Mocking.
I remember you, little boy.
I remember the way you prayed for me.
I remember the sound you made when you cried.
Does she?
My blood runs cold.
Damien grips the edge of the desk until the veins in his forearms stand out, stark and blue beneath the skin. His breathing fractures. His teeth grind until I hear the dull crack of enamel meeting too much pressure.
The message doesn’t stop.
She should know, Damien.
She should know you were mine first.
You begged first.
You cried first.
You broke first.
His knuckles split against the desk, skin tearing, blood smearing across metal.
“Damien—” I whisper, stepping closer, the chain dragging like a warning across the floor.
His chest heaves.
The next line bleeds across the screen.
You’re still mine.
You’re still a good boy for me.
Damien moves before I can breathe.
He hurls the monitor across the room—the crash violent and explosive, glass shattering, metal twisting, fragments skittering across the floor like teeth.
His hands fist in his hair, pulling, dragging, tearing at the roots like he’s trying to rip something out of his skull.
He’s unravelling.
He’s shaking.
He’s choking on something I can’t see.
“Damien—”
He snaps toward me, wild, wrecked, feral.
His hands slam into the wall on either side of my head, trapping me there, caging me with the force of his panic. His eyes are blown wide, unfocused, his pulse snapping in his throat like it’s trying to escape his skin.
“You don’t read those messages,” he hisses, voice sharp and cracked, breath ragged.
My heart skitters.
