6. Damien
6
DAMIEN
I can admit this here, but if heaven is anywhere, it’d be with Willow.
The soft glow of white lights blurs in my vision as my body stirs awake, stiff and weighted. I take a breath—my first conscious one in what feels like forever. The lights stretch into a hum of the ethereal, and I know—I know—I must be dead.
It makes sense. The pain is gone, the noise of life quieted into this serene, humming nothingness. And at the center of it, resting like the only good part of me has been carved out of my own damn soul, is her .
Willow.
She’s slumped in a chair, barely more than a breath of a thing, curled in on herself like she’s spent years waiting for something that never came. The sight of her, so still, so tired , creates knots deep inside me. Her black curls spill in wild waves, framing her face, the last remnants of her pink highlights barely clinging on. She looks smaller, wrapped in exhaustion, her pale skin kissed by the soft light surrounding her.
My breath stirs in my chest, shaky and unsure. Is this real?
No—no, it can’t be. I’ve done too much, taken too many wrong turns. Heaven isn’t for men like me. And yet… she’s here. My troubling angel.
The words form on instinct, slipping past my dry, useless lips. My arm feels like it’s made of lead, but I force it up, reaching for her like she might disappear if I blink too long. My fingers skim her cheek—warm, so warm—and a soft sound catches in my throat.
“You snuck me in,” I rasp, my voice nearly unrecognizable. “Trouble… what did you do?”
Her lashes flutter. A small inhale.
Then her eyes crack open—dark and stormy—and when they land on me, she gasps. “Damien?”
Despite the groan of my body, I cup her cheek in my hand. “How did you sneak me into heaven, Trouble?”
“What?” She whispers her cold hand wraps around mine as she weakly pulls me closer to her.
Her fingers clutch at mine, small and trembling, but real. Too real. And it’s then that the certainty I’m dead begins to waver. Because heaven should be untouchable, weightless. But she’s here, and she’s pulling me closer .
Her lips part like she wants to argue, but I don’t let her. My grip weakens, but I still manage to guide her toward me, just enough to press my lips against her forehead. The effort takes everything, but the warmth of her skin against mine, the way she shudders at the contact, makes the struggle worth it .
“Angel,” I murmur, my breath ghosting against her skin. “I knew you’d find a way to bring me with you.” She makes a sound between a laugh and a broken sob before she crumbles.
Tears spill from her hazel eyes, slipping down her cheeks. She grips my wrist tightly, pressing my hand against her face like she’s afraid I’ll disappear again if she lets go.
“No, no, don't cry, angel. We’re here together.” I whisper.
“You’re—” Her voice catches, shaking too hard for her to finish. She blinks rapidly, licking her lips. “You’re not dead, Damien.”
The words settle in slowly, heavy and disorienting. If this isn’t heaven, then that means?—
My eyes drift, my vision hazy, the soft glow of fluorescent lights burning into my skull. The steady beep of a monitor echoes in my ears, each pulse aligning with the dull ache radiating through my body. My throat is dry, raw, like I swallowed glass, but it’s nothing compared to the weight pressing down on my chest.
I blink sluggishly, forcing my focus back to Willow. She’s holding my wrist so tightly I can feel the faint tremor in her grip, her fingers ice cold against my skin. Tears spill freely from her hazel eyes, carving weak paths down her too-pale cheeks, her breath hitching like she’s trying to hold herself together and failing miserably.
Not dead.
Not in heaven.
I inhale slowly, my ribs protesting the movement. “Then where—” My voice is hoarse, barely there. I swallow, trying again. “What happened? ”
She sucks in a sharp breath, pressing my hand tighter against her face before lowering it to her lap, squeezing it between both of hers. “You took a bad hit,” she murmurs. “On the ice. You… you hit your head, got a concussion and you fell unconscious on your way here.” Her voice wavers, but she forces herself to continue. “You’ve been in a coma for two weeks.”
I try to sit up, but the moment I shift, a white-hot pain lances through my skull, making me groan. Willow is on me instantly, pressing a shaking hand to my shoulder, urging me back down. “Don’t,” she pleads. “Please, just… stay still.”
I exhale sharply, my pulse pounding. “A coma.” The words taste foreign, unreal. “And you—you’ve been here?”
Her lips part, her face crumpling slightly before she nods. “Every day.”
My chest tightens, a thick and unspoken lump lodged in my throat. “Angel…”
Her grip on me tightens, her eyes swimming with too many emotions for me to name. “I thought I lost you.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, her confession bleeding between us, raw and unguarded. “I thought you were gone, Damien.”
For a second—a single, fleeting second—my lips twitch up in a smile. Willow stayed here for me.
But then it hits me.
The last time I saw Willow, she wasn’t mine. She was wearing his ring, standing beside him, choosing him.
I wet my lips, a sharp and ugly thing curling inside me. “That’s sweet, Trouble,” I murmur, my voice rough, edged with bitterness. “But shouldn’t you be taking care of your husband ?”
Willow flinches, her breath catching, and I watch the way her fingers tighten around the sheets like she’s trying to keep herself from breaking apart. She doesn’t answer immediately—probably because there is no answer, nothing she can say that won’t sound like bullshit.
