19. Damien
Damien
The room is dim, and the concrete walls are sweating in the cold. A single bulb flickers overhead, casting shadows that dance like ghosts around Dante’s hunched frame.
He’s shackled to the chair. Wrists bound. Ankles chained. Mouth bloodied. But his eyes—they still burn.
Good. I like it when they burn.
I crouch in front of him, elbow resting on my knee, a scalpel glinting between my fingers like a lover’s secret.
“Comfortable?” I ask, almost gently.
He glares.
I tap the blade against my chin. “I’ve always wondered what made you tick, Dante. The cool one. The quiet one. The thinker.”
He doesn’t answer. Not with words.
But his breathing is steady. Measured. That’s his tell—he’s planning. Always planning.
I smile.
“I want you to know something,” I murmur, pressing the blade lightly against his cheek. “This isn’t about information. Not really. It’s about principle. You came into my world. You crawled through my tun nels. You think I will give up what’s mine.”
His jaw tenses, but he stays silent.
The tip of the blade slides downward, slow and shallow, tracing a line along his jaw. Just enough to sting.
He flinches—barely—but I see it.
“See, most people break when they think no one is coming for them. But you?” I lean in closer. “You break knowing they are. That’s what’s fun about you. You’ll fight until your last breath because you think someone’s on their way. But they’re not fast enough, Dante. And you’re not strong enough.”
I rise slowly, blade still in hand, and deliver a swift, sharp kick to his ribs.
He groans—short, strangled—but doesn’t cry out.
Resilient.
“Tell me,” I muse, circling him now. “Did you think you could save her? Harmony? Destiny? Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t see the way you were watching the Orchard? Plotting behind my back?”
I stop behind him, pressing the flat of the blade to the nape of his neck.
“I know everything. And now, you know what happens to people who think they can outplay me.”
He spits blood onto the floor, head tilting back just enough to meet my gaze.
“Kill me then.”
I laugh. A deep, amused sound that echoes off the stone.
“Oh, I’m not done with you yet.”
I kneel again, brush the blood off his temple like I’m wiping sweat from a child’s brow. He jerks back.
“Brooke’s coming down in a few minutes. I want her to see what failure looks like.”
He doesn’t flinch. But his eyes darken.
Good.
Let him stew in it.
I stand, blade dripping red.
Then I walk to the cellar door..
Let the games begin.
* * *
Brooke stands at the top of the stairs like a child caught sneaking candy, her knuckles white around the railing.
I keep the door cracked just wide enough for her to see the shadows stretching downward. She leans slightly, trying to make out what’s below.
I press my hand flat to the wood and look her dead in the eye.
“You will say nothing.”
Her mouth opens, but I raise a finger before the syllable forms.
“Not a word, Brooke.”
Her throat bobs. “What is this?”
“Not your business,” I snap. “You’re not here to question me. You’re here because I allowed it. Because I want you to understand exactly what happens to people who betray me.”
She swallows again, harder this time. Her eyes flick to the crack in the door.
“Is someone down there?”
I smile, slow and sharp. “You’re already talking too much.”
I grip her chin, not hard, but tight enough that she gets the message. Her breath stutters.
“There’s a man in that cellar,” I whisper, voice slick with satisfaction. “A man who thought he could outplay me. Who thought he could crawl through tunnels and drag my queen and pawns away.”
Her eyes widen. “You caught someone?”
I nod once.
She glances down the stairs again, lips parting in awe. Or fear. Maybe both.
“I want you to understand what happens to traitors,” I murmur. “What happens to men who think about taking what’s mine.”
Her gaze jumps back to me. “Do you want me to… watch?”
“No. I want you to remember. And I want you to keep your mouth shut. If Harmony hears even a whisper—if Reese suspects—I’ll assume it came from you. And I will carve the evidence off your skin, inch by fucking inch.”
Tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she nods.
“I said—” I lean closer, “—do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Good girl.”
I let the door creak open wider, and she follows me down.
One step. Two.
Dante doesn’t speak.
He’s chained to the wall. Bleeding. Bruised. Conscious.
And staring straight at me like I’m the devil incarnate.
I grin.
Because he’s not wrong.
* * *
“Come,” I command.
She doesn’t hesitate.
Good girl.
Her footsteps echo softly as she enters, one at a time. Her gaze flickers past me to the corner of the room, where Dante sits wrapped in cha ins like a crucifix without a purpose.
She freezes.
I grab her arm, gently enough not to bruise, firmly enough to remind her who she belongs to.
“Don’t look at him,” I say. “He doesn’t deserve your attention.”
Her breath hitches. “Why am I here?”
I close the cellar door behind us and walk to the center of the room. The flickering light sways above, casting long shadows that split my face in two.
