“You’re more than that.”
His throat bobs.
His grip trembles.
“You won’t love me when you know.”
The weight of the words crushes the space between us.
“You’re wrong.”
His forehead presses to mine.
His breath sharpens.
His voice is a crack.
“You’ll run.”
“I won’t.”
“You’ll see me the way he did.” His voice fractures. “You’ll see me as something small. Something easy to control. Something that liked it.”
His hand falls from my throat like the touch burns him.
“He told me I was good when I stayed.” His voice is a cracked whisper now, unravelling, thinning. “He told me I was bad when I ran.”
My breath shudders.
“He told me…” Damien drags his palm over his mouth, pacing now, his other hand still clutching the chain, dragging me with him like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.
His eyes won’t meet mine.
“He told me I prayed beautifully when I cried.”
The floor caves beneath me.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
I see it now—the pieces I didn’t know were broken, the history etched into him like scars under the skin.
Damien locks me down because no one ever let him go.
Damien cages me because no one ever told him he could walk away.
I step forward, slow, careful—like I’m approaching something wounded and dangerous, something that might bolt or break or bleed.
His eyes flick to mine.
Sharp.
Wild.
Scared.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
