13. Willow
13
WILLOW
“You think you can stop me?” he sneers, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “You’re nothing, Willow. You’ll always be nothing.”
I want to scream, to run, to fight back. But I can’t. My feet are glued to the floor, my hands shaking, my body frozen in place.
“You’re weak,” he says, stepping closer. “Pathetic. Always will be.”
It’s like his words are poison, sinking into my skin, twisting everything inside me. His eyes—they’re dark, cold, full of hatred. It’s like he’s looking right through me, like I’m nothing more than a speck of dust in his world.
But then my consciousness snaps. My hand—it’s moving, reaching for something. Something cold, heavy. A knife. How did it get there? I don’t know. I don’t care.
The blade feels foreign in my hand, but it’s also comforting. I clutch it, feeling the cold steel against my palm, the weight of it reassuring in a way I don’t understand.
Ricardo laughs, that low, mocking laugh. “You don’t have the guts, girl.”
The words ignite a fire inside me. Anger. Rage. It all burns hot, a fire consuming me. My hand moves before I can stop it, the knife slicing through the air, connecting with his chest in a sickening thud.
I hear him gasp, but I don’t stop. I don’t think. I pull the knife out and drive it in again, deeper this time. The sound of it—the sick, wet sound of flesh tearing—it makes my stomach churn, but I can’t stop.
I don’t want to stop.
Over and over, I push the knife into him, the blood spilling out, painting the floor in crimson. His body jerks, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but I can’t hear him anymore. His face—his smug, mocking face—fades away, replaced by the red haze that’s clouding my vision.
Each strike feels like release, like something I’ve been holding in for too long. He deserves this. He has to deserve this. The anger, the pain, it’s all slipping away, replaced by a darker sensation, something more satisfying.
But then—then it hits me.
His body is still. Too still.
My hands are shaking, covered in blood that feels too warm, too real. I try to wipe it off, but it just keeps spreading. Blood. Everywhere. I open my mouth to scream--
Then, just as quickly as it started, a jolt hits me. A voice—Damien’s voice—cuts through the haze of my dream, pulling me back into reality.
"Trouble? Willow? Stop, I’m here. I’m right here.”
My eyes snap open, and the dream shatters like glass. I blink into the darkness of my room, disoriented, my breath still coming in shallow gasps as if I’ve been running.
Damien stands above me, his silhouette sharp against the dim light from the hallway. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of recognition in them—something that makes my chest tighten. But it’s gone almost as soon as I notice it.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, just a nightmare.” I rub my eyes, struggling to clear the fog of sleep. "Damien? What’s going on? It’s—" I glance at the clock. "It’s the middle of the night. Is everything okay?"
"I need you to listen to me, and I need you to listen carefully."
I swallow the strange knot of anxiety in my stomach tightening. "What’s happening?"
"I need to get you out of here. Now."
"Out of where? Damien, what’s going on?" I can hear the edge in my own voice, my nerves starting to fray as the seriousness of the situation settles over me.
"Willow, there’s a threat. I can’t go into details right now, but it’s serious. We don’t have time. We are going to the safe house. Get dressed and be ready to leave in ten minutes. Don’t argue with me." His voice is so final, I feel the words slap against my skin.
"Damien, what do you mean, a threat? What are you talking about?" My hands grip the edges of the blanket, the warmth of the covers doing nothing to ease the chill running down my spine.
"I’ll explain everything later, but right now, I need you to trust me. Just do as I say."
"Damien, stop. You’re scaring me." I hate how weak my voice sounds, but I can’t shake the wave of panic creeping through me.
"I know," he mutters, the words barely audible. "But it’s for your own good. Please, just trust me. I’ll explain it all when we are at a safe house."
“Another?”
“You’re not safe anywhere they know we live. So you can’t stay here.”
“But-”
“And we can’t go back to our penthouse, not Vincent’s, not Cast’s mansion, not even my apartment.”
“Your apartment?” I whisper. “I’ve never been.”
“I’ll take you one day, but right now, I need to take you to somewhere safe.” He nods, and I slide deeper into my comforter.
But I know better than to argue with him when he’s like this. When Damien is serious, there’s no changing his mind.
"Okay," I whisper, though every inch of my body wants to fight. I don’t want to leave my house. I don’t want to go with him—wherever ‘there’ is—but I can hear the desperation in his voice. He wouldn’t have ripped me out of my bed in the middle of the night if it wasn’t important. If it wasn’t life or death.
He moves quickly, grabbing a bag from the closet and tossing it onto the bed. "Essentials only," he says.
I shove a few things inside, my hands shaking as I zip it up. Before I can process what’s happening, he’s already at the door, one hand on my lower back, steering me forward.
Headlights slash across the window twice, and my stomach knots. A black SUV purrs in the driveway, its tinted windows swallowing the night. Damien doesn’t slow. He yanks the door open and ushers me out, his grip firm but not harsh.
"Move," he says, and I do.