“Wow, Damien. Even with a concussion, you don’t miss a chance to be a bitter little bitch.”
My entire body tenses as Vincent steps through the doorway, looking as infuriatingly put-together as ever, dressed in a sleek black coat like he just walked out of a goddamn Forbes photoshoot. His smirk is lazy, but his eyes are sharp, watching me like he’s waiting for me to snap.
And fuck—he doesn’t have to wait long.
My hands curl into fists against the sheets, rage simmering hot beneath my skin. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I growl, my voice low and venomous.
Vincent tilts his head, all easy arrogance. “Checking on my brother, obviously.” His smirk widens, his tone dripping with amusement. “Or did you think Willow was the only one who gave a shit?”
I see red. Because fuck him.
Fuck him for standing there like he belongs in this room. Like he hasn’t taken everything from me.
Like I don’t want to rip his smug fucking face off.
“She’s the only one I want to give a shit,” I growl, and then curse myself internally because why the fuck would I admit that .
“Well, fuck me then,” Cast’s voice cuts through the tension as he slings into the room, taking the seat next to Willow. His curls are messy, his shirt slightly rumpled over his gray sweatpants, and if the pain of my body wasn’t getting to me I would gawk because I have never seen Juan “Cast” Castillo in fucking sweatpants.
Vincent rolls his eyes. “Glad you finally caught up, Cast.”
“I’m sorry did you hear something?” Cast asks me in a growling sound that tells Vincent to shut up or get punched in the face.
I give Cast a wide grin. “Nope nothing at all.”
“Real mature.” Vincent slumps into a chair at the far wall.
Cast sprawls back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, giving me a slow, assessing look. “You look like shit, hermano.”
I grit my teeth. “ Thanks. ”
“Must be nice, though,” Vincent muses, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Sleeping through all your problems instead of dealing with them like the rest of us.”
My grip on the sheets tightens. “Must be nice stealing everything you’ve ever wanted instead of earning it.”
Vincent’s smirk sharpens. “Oh, I earned it, Damien. Don’t ever fucking doubt that.”
The door slams open.
“ Jesus Christ, ” a voice cuts through our bullshit, exasperated and sharp. “Didn’t I tell you all to call us the second he woke up?”
All four of us snap our heads toward the door, where a man in a crisp white coat stands, arms crossed, an unimpressed expression on his face.
“Dr. Marshall,” Willow says, straightening slightly, her voice softer than it was with either of us. “Sorry. I?—”
“Let me guess,” he interrupts dryly, already stepping further into the room. “You got distracted playing referee between these three grown toddlers?”
Cast huffs a laugh. Vincent just smirks. I glare, and of course my Willow giggles.
The doctor shakes his head, ignoring us as he moves to the bedside, flipping through a chart. “I’m Dr. Marshall,” he says, not even glancing up as he scribbles a note down. “You, Damien, are very lucky to still have a functioning brain after what you put it through.”
“Debatable,” Vincent mutters under his breath.
I shoot him a glare, but Willow is already speaking. “He’s the best in the business,” she tells me, and there’s reverence in the way she says it.
I narrow my eyes at her, my mind already picking apart that statement. “How would you know?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
Willow parts her lips like she’s about to answer, but before she can, Dr. Marshall snaps his fingers in front of my face again, sharp and impatient.
“Eyes on me, Sleeping Beauty,” he says flatly. “You can interrogate her later. Right now, we need to make sure your brain isn’t permanently scrambled.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what all the concussed patients say—right before they pass out and piss themselves.” He flips a page on his clipboard, completely unfazed. “So, tests for a concussed and coma patient.”
Dr. Marshall steps closer, pulling a penlight from his pocket. “Follow the light with just your eyes,” he instructs, clicking it on and moving it from side to side.
I do as I’m told, but it takes more effort than I’d like to admit. My head feels thick, sluggish, like my brain is lagging behind my movements.
Dr. Marshall hums, not giving anything away. “Any nausea? Dizziness?”
“No,” I lie. I feel seconds away from vomiting and my head feels like a merry go round but he doesn’t need to know that.
Willow makes a small, disapproving sound.
The doctor shoots her a look before turning back to me. “Headache?”
I shrug, which is a terrible idea because it sends a bolt of pain down my skull. I wince, and Dr. Marshall snorts. “That’s a yes.”
“Alright,” he says, flipping the page. “Memory check. What’s your full name?”
I give him a dry look. “Damien Sterling.”
“Date of birth?”
“December 23rd.”
“In a couple of weeks, happy early birthday.” He beams and I nod. “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up here? ”
I hesitate. The ice. The game. The hit. Then… nothing. A whole two weeks of nothing. My stomach tightens. “The game,” I say slowly. “The match against Chicago. I took a hit?—”
“—and got your ass laid out,” Cast supplies helpfully.
The doctor sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Glad to see your support system is so nurturing. ”
I ignore them both, my gaze flicking back to Willow. “And then?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “And then you collapsed.”
