Her voice is soft, fractured. “Damien?”
I don’t speak. I can’t. Because if I say one word, the dam will break. She’ll know. She’ll know what I did. She’ll know that my ‘protection’ started as an obsession born in the dark. She’ll know who I used to be and how deep the rot actually goes.
She’ll know I’m not the only one who’s been watching her all this time.
The shard digs into my palm until it cuts, a sharp, clean sting that anchors me to the present. I don’t let go. The pain is a tether; it reminds me what’s real.
I close my fingers around the glass, feeling the warm slick of my own blood, and slip it into my jacket pocket before she can see the jagged script. If she reads those words now, she’ll start asking questions I’m not ready to answer—questions that would burn this place down before I’m finished with it.
Her footsteps creak closer. She’s approaching me like I’m a wild animal she isn’t sure she can tame.
“Damien?” Her voice is softer, a plea for the man she thinks she knows. “What did you find?”
“Nothing,” I lie. The word tastes like ash. My voice doesn’t sound like the man who pinned her to the table an hour ago; it sounds like the boy behind the wall, whispering so the priest couldn’t hear. Thin. Raw. Broken.
I can feel her eyes boring into my spine. She doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. The air shifts again, bringing that stagnant smell of wax, iron, and ancient, unwashed sin. This chapel is a trap built of our own memories, a machine designed to grind us back into the children we were.
I move to the center aisle, my eyes darting between the pews, looking for the other watcher—the one who left the moth, the shard, the red thread. He isn’t here now. I can feel the void where a presence should be. This was a calling card. A dare.
Raven moves until she’s at my side. Her fingers brush my sleeve, a whisper of contact that shoots through me like a high-voltage current.
“Tell me the truth,” she says quietly.
I stare at the altar, at the moth nailed there like a pinned, silent prayer.
“I’ve been here before,” I say, the confession tearing out of me.
“I know,” she whispers.
“No.” My voice is flat, devoid of emotion to keep the rage from leaking out. “Not the way you think.”
Her brows knit together, her face a mask of beautiful confusion. “Then how?”
I finally look at her, and the snap happens—that violent jolt in my chest, the breaking of a seal I’ve kept for ten years.
“I watched you through the wall.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
“I counted with you,” I continue, my voice rough, sounding like glass scraping against a rusted pipe. “Every night he came near you, I whispered numbers through the drywall to keep you breathing. I passed you food when he wasn’t looking. I tried to stop him, Raven. I thought if I could just keep you hidden long enough, someone would come for us.”
I drag a hand down my face, my skin cold. “No one came.”
The tremor in my hands is visible now. The mask is gone, shattered on the floor of this godforsaken place.
“I wanted to take you away,” I murmur, the words a confession I never meant to make. “But they dragged me back. They locked me in the basement for trying to reach you. I thought you left me. I thought you chose to walk out that door and leave me in the dark.”
Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were even?—”
“I know,” I cut in, my voice sharp but trembling. “I know you didn’t know. But back then, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like you walked away.”
I step closer, crowding her until she’s backed up against the cold, hard edge of the altar. I bracket her hips with my hands—not to restrain her, but to anchor myself before I spin out of control.
“That’s why I came back for you,” I whisper, my breath hot against her forehead. “Because even if you forgot me, I never fucking forgot you.”
Her breath catches, a small, hitching sound.
“I’m not letting him take you,” I growl. “Not him. Not anyone. Not again.”