The cold bites into my skin as I step outside, my breath curling in the air. One of his men stands by the vehicle, his face stoic behind dark sunglasses despite the late hour. He doesn’t speak, just opens the door as Damien all but guides me inside.
The second I’m in, the door slams shut, and we’re moving.
The SUV moves through the darkness, the hum of the engine the only sound breaking the silence. After a while, Damien’s phone rings and he answers it. He spends the entire car ride on his phone between texting and the muffled conversations. I decide it is better to ignore him than to act like he is there with me.
My fingers curl into the fabric of my hoodie as I stare out the window, watching the city lights fade into the black void of the coastline. The drive stretches on, each mile pulling me further from the life I knew and deeper into whatever storm we found ourselves in.
The SUV comes to a stop, and before I can reach for the door, it swings open. Damien steps out of the car first, his lips twitching in a wry grin as he turns around and holds out his hand.
I hesitate. Something about this feels… final, and I can’t bring myself to go of my own accord, so I let him pull me from the car.
The cold lake breeze wraps around me, carrying the scent of damp earth and wood. I shiver, but Damien doesn’t let go of my hand as he leads me up the wooden steps and into the house. The inside is dimly lit, the warm glow of a single lamp casting soft shadows across the walls. Everything feels untouched, like no one has been here in a long time.
But Damien has.
Without a word, Damien guides me down the hallway, pushing open the door to a bedroom. The bed is already made, the sheets crisp and cool as I sit on the edge, exhaustion finally catching up to me.
“You should sleep,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “You’re safe here.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Safe,” I echo, staring at my hands. “You keep saying that, but you won’t even tell me what I’m running from.”
Damien’s jaw tightens. “I will. But not tonight.”
I should fight him on it. Should demand answers. But I’m too tired. Too drained.
So I just nod.
He watches me for a long moment before sighing and stepping back toward the door. “Get some rest, Willow.”
Then he does something I don’t expect.
He grabs a pillow from the bed, tossing it onto the floor before settling down beside it. My breath catches as I watch him stretch out on his back, one arm resting behind his head, the other draped across his stomach.
“Damien,” I whisper, my throat tightening.
He doesn’t look at me, just stares at the ceiling like it holds the answers to whatever weight he’s carrying. “Go to sleep,” he says, like this is normal. Like he hasn’t done this before.
But he has.
When we were younger, when the nights felt too long and the world too cruel, Damien would sleep on my floor just like this. Like some silent protector, keeping the monsters at bay.
And now, years later, he’s still here.
Still protecting me.
Even when I don’t know what he’s protecting me from.
I curl into the blankets, my body sinking into the mattress as I watch him lying on the floor, his body stretched out like he’s done this a thousand times before.
The space between us feels vast, even though he’s only a few feet away. I should let it be. Should turn over, close my eyes, and pretend like this is just another night.
But I can’t.
“Damien.” My voice is quiet, barely a whisper against the hum of the waves outside.
He doesn’t answer right away, just shifts slightly, his fingers flexing against his stomach. “What is it?”
I hesitate. I shouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t need it. But after everything—after the funeral, after the fight with my mother, after being ripped from my father’s house in the middle of the night—I can’t pretend I don’t.
“Come to bed.”
His head turns slightly, eyes locking onto mine in the dim light. His lips stay in a straight line, a flicker of emotion passing through his gaze before he speaks. “Willow?—”
“I can’t sleep like this,” I cut in, voice raw. “Not with you on the floor. Please.”
Damien exhales sharply, then pushes himself up, moving toward the bed without another word. The mattress dips under his weight as he settles beside me, stiff at first, like he’s still deciding if this is a mistake.
But then I shift closer, and his arm moves instinctively, pulling me against him.
The warmth of his body seeps into mine, the steady rise and fall of his chest grounding me in a way nothing else has tonight. My fingers grip the fabric of his shirt, and for the first time in hours, my pulse slows.
I don’t know what this means.
I don’t know what will happen when the sun comes up, or when the world will come crashing back in.
But right now, in this quiet, isolated place, I just need this. Need him.
And for once, Damien doesn’t pull away.
_________________
Damien
Willow makes me sleep in bed with her all week.
The first night, I told myself it was just exhaustion, that she needed comfort after everything. But then the second night came, and the third, and every time I tried to pull away, she reached for me in her sleep, murmuring my name like a prayer.
She won’t sleep until she’s curled up against my chest, her soft breaths warm against my skin, smelling like vanilla and sweet roses. Like home.
And I let her.
Every night, I let her.
But it’s dangerous—this quiet intimacy, this illusion of something more. I know better than to pretend this can last, but for now, I don’t have it in me to fight her.
This morning, I wake before she does, untangling myself from her warmth as carefully as I can. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, her lips parting with a soft sigh as she burrows deeper into the blankets.
I run a hand through my hair and force myself to leave the room.
