He slows his steps the moment he notices me standing on the porch, hesitation pooling in his crystalline blue eyes, softened by the midday sun rising in the sky, its rays catching him at an angle so perfect it radiates off his skin. My breathcatches when I notice that he doesn't have a shirt on, exposing the gleaming ivory skin that covers his sculpted muscles.
I can't help myself, and admiration outweighs my hatred for him as my eyes rake over his abs, my mind traveling to moments when I used to allow my hands to smooth over his skin.
A surge of awareness rushes through me, burning me up in places that have been lying dormant for two years. It's as if Damian can sense my thoughts, the corners of his lips twitching as if he wants to smile at me or smirk triumphantly. I'm not sure what's worse, but I do know that I'm betraying myself by gawking at him like the love-sick fool I was in the past.
I'm about to turn my face away in disgust with myself when I notice how his left arm is no longer bandaged, an open wound now, clutched to his ribs as his face twitches with pain.
There's a part of me that wants to turn and disappear into the cabin before he approaches, but there's also another part that keeps me frozen in place. Perhaps it's a bit of curiosity when I see him injured.
Not care.
There's no way I could care about—
“What happened to your arm?” I blurt out before I can stop myself, regretting the question as soon as it leaves my lips. It's not like I wasn't aware that he'd been injured—it was evident since the moment I woke up in this cabin on Monday morning. But it's the first time since I was kidnapped that I feel inclined to ask about it, and the question catches me off guard.
It seems to catch Damian off guard, too, and he pauses on the first step, staring up at me with confusion evident in his eyes.
He takes a deep breath first before he says, “You still don't remember, do you?”
I shake my head slowly, hesitantly, my eyes moving to his arm where a gruesome wound on his upper arm slashes down toward his elbow. The flesh has been stitched together, but it's clear that it's hardly healing, dried blood peeking through the open cuts.
“N-no…” I whisper, and Damian clenches his jaw, the muscle in his cheek twitching as if my response frustrates him.
That's what sets me off, and I turn my face away, crossing my arms.
“It's good to see you outside,” he comments, and I scoff.
“If you're here to make sure I'm not running away, then you'll be pleased to know that I'm not.”
Damian nods—I see the movement in my periphery, hating the way his blonde hair bounces lightly like the main character in a romcom meant to appeal to the female gaze.
“I know you won't run away,” he remarks before climbing the steps of the porch until he reaches the door. He places a palm on the wood, about to push the door open, when I spin toward him and scoff.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Damian sighs, hanging his head.
“You won't understand, Sophie. Not yet, anyway.”
He pushes the door in, but his reply has me so furious, so incredibly irritated that he's still avoiding telling me what any of this is about, that I grab his forearm—his bad arm—and suddenly, a surge of heat flows from my palm. It's scorching hot, nearly enough to burn him, but instead, the stitches on his upperarm snap. The flesh knits together like a magical force, suddenly healing him.
I snatch my hand back quickly, pulling it to my chest as I stare at his arm. All that's left is a blush-pink scar where the gruesome wound used to be.
“Sophie…?” Damian gasps as he lifts his eyes from his arm to me. He turns slowly while I'm frozen, shocked at what I just saw happening, and he reaches out toward me. “Your eyes…”
I blink fervently, snapping out of my daze while heat continues to pulse through my veins.
“Don't touch me!” I snap, dodging the hand that comes toward me and rushing into the cabin before he says anything else.
I don't stop until I'm in the bedroom, locking the door behind me and pressing my back against it, trying to steady my racing heart with huge gulps of air.
What the hell just happened out there?
“Nothing…” I breathe through hot pants, shaking my head. “Nothing happened. You're just…stressed…”
But there's a tiny voice that whispers in my mind, the words fuzzy and distorted, but even without hearing them, I canfeelwhat it's trying to tell me.
Something responded to my touch, or maybe, my touch responded to something.
