I can’t find the air.
The floor has disappeared, leaving me hanging on the only thing that’s real—him.
“I didn’t know,” I sob, my forehead dropping to his shoulder, my tears soaking into his skin. “I swear I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
His hands move down my back, sliding under my shirt to find the skin, his touch searing.
“That’s why I had to bring you back.” His mouth finds mine again, but this time it’s not feral. It’s starving. “I had to bring you back so I could finally stop counting.”
He winds the chain around his wrist, pulling it tight until the link at my ankle bites deep.
“Now we both stay at seven.” His voice is a low vibration against my lips. “Now neither of us has to hear the door.”
And for the first time, I don’t want him to let go.
I don’t want him to unlock the chain.
I want to be buried here, in the dark, in the quiet, in the debt I can never pay back.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into his mouth.
“Don’t be sorry.” His eyes find mine, sharp and possessive and final. “Just be mine.”
He drags the chain one more time, the sound final and heavy, as he pulls me into the dark with him.
“Always.”
Chapter 5
DAMIEN
She forgot me.
Again.
I feel it in the way she breathes—those shallow, panicked hitches that tell me she’s a stranger in her own skin. I feel it in the tension of her muscles, the way she reacts to my touch like it’s a brand and not a homecoming.
The way she says my name like it’s something new in her mouth. Like the syllables are jagged stones she’s never tasted before, instead of the prayer I’ve forced her to swallow every night in the dark of my own head.
The way she clings to me like she doesn’t know she already promised to stay. She holds on with the desperation of someone drowning, unaware that I am the anchor she tied to her own feet years ago.
She forgot me.
But that’s okay.
That’s okay.
That’s okay.
The words rhythm themselves against the back of my teeth. A mantra. A penance. I remember enough for both of us. My mind is a museum of things she’s discarded, a vault of every touch, every tear, every broken vow.
I remember the quiet place. I remember the way the air felt like it was made of lead, pressing into our lungs until we were nothing but shadows.
I remember the songs she used to hum. Low, vibrating melodies that lived in the hollow of her throat, meant to drown out the sound of the heavy footsteps in the hallway.
I remember her hands braided in my hair, telling me to stay still, stay quiet, stay good. Those small, trembling fingers weaving my hair into tight, neat rows while she whispered lies about safety into the shell of my ear.
