something in goodbye and leap from the car, almost running on the pathway to the back door.
Once inside, I slam it shut, lock it, and collapse back against the chilled glass, events of the night jumbled in my head. Thoughts just as chaotic.
Threading through everything is my sympathy for the small boy Damien was, facing a cruel father, parts of him breaking under his abuse.
I could weep for him, even as my mind frets over encouraging the boy he is now. The one who takes whatever he wants, twisting everything towards his own ends.
Learning his history might explain his personality, but it doesn’t reduce my danger.
Making my way upstairs, I’m wrung out. If I let this roller coaster of hate-ecstasy-shame continue for another month, it’ll leave me bleeding.
Tomorrow, I’ll try for leverage again. Maybe argue my way into new terms of agreement. I reach into my skirt pocket. Empty.
“Shit!” Damien’s still got my phone.
Hopefully, Bryan will let me borrow his personal cell until I get it back tomorrow.
My feet stop on the second top stair. I’m a fucking moron.
Damienalwaystakes my phone, but the world is full of other devices I can use to record him. All I need is the foreknowledge ofwhen, because while Bryan might lend me his phone once, he won’t do it for days on end.
I continue into the bedroom, closing the door.
The strategic part of my mind comes back online, clear for the first time in a week. Tonight, Damien gave me more than a horrific snapshot from his past. He gave me a weapon I can use against him.
His dad wants him with Chelsea.
He’s afraid of his dad.
Nausea churns in my stomach. Exploiting Damien’s fear, weaponising the heartbreaking story he just shared? It will easily be the most immoral thing I’ve ever done.
Only a terrible person would use tonight’s admission against him. But I’d rather be awful than stupid.
Besides, Chelsea and his dad are just ammunition, just bullets.
It doesn’t mean I’ll fire the gun.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OPHELIA
I stepout of the shower the next morning, and Bryan’s voice thunders through the house. “Cost of living crisis, Priscilla. Ring any bells?”
Usually, his phone calls with her are mild. Respectful. But right now, he sounds utterly ferocious. A sympathetic shiver rolls down my spine.
Good for him.
After my mother’s latest rejection, I’m still raw.
I hope he tears her a new one.
