Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
DAMIAN
Idon’t remember walking up the stairs. I don’t remember opening the door.
All I know is I was outside watching her walk away from me, and the next second, I was inside, grabbing her by the throat and kissing her like my life depended on it.
Her tears were still fresh on her cheeks, salt-streaked reminders of everything I’d broken.
I licked them away, tasting every ounce of the pain I’d caused.
When I hit that asshole, she looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was the fucking monster. I don’t think she has any idea how much of a fucking monster I really am.
My hands still tingle from where I touched her.
Her skin was warm, soft, trembling with want.
I felt her melt into me before she even realized it.
That’s what kills me the most. She wanted it.
I felt it in the way her mouth opened for me, the way her body arched into mine, the way her breath caught when I shoved my thigh between hers and made her grind on me like she couldn’t help it.
I close her bedroom door behind me and feel the weight of it settle in my chest. The silence is sharp. Everything in me is screaming to go back in, to fall to my knees, to tell her everything. But I can’t. Because I’m not sure the truth will make her safer. And I’d rather her hate me than bury her.
I drag a hand down my face. My jaw still throbs from where I clenched it too hard. My knuckles are raw from punching that prick who put his hands on her. Nathan. Fucking Nathan. I still want to find him and finish what I started.
And I keep telling myself I can protect her. That I can hold it all together just long enough to get through this. But it’s getting harder to breathe around the lies. Harder to look at her and pretend I’m not unraveling.
I told her I wouldn’t touch her again until she asked. But that doesn’t mean I can stop wanting her. And that sure as hell doesn’t mean I’ll let anyone else near her. Not Clay. Not Nathan. No one. I’ll burn down the world before I let anyone take her from me.
Neve and Bridger are in the kitchen, cleaning up my mess.
The destruction hits me fresh. Shattered plates.
Smeared sauce. Blood on the counter from where I cut myself.
This is who I am. This is what she’s letting into her life.
Bridger doesn’t hide the way he looks at me.
He never does. His jaw is tight, and there’s a storm in his eyes.
He’s always been easy to read—rage all over him like an open wound.
Neve, though, glances up from a broken plate and meets my eyes.
What she gives me isn’t anger. It’s pity.
And that look guts me.
I nod toward Bridger. "Come with me. We’ve got shit to do."
Bridger steps back from the counter, eyes narrowing. "You’re just going to leave now? After all that?" He looks around the room like he can’t believe I’m serious. "Where’s Marlowe? Is she okay?"
“Of course she’s okay,” I snarl, louder than I mean to. My voice bounces off the cabinets and walls like it’s looking for something else to destroy. “Everything I did—every fucking second of it—was to make sure she’d be okay.”
Bridger doesn’t flinch, but his jaw flexes. Neve freezes mid-wipe, cloth hovering over a streak of soy sauce and blood.
“I would never fucking hurt her.” The words come out rough, broken at the edges.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. I want to punch something.
The counter. The wall. Myself. “Everything I’ve done—it’s for her.
” I breathe hard. Too hard. My chest heaves like I’ve just run five miles uphill, and it’s still not enough to bleed off the fire under my skin.
I try to breathe, to get the violent thoughts under control, but they won’t stop coming.
Every second I stand here, I see Clay’s face.
I hear his voice. He’s out there. And I know how he thinks.
If I don’t stop him first, he’s going to find her.
He’s going to find Marlowe. And if anything happens to her, I won’t survive it.
I scrub a hand down my face, trying to pull it together.
“Just take a ride with me,” I say to Bridger, my voice low, ragged.
His eyes narrow, but he nods once.
Then I turn to Neve. “Stay with her?”
Her lips press together, and she gives the smallest nod, but her eyes well up. She blinks fast, and it only makes it worse. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. I know what she’s thinking. And I don’t blame her.
Behind me, Marlowe’s voice slices through the air. “Where are you going?”
I spin around fast, sharper than I mean to. Marlowe stands at the edge of the hallway, arms crossed over her chest, eyes locked on mine like she already knows the answer. Like she heard everything. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes sharp.
