His voice cuts sharp, savage, broken:
“I’ll find him.” His hands fist the chain tighter. “And I’ll burn him properly this time.”
The monitor buzzes again.
Damien’s thumb drags across my lip like he’s wiping something away—something he doesn’t want me to see.
Something I see anyway.
The crack in his ribs.
The tremble in his breath.
The echo of something he’s been running from so long he doesn’t know what it feels like to stop.
I don’t touch him.
Not yet.
Because he doesn’t know what to do with soft things.
But I need him to.
“Damien,” I whisper.
His grip on the chain tightens.
His breath stutters.
“Don’t,” he says, low, desperate.
His eyes flick to mine—sharp, manic, pleading.
“Don’t ask.”
I step closer.
Slowly.
Softly.
I press my palms to his chest, feel the war drum of his heart beneath my hands—the frantic, uneven rhythm of someone trying to hold back a flood with bare hands.
“I need to know.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice breaks. “You don’t want to know who I was.”
His hand snaps up, gripping my throat—not cruel, not choking—just enough to hold me there, to keep me steady before I get too close to the truth.
“I know who you are now.”
“You don’t.”
His jaw ticks.
His breath catches.
“I’m the lock. I’m the chain. I’m the cage.”
