My pulse stumbles.
“Damien—”
His smile sharpens.
“You always forget the hard parts.” He pulls me closer, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath shaking. “You remember the chapel, don’t you?”
My ribs lock.
His thumb slides lower, dragging across the scar on my ribs, slow and deliberate.
“You remember the door that never shut.”
I shake my head too fast.
“You remember the songs you used to hum when you were scared.”
I bite my lip, my pulse slamming into my throat.
“You remember the shoes.” His breath skips. “You remember me.” His thumb taps the scar again. “You remember what happened when I stopped being quiet.”
I choke on a sob I don’t understand.
He cups my jaw, soft, reverent, like I’ve already broken.
“You remember what he did when you screamed.”
I shake my head, but I feel it now.
The echo.
The pull.
The thread buried somewhere I’m afraid to touch.
“I don’t?—”
“You remember the quiet place.” His voice fractures. “You told me if we were quiet enough, he’d leave me alone.”
His thumb taps the scar again.
The pressure lingers.
His breath ghosts over my cheek.
“You told me if we didn’t move, if we didn’t cry, if we didn’t breathe too loud, he’d take someone else.”
The weight of the words punches through my ribs.
“You promised he’d take someone else.” His lips ghost over my temple. “And he did.”
The room shrinks.
The walls tighten.
The chain burns against my skin.
I can’t tell what’s real anymore.
