Chapter 42
Damien
Play - Leave Me Lonely by Ariana Grande and Macy Gray
Ultraviolet
She told me to come. Two words, ‘come here.’
No explanation, nothing clear, just my name leaving her mouth and I drove faster than I should have.
The only thing I keep focusing on since she stopped replying to me, is the knowledge that every second passing between her call and my arrival was a second where I was not there.
The street is empty, and quiet with some faded music from the club thudding in the background when I park.
I see her phone lying face-down near the curb, the screen is still lit and my stupid nickname is on it.
Then I see her slumped against the brick wall, head tipped forward, dark and long hair falling over her face.
Her bag is open and the contents are scattered across the pavement like she dropped everything the second her body stopped cooperating.
There’s a man in front of her but he’s not the one she was talking about. No mask, no costume, and he looks drunk. He’s standing too close from her, with one hand half-raised like he doesn’t know what to do with it.
I don’t know his name and I don’t know if it’s him, I don’t know anything but all I know is that he looked at her like she was an opportunity.
Something in my head goes still and I hit him.
My fist connects with his jaw before I even feel myself moving.
His head snaps to the side, his body stumbling backwards as a shocked sound leaves him.
I don’t hear the music from the club, nor what he says.
There is only the image of her against the wall, the phone on the ground and her voice telling me she couldn’t move.
So I hit him again, this time he falls backward into the pumpkins lining the sidewalks as he curses. He swears, hands up now, shouting something I don’t hear.
“Get away from her,” is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.
He scrambles to his feet and backs off fast, muttering that he “didn’t do anything,” that he “was just trying to help,” before disappearing down the street.
I drop to my knees in front of her and push her hair away from her face.
“Mireya,” I say, touching her cheek gently. “Hey, look at me.”
She doesn’t respond. Her dress is twisted, strap slipped down her shoulder, fabric bunched wrong at her waist. .
I shrug off my jacket and wrap it around her without thinking, pulling her closer. I scoop her phone up with shaking hands, shove it into my pocket along with her bag.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” I say as I start walking back to the car.
She’s lighter than she should be, or maybe I’m just running on adrenaline. I carry her there, open the door and settle her carefully into the passenger seat, but that doesn’t feel right. None of this feels right.
So I pull her onto me instead and buckle us both in with one hand. Then I start driving with the other, one arm locked around her back, holding her upright against my chest.
“Mireya,” I say. “You’re going to kill me one day.”
Her head lolls against my shoulder, her breath warm against my collarbone. Then she moves. A soft sound escapes her throat, and her fingers twitch against my jacket.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “You came…”
My heart stutters so hard it almost stops. “You’re awake.”
Her lashes flutter, eyes opening halfway, glassy and unfocused. Tears pool instantly, spilling down her cheeks like she doesn’t know how to stop them. She isn’t even aware that she’s quietly crying.
She’s beautiful and unbearably sad. “Hey,” she says again, quieter this time.
I swallow hard. “You scared the hell out of me.”
My gaze drops, and I see red on her costume. Dark, smeared near her collarbone… Blood.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Are you hurt?”
She frowns faintly, like the effort is exhausting. “No,” she says slowly. “I’m a vampire.”
I blink, confused and then I realize that it’s fake. Just part of the costume, some stage blood that's drying tacky against her skin.
Relief hits me so hard I have to pull the car over for half a second to breathe. “Fucking hell,” I say hoarsely.
She watches me like she’s trying to focus through fog. “You look scared.”
“I am,” I admit. “So I need you to keep talking to me. Can you do that?”
She considers this with exaggerated seriousness. “I want to sleep....” Her voice is soft and has a drunk tone to it.
“No,” I say gently but firmly. “Not yet.”
She shifts closer instinctively, cheek pressing against my chest. “I only sleep when you drive, Mister Caldwell. You promised to be my sleep pill.”
I tighten my arm around her without thinking, then force myself to loosen it just enough to be appropriate. “Then rest,” I say quietly. “We’re going to get you home.”
“Okay.” Her eyes slide shut again, breathe evening out as if my voice is an anchor pulling her under the deep ocean she’s stuck in. And I keep driving.
One hand on the wheel, one arm around her. Every sense stretched thin, replaying the image of that man standing in front of her, the way the night felt paused and fucking wrong.
I don’t know what happened to her. I don’t know who was there before me.
But I know one thing with terrifying certainty, someone wanted her helpless. And they wanted me to find her like that. And all I want to do is find them and make them go through hell.
When we pull up to the campus, I park far enough from the principal building and look around.
No one is here, they’re probably either asleep, or partying.
I found a visitor spot, parked there and cut the engine.
She stirs immediately when the car stops, like she’s been trained to wake when motion ends.
