I try again to answer, to let him know I’m still here, but my throat locks up. I want to sleep, but Ryan’s voice is tugging at the edge of my awareness, keeping me tethered to the room.
“It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay, Noah. We’ve got you. I promise. I’m not leaving…”
The words fade in and out, the warmth of his hand the only thing holding me here. I want to tell him I’m sorry, that this isn’t his fault. I just couldn’t stop; the cycle doesn’t let you.
Binge. Purge. Hide. Repeat.
But I’m so tired. My body sinks, muscles unclenching, the noise of the world retreating to a faint hum. It’s almost peaceful, this emptiness. For a second, I float, and the pain is gone, the shame is gone, even the hunger is gone. There’s just this numb, weightless quiet, where nobody can yell at me or make demands I can’t meet. Where my body isn’t the enemy, and I don’t have to be strong or perfect or anything at all.
I hope Damien knows I tried. I hope he knows I wanted to be enough.
I hope he knows I’m sorry because I don’t know how to tell him that I didn’t do it to die.
I just didn’t know how to live anymore.
And maybe that’s worse.
Damien
I’vebeencampedouton the worn leather couch in the den since late afternoon, pretending to scroll through my phone but mostly just replaying the conversation with Lionel Adams in my head.
When I hear Killian’s keys hit the entryway table at 9 p.m., I stand and meet him halfway down the hall, cutting off whatever greeting he might’ve thrown my way. He looks tired, and his hair is a mess. Still, there’s something sharp in his gaze as soon as he clocks my face—a subtle narrowing of the eyes, a calculation.
“Bad day?” he asks.
I shake my head, then shrug, realizing how pointless it is to pretend with him. “Yeah. You could say that.” I glance over my shoulder, making sure nobody else is lurking in the hallway, and nod toward the kitchen. “You got a minute?”
He arches a brow. “For you? Always.” He slides past me into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water.
I take the stool at the island, knuckles white around my phone. For a second, I don’t say anything. I’m not even sure how to start, but Killian’s got the kind of patience that fills the room and makes you want to spill your guts just to break the silence.
“Look, I need your advice. And… probably your connections,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair.
Killian pauses with the cap of the bottle half-twisted. His eyes go a little wider, something flickering behind the cool façade. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”
I try for a smile, but it dies before it lands. So, I just lay out the whole mess—what happened with Noah’s dad four years ago and today at Blackthorne, the threats, the way he talked about legacy and control like Noah’s some kind of asset instead of a person. I mention Brent Simmons, about the warning, about the way Lionel Adams carries his power like a weapon, and how the room always feels colder when he’s in it.
Killian doesn’t interrupt, not once. He listens the way he does on the ice, eyes flicking over me, jaw clenched, hands folded in front of him. By the time I finish, he’s dead quiet, the kitchen lit only by the undercabinet lights, all the chaos of the house on pause.
“You did good getting him on record,” he says, tone all business now. “So, I’m guessing you want to know if I know anything about Simmons, and if there’s a connection between him and Adams.”
“Yeah,” I say. “If there’s anything I can use—anythingwecan use—to get the fucker off our backs. I’m sick of feeling like he’s one call away from burning everything down.”
Killian’s mouth pulls into a hard, thoughtful line. “I’ll make a few calls. My dad will know someone who worked the Simmons case, and I’m pretty sure there were sealed records no one wanted public. If Adams was involved in getting him disqualified, or if he’s hiding something from the OlympicCommittee, we’ll find out. Might take a few days to get leverage, but I’ll get it.”
I sag a little, some of the tension easing out of my spine. “Thank you.”
He waves me off. “You’d do the same for me. But don’t be an idiot, Damien. If Adams escalates, you don’t go after him alone, and you don’t play hero.”
“I know,” I say, even though I’m not sure I do. “I’m just—I’m fucking pissed off, man. I’ve never hated anyone like I hate that son of a bitch.”
“I get it, trust me,” Killian’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “You want me to handle anything personally? Alibi, clean up, whatever—just say the word. That’s what Sin Bin is for. And next time, text me before you try and do something dumb.”
“Yeah, I will,” I say, running a hand through my hair again. “I just—I needed to talk to someone who gets it. Someone who isn’t gonna tell me to take the high road.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “Moore, you’ve seen my family tree. High road’s not for politicians. I know how to bury a secret and when to bury people with secrets.”
I huff a laugh, but it barely lands before my phone buzzes on the counter, and I see Ryan’s name flashing across the screen. I answer, the dread already twisting in my gut. “Ry? What’s—”