“I brought you down here,” I begin, “because it’s time you knew who you are.”
She blinks, confused.
“You were lied to, Brooke. Hidden. Thrown away like a blemish on a bloodline.”
I take a slow step toward her, and then another.
“You’re not just another girl, another pawn. You’re mine.”
She stares, breath caught somewhere between hope and horror.
“His sister,” I say, letting the word fall like a blade.
“Split from Destiny at birth like a secret his mother never meant to keep. His father—he only wanted sons. He told her to get rid of you. Told her to stay quiet. She begged to keep Destiny. He allowed it… said one girl was enough to play house.”
I tilt my head, watching the horror twist across her features.
“And she chose Destiny,” I say softly. “She kept the pretty one.”
Brooke’s eyes fill with tears. “You’re lying.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the photograph. Faded. Torn. A woman— Dante’s mother—holding two infants in a hospital bed. One tagged ‘Baby A.’ One tagged ‘Baby B.’
I hold it out to her.
“I found this the night I killed her. Tucked into one of her old prayer books. After she died.”
Br ooke takes the photo with trembling hands, her eyes scanning the image like it might rewrite her history.
“But… why would they give me away?”
“Because you were never meant to exist,” I say calmly. “But here you are. Breathing. Standing. Shining like the gold I never knew I needed.”
She looks up at me then, a tear slipping down her cheek.
And she smiles.
A small, broken thing—but it’s there.
“I always felt like something was missing,” she whispers. “Like I wasn’t… whole.”
My lips twitch into something sharp. “You were never meant to be whole. You were meant to be mine. Mine to haunt. Mine to use. Mine to sell.”
Behind us, Dante shifts in his chains, groaning through bloodied lips.
“What the fuck do you mean?” he rasps. “She’s my fucking sister!”
I turn toward him slowly, the storm inside me returning full force.
“She’s blood,” I correct. “Your blood. Which makes her important to me.”
Brooke looks at Dante now—really looks—and for the first time, she doesn’t flinch.
“She’s not like Destiny,” I murmur. “She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t run. She listens.”
“I like you,” Brooke says to me, her voice so soft it almost breaks. “You make me feel safe. Like I matter.”
“You do matter,” I whisper, brushing her hair back with a bloodstained hand. “And I’m going to make sure no one ever takes you from me, unless it’s on my terms.”
I turn back to Dante, giving him a smile carved from the depths of Hell.
“You hear that, brother?” I sneer. “She’s finally home.”
And for the first time, Dante looks scared.
Not for himself. But for her. And he should be. Because I didn’t just claim his sister today.
I am claiming something more.
Power.
* * *
The silence in the room is almost tender.
Almost.
Dante’s head hangs low, blood dripping slowly from his lip like some kind of offering. Brooke stands a few feet away from him, wringing the edge of her sleeve, the photograph still clutched in her hand like it’s the only anchor she has.
I pace in a slow circle around them, savoring the tension. The confusion. The discomfort.
“This moment is special,” I murmur. “Family reunion and all.”
Dante lifts his head just enough to glare at me through the swelling. “You’re fucking sick.”
“Don’t be rude,” I chide. “Your sister’s right there.”
He spits blood onto the concrete between us. “She’s not my sister. My sister would never like a man like you.”
Brooke flinches.
I walk behind her, rest my hands lightly on her shoulders. She stiffens—but doesn’t pull away.
“She’s more yours than anything else in this world,” I whisper near her ear, loud enough for Dante to hear. “Flesh of your flesh. Bone of your bone. Maybe if you’d known sooner, you could’ve protected her.”
He growls low in his throat. “Leave her out of thi s.”
I grin. “Oh, but she is this.”
I lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head—gentle, possessive.
Then I straighten and clap my hands once, loud and sharp.
“You know what?” I say brightly, voice echoing off stone walls. “I’m feeling generous.”
Dante narrows his eyes.
“I’m going to give you two a few minutes alone.” I raise my eyebrows. “Brother and sister. A chance to bond. Maybe share childhood stories, talk about the life you could’ve had if Mommy dearest hadn’t sold her womb like a slot machine.”
Brooke’s mouth opens, but no words come.
I chuckle. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll be watching. Always watching. But I’ll let you talk. Maybe even… touch hands.”
Dante shakes his head slowly. “Don’t do this to her.”
“Oh, I’m not doing anything,” I say. “You are. Every look, every word—it’s your move now.”
I step toward the door and pause at the threshold, looking back over my shoulder with that same smug smile I wear like armor.
“Make it count,” I say, tapping the camera above the door. “Wouldn’t want her to think you’re the monster.”
Then I slip out, the door creaking shut behind me.
And I lock it.
Because monsters come in all forms.
And sometimes, they let you speak—just to hear you scream without saying a word.