Her lashes flutter and she makes a small sound, confused.
“We’re here,” I say.
“Here?” she echoes faintly.
“The campus.”
“Oh.” A pause. “Okay.”
I open the car door, pulling her out with me. She tries to stand up on her own and fails. Her body lists sideways, boneless and I catch her automatically and then lift her again.
Her head tips forward, resting briefly against my shoulder as I adjust my grip so it doesn’t.
“Stay with me,” I say quietly.
“I am,” she murmurs. “I’m doing a good job.”
I almost smile at this. Inside, I grab my card to access the teacher and personal elevator and click on her level. The elevator ride is too long. She sways slightly with the motion, fingers curling into the fabric of my jacket where it’s draped over her shoulders.
“You’re cold,” she says softly.
“I’m not.”
“You are,” she insists. “Do you usually get cold when you’re worried?”
“I’m not worried,” I say.
She hums, unconvinced. Her floor is quiet, the hallway lights buzz faintly overhead.
I walk slower here, careful of the way her head lolls, the way her feet drag slightly against my leg.
At her door, I shift her weight with one arm and fish the key from her bag with the other.
Her room is small, her bed unmade, a half-finished assignment sits on the desk.
And a lot of drawings, everywhere.
I lay her down carefully, positioning her on her side and removing my jacket only after I’ve pulled a blanket over her.
She blinks up at me and says, “You’re being nice.”
“I’m being responsible.”
She considers that, lips pursed. “You’re bad at lying.”
“Rest.” I close the door quietly behind us and she frowns faintly but doesn’t try to get up.
Her face is streaked with makeup and red fake blood is smeared along her jaw and collarbone. I go to the sink and wet a towel with warm water. Wring it out until it’s damp, not dripping and when I come back, I hesitate then I start.
I cleaned her face first, avoiding her eyes, and wiped away the makeup, the red, the night. Her skin underneath looks pale and exhausted.
She shifts slightly. “Cold,” she murmurs.
I adjust the blanket higher over her shoulders before continuing. I clean her neck, her hands. Anywhere the fear touched her. I don’t let myself think about why. When I’m done, I discard the towel and move back to the bed.
“Drink,” I say softly as I give her a glass of water.
She stirs when I lift her head to press the glass to her lips. She drinks obediently, slow and clumsy, water spilling down her chin and I wipe it away immediately.
“Good,” I tell her. “That’s enough.”
Now comes the harder part. I searched her room. Drawers, any backpack, even the bathroom cabinet. I find nothing useful at first; notes, makeup bag, hair ties, half-empty packs of cigarettes and an empty flask.
Finally, in the bottom of a drawer, I find a bottle of pills for pain. It’ll help.
I return to the bed and coax her awake just enough to swallow it. “Come on, stick your tongue out.”
She grimaces but complies. “Teacher voice,” she mutters.
“Mireya.”
She hums, already drifting again as I sit down close to her then. A moment later, something moves at the foot of the bed.
A cat, who stretches luxuriously, arching its back, tail flicking. It yawns, glaring at me, before hopping onto the mattress, and padding over to her side.
It circles once, then curls up against her ribs. She exhales, deeper this time. I watch the rise and fall of her chest, count the breaths and wait for them to even out.
“Do you remember anything?” I ask as my fingers move to her face.
Her lashes flutter and her eyes open just enough to find me, then she shakes her head. “No,” she whispers. Her lower lip trembles, tears gather, spilling soundlessly down her temples and into her hair. “I never remember,” she says.
I sit down fully this time next to her, the mattress dipping under my weight.
“It’s okay,” I say carefully. “It means your mind protects you.”
She lets out a small, broken sound that might be a laugh if it wasn’t so fragile. “It never protects me,” she murmurs.
“You’re here,” I say. “You’re safe. Right now.”
She looks at me like she’s checking if that’s true. “Promise?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Her eyes slid shut again, exhaustion pulling her under. Then I shift, preparing to stand. Her hand shoots out, catching my wrist. Just enough to stop me.
“No,” she says, eyes still closed. “Don’t go.” I freeze and look back at her. “He’ll come here,” she adds quietly. “He’s always here.”
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs. “Who?”
Her grip tightens just a fraction. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “But he waits. And you leave.”
I sit back down and say, “I’m not leaving.”
Her fingers loosen immediately, like that was all she needed. Her hand slips from my wrist and falls back to the blanket. The cat presses closer to her side, tail flicking once before going still.
“I told you, women are never safe, Damien,” she says, already half asleep.
I remain seated, staring at the spot where her hand was, replaying her words in my head.
He’s always here.
I don’t know who she meant. I don’t know what she remembers when she wakes.
But I know that whatever found her tonight hasn’t finished. And I will not be the one who leaves her alone with it.