19. Willow
19
WILLOW
Vincent looks so small in the hospital bed. The monitors beep steadily, a slow, rhythmic sound that should be reassuring. But all I can hear is the echo of my own guilt, rattling inside my skull like a bullet that never found its way out.
It’s been three weeks since the surgery. Three weeks of waiting, watching, hoping. Three weeks of doctors murmuring about lung capacity, spinal trauma, and risks I can’t bring myself to fully process. Three weeks of knowing that he got hurt because of me .
I shift in the stiff chair beside his bed, my fingers curling into my lap. His face is pale, almost sickly under the fluorescent lights, but he’s still Vincent . Strong, stubborn, alive. Barely, but alive.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the machines.
I don’t expect an answer. Of course I don’t. But I wish he would wake up—just enough to call me an idiot, to tell me I’m being dramatic, to glare at me like I should know better.
Instead, he sleeps.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat, blinking hard. “You shouldn’t have been there,” I murmur. “You shouldn’t have gotten hurt because of me.”
Because I ran. Because I panicked. Because I killed Ricardo and didn’t know what else to do except run .
The image of Ricardo’s lifeless eyes flashes behind my eyelids. The warmth of his blood, the way it coated my hands, my arms, soaked into my clothes—it’s all burned into me. But the worst part, the part that coils inside me like a secret too dark to name, is that I liked it.
I squeeze my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms, grounding myself in the sting.
Vincent shifts slightly in his sleep, his fingers twitching against the blanket. My breath catches.
“Vin?” I lean in, barely breathing.
Nothing. Just another small movement, maybe a dream, maybe nothing at all. My stomach knots.
I reach out, hesitating before brushing my fingertips over his wrist. His skin is warm—real, solid, alive. But I don’t know if I deserve to touch him.
Not after everything I’ve done. Not after saying no to him when all he wanted to do was love me for the rest of my life.
The door creaks open, and I stiffen, my hand snapping back from Vincent’s wrist like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
Damien steps inside, his sharp eyes flicking from me to Vincent, taking in the scene without saying a word. His face is neutral, but there’s a countenance behind his gaze—concern, exhaustion, maybe both.
“How long have you been sitting here?” His voice is rough, quiet.
I glance at the clock. I don’t know. Hours? A lifetime? “I don’t know,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
Damien exhales through his nose, then his gaze sweeps over me, assessing. “Have you eaten?”
I shake my head without thinking.
His jaw tenses, and for a second, I expect a lecture, but he just runs a hand over his buzzed hair and mutters, “Of course you haven’t.” Then he nods toward the door. “Come on.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he counters easily. “You look like you’re about to pass out, and the last thing I need is to drag your unconscious ass out of here. Let’s go.”
I hesitate, glancing at Vincent, but Damien doesn’t give me a chance to argue. He steps closer, lowers his voice. “Willow, he’s not waking up right now . You sitting here starving yourself won’t change anything.”
The words sting, mostly because they’re true. I let out a slow breath, nodding reluctantly. “Fine.”
Damien holds the door open, and I follow him into the hall, my legs heavy, my body sluggish. It’s only when we step into the elevator that I realize how drained I feel.
The cafeteria is nearly empty when we get there, the scent of stale coffee and disinfectant clinging to the air. Damien grabs a tray, loading it with food like he’s on autopilot—two sandwiches, a bottle of water, a cup of soup. He shoves it toward me without a word.
I stare at it. My stomach churns. I’m not hungry. I don’t deserve to be hungry.
But Damien gives me a look, the kind that says ‘ Don’t start with me .’
So I pick up the sandwich, take a small, mechanical bite. It tastes like cardboard, but I chew anyway. The cafeteria hums with low conversations and the occasional clatter of trays, but it all feels distant, like I’m underwater.
I swallow hard, my voice barely above a whisper. “It should’ve been me.”
Damien, halfway through a sip of coffee, pauses. His grey eyes flick to me, sharp and assessing. “What?”
I keep my gaze on the table, my hands tightening around the sandwich. “Vincent got hurt because of me. If I hadn’t run, if I hadn’t—” My throat closes, and I shake my head. “He’s lying in that bed because of me .”
Damien sets his cup down with a quiet thud . “That’s not how this works, Willow.”
“Yes, it is,” I insist, my voice cracking. “Ricardo attacked me, and I killed him. I killed him, Damien.” The confession hangs between us, heavy and unshakable. “What kind of person does that make me?”
“It makes you someone who survived. That bastard tried to kill you.” His jaw flexes. “You’re not a monster for killing him first, Willow. You’re not a monster for enjoying it.”
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes. “Then why do I feel like one?”
Damien exhales through his nose, his gaze softening just slightly. “Because you still think you have to be good to deserve to be alive.” He shakes his head. “You don’t. You just have to be alive.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know how. But when Damien pushes the bottle of water toward me, I take it with a shaky hand.
I take a sip of the water, letting the silence stretch between us. Damien watches me, his fingers tapping idly against the table. He’s always so composed, so unreadable, but right now, there’s a look in his eyes—something I can’t quite name.
I set the bottle down, licking my lips. “Are we going to talk about it?”
His brow furrows slightly. “Talk about what?”
I huff a quiet laugh, leaning back in my chair. “You know what.”
Damien looks away, his jaw tightening. “It was just a kiss, Willow.”
My stomach twists, but I don’t back down. “It wasn’t just a kiss. Not to me.”
He exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
I narrow my eyes. “But it did.”
Silence.
Damien leans forward, his steely eyes locking onto mine. “You had just been through hell. You were shaken, and I—” He stops, jaw clenching before he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have let it happen.”
I reach across the table, my fingers brushing against his. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t move closer either. “You kissed me like you felt something,” I whisper.
His throat bobs as he swallows. “I did.”
My breath catches.
Damien’s fingers twitch beneath mine, but his voice is steady when he speaks. “But it doesn’t change anything.” He finally meets my gaze. “You know why.”
I press my lips together, my chest aching. “Rosemary’s heart.”
His silence is my answer.
I shake my head, my fingers tightening around his. “You can’t do this, Damien. You can’t sit here and tell me you have feelings for me and then act like it doesn’t matter.”
His jaw flexes, his grip on my hand tightening for the briefest second before he pulls away. “It does matter.” His voice is quiet but firm. “That’s the problem.”
I exhale shakily. “Then what do we do?”
Damien leans back, his features reflecting his resignation. “We don’t do anything.” He forces a sardonic smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not the kind of guy who fights for something he knows he can’t have.”
His words hit harder than they should.
I shake my head. “You don’t know that.”
Damien’s lips quirk up in a look that’s almost sad. “Yeah, I do.” His gaze drops to my chest—where my heart beats, where each of their names are written inside of it, carved into my very being. “And so do you.”
His gaze lingers on my chest for a second longer before he exhales sharply, stepping back like putting distance between us will erase whatever is brewing in the space we’ve left unsaid.
I open my mouth to argue—to tell him he’s wrong, that he doesn’t know what’s in my heart, no matter whose name is written there—but before I can, a voice cuts through the thick silence.
"Mr. Sterling?"
We both turn at the same time. A doctor stands a few feet away, his face neutral but expectant, eyes flicking between the two of us.
Damien straightens, his expression instantly hardening into a solemn stare. “Yeah, that’s me.”
The doctor nods. “Vincent is awake.”