“I remember,” I whisper. The words land between us with a weight that makes the candles gutter. “I remember enough.”
I watch the rage shift in him, rearranging itself into something colder, more precise. He takes a step toward me and stops, waiting for an invitation.
“You told me to be quiet,” I say, my voice steady despite the pulse racing in my ears. “You put your fingers on my mouth and you stayed. You didn’t leave me to the fire.”
His breath stutters.
“You promised he wouldn’t have me.”
He steps closer, moving into my space until the air is thick with him. “I kept that promise,” he says, low and absolute.
“Then keep this one,” I say. It’s not a plea. It’s a demand. “Don’t leave me like this.”
He looks at the cuffs. At the key. At me—open, unflinching.
“You’re not trapped,” he says.
“I know. I’m choosing.”
Something in him snaps—clean and silent. He reaches for the key, his hands steady now. He unlocks the first cuff slowly, deliberately, as if he’s undoing one vow and making another in the same breath. Metal clicks. My arm drops, tingling.
The second cuff opens.
He sets the key aside and leans in, his forehead nearly touching mine. He lifts my wrists, pressing them flat against the altar above my head. He’s not binding me this time. He’s holding me.
“Listen to me,” he whispers. “What’s coming for us doesn’t want your body. It wants your memory. It wants you to remember the wrong things, in the wrong order.”
“Then don’t let it.”
A ghost of a smile haunts his mouth. “I can’t stop you from remembering, Raven. But I can decide who stands with you when it breaks.”
“Stand with me.”
He stays. He braces me with his presence, grounding the chaos.
“There’s more,” he says. “About that night. About what I did after.”
“I know. And I’m not running.”
Outside the chapel, something shifts—a soft footfall, a hush that feels watched. Damien’s fingers thread through mine, anchoring me to the stone.
“We’re not alone,” he says.
I squeeze his hand back, the fear sharpening me into something lethal.
“I know,” I answer.
Chapter 19
DAMIEN
Idon’t touch the moth.
I don’t need to. Its presence alone is a serrated edge, sawing through the floorboards of my mind until the past and present bleed into one. The sight of it makes my ribs crack open with a memory so vivid it blurs the edges of the room. I press my palm against the pew beside her, my weight leaning into the wood just to arrest the tremors in my hands.
This isn’t the cold fear I felt when the priest was alive. This is worse. This is evolution.
I stare at her—Raven—and for a heartbeat, the chapel vanishes. I’m twelve years old again. Cold. Silent. A ghost in the stairwell watching the priest whisper things to her that he only ever said to me.