Dr. Marshall claps his hands once, snapping my attention back to him. “Alright, I’ve got enough to work with for now. We’ll run some scans, monitor your responses over the next twenty-four hours, and see where we’re at.”
I nod stiffly, but my gaze drifts back to Willow. She’s still staring at me, her expression tangled in too many emotions to name.
The doctor catches the look and huffs. “Whatever that conversation is, save it for later. Last thing I need is you sending your blood pressure through the roof five minutes into waking up.” He tucks the clipboard under his arm. “I’ll be back to check on you soon. In the meantime, no sudden movements, no stress, and for fuck’s sake , no fistfights in the hospital room.”
I hear Vincent snicker.
Dr. Marshall turns to Cast and Vincent. “That goes for both of you.”
Vincent raises his hands in mock innocence. Cast just smirks .
“Great,” my doctor mutters. “I’ll have security on standby.”
With that, he strides out of the room, and my gaze flicks to Willow again.
She’s still gripping her sweater, her knuckles white.
I should leave it alone. I should. But my head is killing me, my patience is thin, and there’s too much I don’t know.
So I ask again. “How do you know Dr. Marshall is the best?”
Her lips part, and when she finally speaks, her voice is quiet. “Because he’s been my doctor for the past eight weeks.”
My stomach drops. I shake my head slowly. “What…?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, like she’s trying to shove the truth back down. But then she looks at me—really looks at me—and I see it. The exhaustion. The unsteady breaths. The way she’s barely holding herself together.
“My heart,” she whispers. “It’s failing, Damien.”
“No,” I say, my voice barely above a breath. “No, you’re—” I stop, swallowing hard. “You’re supposed to be fine.”
She gives me a sad, watery smile. “I’m not.”
My heart is pounding too fast, my breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The panic is crawling up my throat, my mind refusing to accept what she’s saying.
I shake my head again, harder this time. “You had a heart transplant.”
She nods. “I did.”
“My mother’s heart was supposed to be the fix.” I panic. “She stopped chemo for you, Willow.”
She whispers. “I know.”
“So you are fine.”
“No.”
“No?” My hands are shaking. My fucking hands are shaking. Because this isn’t just her. This is my mother. This is the last piece of her I have left. My vision tunnels, my heartbeat a violent roar in my ears. I can’t lose her. I won’t.
“Look there’s a trial,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “But there are no guarantees. And if it doesn’t work…”
I lurch forward, ignoring the blinding pain in my skull, grabbing her wrist— too thin, too delicate, too fucking wrong. “Trouble.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Damien, get a hold of yourself,” Vincent’s voice breaks through the tension.
I barely register Cast’s low growl of frustration. “Vincent, shut up.” His voice is sharp, snapping like a whip. “He’s not in the mood for your bullshit right now.”
But all I can focus on is Willow. I can’t look away from her, can’t care about anything else. Her body is fragile in my grip, but she’s fighting to hold on. I’ll be damned if I let her slip away.
“Shut up, both of you,” I finally manage, my voice a low growl, more animal than man. “Just shut the fuck up.”
I don't care about Vincent's sharp intake of breath or Cast’s tension-filled growl. I can barely hear anything over the pounding of my heart, the sharpness in my ears, the way everything feels like it’s closing in on me again.
It feels like my mother is dying all over again. That same slow ache, the hollowed-out feeling in my chest, the numbness that I can’t shake, no matter how hard I fight. It was supposed to save her— fix her. And here I am, standing at the edge of that same fucking cliff, watching the woman I love slip away, the last of the fragile pieces of my mother’s legacy disappearing with her.
And I can't— I can’t —watch this happen again. Not to her.
I pull her wrist tighter into my hand, desperate to hold on to her, to remind myself that she’s still here, still breathing, even if everything inside me screams that this is slipping through my fingers. “No,” I mutter, shaking my head against the tide of panic rising in my throat. “You’re not— you’re not ...”
Willow’s eyes are wet, her face pale, and yet she still looks at me like I’m her lifeline. Like she’s trying to hold me together when I can’t even hold myself. Her lips tremble, and I feel the sob building in her chest, the breath hitching before she speaks, voice so small I barely hear her. “Damien...”
“I won’t lose you,” I say, the words ripping out of me, hoarse and raw. It’s a promise. A demand. A prayer. Whatever it takes. “You hear me? I won’t lose you.”
Her lips press together in a tight line, like she’s fighting her own tears. She doesn’t say anything for a long time, just breathes with me, her body shaking against mine. And then— then —she whispers again, quieter than before.
“I don’t want you to lose me either.” She swallows before looking back at Vincent, then Cast and then me. “But you all have to recognize that- ”
“No,” we say in unison and she flinches at the rasp in our voices.
Cast pinches her chin and pulls her gaze to his. “Carina, do you know what I would do before I just let you die?”
“Kill everyone in sight.” She whispers.
“No, I will pull my beating heart out of my chest and shove it into yours before I lose you.” Cast says in a stern tone that has Willow’s eyes wide. “You dying, is not an option.”
Willow blinks two times before sighing, and I can see it in her eyes that dying is the only option for her.