14. Willow
14
WILLOW
Chapter 14 ():
I am curled on the living room couch with my world history textbook pulled up on Damien’s iPad and Professor Harlow’s sad face on my laptop.
“Willow,” she says gently, her voice careful. “I really think you should consider the sabbatical. We can frame it as a sympathetic academic leave—you’d still be in good standing when you return. No penalties, no repercussions. Just time to grieve.”
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. Rudy got cornered by Professor Harlow after I missed my sixth class without a single word, and of course, he spilled everything—told her I was grieving. She didn’t waste any time. By the next morning, she was demanding a meeting, making it crystal clear that if I didn’t show up, my scholarship would be rescinded.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. "I don’t want to fall behind."
"You won’t." Her brows pinch together. "You’re already ahead in your coursework, and your professors are more than willing to accommodate you. This wouldn’t be a failure, Willow. It would be grace."
I clench my jaw. I hate that word. Grace. It feels like pity wrapped up in something prettier, a concept more palatable. But what choice do I have? Pretending I’m fine is exhausting. The weight of everything—of trying to hold on like nothing is slipping through my fingers—it's too much.
"Fine," I whisper. "I’ll take the leave."
Her expression softens with relief. "I’ll handle everything on my end. You just focus on… breathing. Okay?"
I nod because it’s easier than arguing. She thanks me, says she’ll send over the paperwork, and after another few seconds of lingering concern, she signs off.
I exhale and close my laptop, dropping my head against the couch. My temples throb, my eyes burn, and I’m so damn tired.
"Are you okay?"
I jerk up at the voice, blinking to find Damien standing a few feet away, watching me. His hands are in his pockets, but his gaze is sharp, taking me apart piece by piece.
"Yeah," I say automatically.
His head tilts. "Try again."
I let out a humorless laugh and press my palms over my face. "I don’t know."
The couch dips beside me. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits, close enough that his presence wraps around me, a quiet anchor I don’t know how to accept.
"Harlow thinks I should take a leave," I murmur. "A sympathetic academic leave."
He hums. "And?"
I shake my head. "And I said yes. I don’t know if it was the right choice, but I said yes."
His voice is softer this time. "It is not permanent."
I nod, staring down at my hands. The truth settles like a weight in my chest, heavy and unmoving.
"I just don’t know who I am without this," I admit, my voice small. "Without school, without a plan. I don’t know how to just… be."
Damien exhales, slow and steady. "You’re still you, Willow. Even without school. Even without a plan. You don’t have to figure everything out all at once."
I glance at him, searching for reassurance. "You make it sound so easy."
He snickers, nudging my knee with his. "I never said it was easy. Just possible."
I let out a breathy laugh, and for the first time in what feels like forever, my spirit lightens inside me. "Thanks, Damien."
He tilts his head. Then I say, "So, you never did tell me—why are you guys called the Chessmen?"
A slow smile tugs at his lips. "That’s classified information."
I raise a brow. "Oh, come on."
He leans back against the couch, feigning deep thought. “Do you know how to play chess?”
I shake my head. “Not even a little.”
He stands suddenly and holds out a hand. "Come on."
I hesitate before placing my hand in his. "Where are we going?"
"Outside. I’m going to teach you."
A few minutes later, we settle on a bench near the fire pit, a small travel chessboard between us. Damien begins setting up the pieces, his fingers deftly placing them with practiced ease.
"Each piece has a role," he explains. "The King, the most important. The Queen, the most powerful. The Rook, strategic. The Bishop and Knight, versatile. And then… the Pawns."
I watch as he taps each one. "And you three? Where do you fit in?"
Damien sniggers. "Vincent is the King. Always in control, always watching. The King doesn’t move much, but everything moves because of him. He doesn’t need to get his hands dirty—he has the rest of the board to do it for him. That’s Vincent. He pulls strings, manipulates, plays the long game. And when he sets his sights on something, it’s his. No exceptions."
A chill rolls down my spine. "That sounds... possessive."
Damien’s expression darkens slightly. "Because it is."
I swallow, my pulse quickening. "And Cast?"