In the kitchen, I move on autopilot, grabbing eggs, bread, and coffee. Cooking is an action I can control, something that doesn’t ask me to think about the way Willow feels in my arms or how fucking right it is to wake up beside her.
The smell of eggs and toast fills the air as I work. The waves outside crash lazily against the shore, a slow, rhythmic pulse that matches the steady beat of my heart. Everything feels still. Peaceful.
The sun barely peeks over the horizon, casting the room in a soft, golden light, and I let the quiet settle around me. It’s almost too perfect, this moment. Too easy to pretend it’s all real, that Willow and I could just be… normal. That I could be someone she could count on.
But I know better.
When the food is done, I plate it and pour two cups of coffee, balancing everything on a tray before heading back to the bedroom.
“Willow, I?—”
The words die in my throat.
The bed is empty.
The sheets are rumpled, her scent still lingering in the air, but she’s gone.
A sharp jolt of panic slams into my chest.
I set the tray down harder than necessary and move fast, checking the bathroom first. Empty. The closet. Empty. My stomach knots as I rush through the house, calling her name.
“Willow!”
Nothing.
Fuck.
My pulse pounds as I grab my phone, my mind already spiraling through worst-case scenarios. What if someone took her? What if she ran? What if?—
Then I see it.
Through the window, past the open sliding door, a small figure sits curled up on the porch, staring out at the lake.
Relief crashes into me so hard it nearly makes me weak.
I exhale sharply and shove my phone back in my pocket before stepping outside. The early morning air is crisp, the cool lake breeze ruffling Willow’s hair as she hugs her knees to her chest.
She doesn’t turn when I approach, but I know she hears me.
I lower myself onto the wooden steps beside her, setting the steaming cup of coffee next to her knee. “You scared the hell out of me.”
She finally glances at me, and for the first time in days, the weight in her eyes seems… lighter. “I couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs.
I study her profile, the way the wind tugs at the loose strands of her hair. She looks small like this, fragile in a way she never lets herself be.
I exhale, the tension in my chest easing now that I know she’s safe. “You could’ve told me you were up,” I say, watching the waves crash against the shore.
Willow shrugs, taking a slow sip of her coffee. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
I shake my head. “You’re never a bother, Willow.”
She doesn’t respond right away, just stares out at the horizon like she’s searching for something she’ll never find.
Her breath shudders, and I can see the way her mind races, the weight of what she’s done pressing in from all sides. “I killed him, Damien,” she whispers, like she’s confessing some terrible sin. “I killed Ricardo.”
“I know.” My voice is steady, calm. “And you had to.”
She shakes her head violently, pulling away from my touch. “You don’t understand. I?—”
“I do understand,” I cut in, my voice firm. “Your dad told me, and I know what it’s like to take a life and feel like you’ll never be clean again. I know what it’s like to wake up and wonder if it’s written all over your skin.”
Her breath catches, her nails digging into her palm.
I reach for her again, this time gripping her hand, squeezing tight. “But I also know that he deserved it. And I know that if you hadn’t done it, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”
Tears well in her eyes, but she blinks them away furiously. “You should’ve told them.”
“No,” I say immediately. “This stays between us. No one else needs to know. Not Cast, not the others.” I hold her gaze, making sure she understands. “This is our secret, Willow.”
Her lips part, a mixture of emotions flashing across her face. Guilt. Relief. A little of both.
She exhales shakily. “You should hate me.”
I scoff. “I could never hate you.”
She closes her eyes for a beat, and when she opens them again, she looks… different. Not lighter, not yet. But a presence inside her has shifted.
“I don’t know how to live with it,” she admits, voice so soft I almost don’t hear it.
“You don’t have to live with it.” I whisper. “I’ll live with it.”
Her breath catches, her lips parting like she wants to argue, but no words come. I watch the war play out in her eyes—the fear, the guilt, the unbearable weight crushing down on her. And then, her demeanor shifts.
Slowly, she reaches for me, her fingers hesitant at first, then firmer as they curl around the front of my hoodie. A silent plea. A need to hold on to something—someone—solid.
I don’t hesitate. I cup her face, my thumbs tracing over the delicate curve of her jaw. “You don’t have to carry this alone, Willow.” My voice is rough, steady. “I won’t let you.”
Her lips tremble. “Damien…”
I don’t give her a chance to say anything else. I close the space between us, pressing my mouth to hers in a kiss that isn’t soft or hesitant—it’s deep, consuming, a promise wrapped in heat and desperation.
She melts into me instantly, her fingers fisting my hoodie, pulling me closer like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. I slide my hand into her hair, tangling my fingers in the soft strands as I angle her head, deepening the kiss.
She tastes like coffee and hope, like a treasure I never should’ve touched but can’t bring myself to resist.
A small sound escapes her throat, and it undoes me. I groan against her lips, my other hand gripping her waist, anchoring her to me. She kisses me back, her fingers gripping my shirt, pulling me closer.
For a moment, nothing else exists. Just her. Just us.