"The Rook," Damien says, shifting his focus to the piece. "Rooks are powerful, but they work best with a plan. They hold the board together, reinforce the front lines, and strike when no one expects.”
I frown, trying to piece it all together. "But you said Rooks are strategic. If Cast is losing his mind, doesn’t that make him reckless?"
Damien huffs a quiet laugh. "Reckless? No. Unstable? Maybe. But Cast has a way of making even his chaos look like a masterpiece."
I glance at the board. "And you? Why are you the Knight?"
"Because Knights don’t follow a straight path," Damien says simply, moving the piece in a L-shape. "We move differently. Unexpectedly. We get close, hit from angles no one sees coming. We do what others can’t—or won’t." His voice drops, becoming hardened. "And when the board starts to crumble, the Knight is the one still standing, still fighting."
The seriousness in his tone makes my chest ache. "You mean protecting."
His jaw tenses. "Same thing."
I let that settle for a beat, then point to the Pawns. "And them?"
"Pawns get sacrificed."
A shiver runs through me, but before I can dwell on it, he moves a piece and gestures for me to do the same. "Now it’s your turn. "
A shiver runs through me. "So if I am a pawn, that means I get sacrificed. Great."
Damien leans back, watching me closely. "You really think that’s still true?"
I stare at the board, at the tiny, disposable Pawn standing in front of the King. Cast calls me ‘Pawn.’ The lowest piece on the board. Disposable. But the Queen… she’s the most powerful. The one with the freedom to move wherever she wants.
"I don’t know," I murmur. "Maybe I’m just another Pawn in your game."
Damien’s eyes darken. "You think Vincent would waste this much time on a Pawn?"
I swallow roughly, moving my pawn forward one space before looking up at him through my eyelashes.
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s waiting for me to understand a concept I can’t quite grasp. "The King only moves for two things—checkmate… and his Queen."
My breath catches. "That’s not?—"
"You tell me," he murmurs, voice low and unreadable. "Are you a Pawn, or are you the piece the whole game revolves around?"
I don’t know how to answer that.
Before I can dwell on it, Damien moves a piece and gestures for me to do the same. "Your turn, Pet.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at my lips as I clumsily move my rook to the left. Damien hums in disapproval, reaching over to adjust it. His fingers brush against mine.
"That’s not how a rook moves, Trouble."
I swallow. "Maybe I like to play by my own rules."
He chuckles, low and deep. "That would explain a lot. But in chess, reckless moves get you taken."
I glance up, catching the gleam in his storm-gray eyes. "Is that a warning?"
He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a tone almost intimate. "It’s a promise."
My breath catches, but I force myself to focus on the board, on the game. Still, my hands feel unsteady as I move another piece, and Damien watches me with a knowing smirk.
"You’re getting better, Pet. But you’re still an easy read."
I narrow my eyes. "Maybe I’m just lulling you into a false sense of security."
He pinches my chin between his fingertips, and I lean across the chessboard to be closer to him. His eyes darken to a storm as he whispers a breath away from my lips. "Is that so?"
Before I can answer, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and his jaw tightens.
"I have to take this," he mutters, standing abruptly. The playful air around us shifts as he steps away, his voice dropping as he answers.
_________________
Damien
I keep my gaze on hers. “Cast,” I bite out. “This better be good.”
“I’m switching you out with Vincent,” he says, and I can already feel the headache forming.
“The hell you are,” I snap.
“It’s not up for debate,” Cast counters smoothly. “I think I know who threatened Willow.”
That stops me cold. My eyes flick back to her—she’s watching me, her brows drawn together in concern, lips still swollen from my kiss. The sight of her like this—so soft, so unaware of the storm brewing just outside our safe house—makes a dark and possessive passion coil in my chest.
“Give me the address,” I say, my voice low, lethal.
There’s a beat of silence before Cast sighs. “Knew you’d say that.” Then he rattles it off.
I hang up without another word.
Willow watches me carefully. “Damien?”
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering. “I need to handle a problem.”
She frowns, searching my face. “Is it about me?”
I force a sardonic grin, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “It’s always about you, Trouble.”