“I have business to take care of,” I mutter.
Her eyebrows lift, barely. “Business that keeps me okay, right?” she asks. Her voice is steady, but there's something sharp buried beneath it. “Isn’t that what you just said? Everything you’re doing is to make sure I’m okay?”
I say nothing. My jaw tightens.
She takes a step forward. “Why wouldn’t I be okay, Damian?” she presses, her voice firm, searching for cracks I haven’t let her see.
I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”
Her hand lifts before she speaks again. She rubs her chest, slow and quiet, right over her heart like it aches. And it fucking breaks me. Because I did that. I’m doing it right now.
“Maybe you should stay there then,” she says quietly. “Wherever this nothing is.”
A hole tears open in my chest, right in the same spot she just touched herself, like she reached in and cracked it open with her bare hands.
It’s not sharp, not sudden—it’s deep. A slow split right down the center of everything that holds me together.
And it fucking hurts. It hurts worse than any knife I’ve taken.
Worse than the bullet that nearly dropped me on the shop floor eight years ago.
Those wounds bled and bruised and healed.
This one won’t. Because it comes from her.
She’s not yelling. She’s not crying. She’s just..
. done. And that’s what fucking kills me.
I take a step closer. Not enough to touch her, but close enough that she feels it. The heat. The weight. The promise. “I’m coming back,” I say, each word deliberate. “That’s not up for debate.”
Her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t back down.
I hold her gaze one second longer than I should, because if I don’t leave now, I won’t. I’ll stay. I’ll touch her. I’ll lose every last piece of control I’ve got left.
So I turn. And I walk out. I tear down the stairs two at a time, rage riding shotgun with every step. The sound of Bridger’s boots echoes behind me, but I don’t slow down. I need to move. Need to do something. I need this blood in my body to mean something other than pressure.
We hit the street, the night cool and heavy. I’m halfway to the car when Bridger grabs my shoulder and yanks me to a stop. “You want to let me in on what the fuck is going on?” he snaps.
I round on him, still breathing hard. My jaw tightens. My fists itch. “There hasn’t been any contact from Vegas,” I say.
Bridger’s face twists. “What do you mean, no contact?”
“I mean the text messages stopped,” I bite out. “They went dark after he trailed Clay to a motel.” I pause and take a deep breath. “And Taylor was inside.”
Bridger jerks back like I hit him. “Taylor? Like Marlowe’s sister, Taylor?”
I nod once.
The look that passes over his face is a mix of stunned, sick, and something colder than I’ve ever seen on him. “What are you thinking happened?” he asks.
I drag a hand through my hair, my voice like gravel. “I think if Clay isn’t dead yet, then he knows where we are.”
Bridger exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”
“There’s something else,” I say, my voice low, like if I say it too loud the ground might shift beneath us. “Something I never told you. Or Cody.”
Bridger looks up at me, alarm flashing in his eyes.
I pause. My throat tightens.
“After Laura’s accident,” I start, then stop. Fuck. This is harder than I thought. “He told me… I mean, not right away. It was months later. The last time I ever visited him.”
Bridger blinks. “You visited him?”
I nod. “He said he had someone cut her brake line. Said he did it to remind me what it looks like when people try and walk away from him.” The words feel like acid scraping my throat on the way out.
“I was already trying to pull out. Stop working for him. Make the shop legit. He knew it. He told me if I didn’t stay loyal, he’d force my hand. ”
Bridger takes a step back. His face is pale. Horrified. “That’s why you’re so fucking scared of him finding Marlowe,” he says. “You think he’ll do to her what he did to Laura. You’re really afraid he’ll punish her to get to you.”
I shake my head slowly. “No,” I say, voice flat, empty. “I think he’ll do a hell of a lot more than punish her—for everything we took from him.”
“This is worse than I thought,” Bridger says.
“I need to make a few calls,” I mutter, already moving toward the car. “Get my head on straight. I don’t want Marlowe hearing any of this.”
Bridger falls into step beside me, his voice low but pressing. “But Damian… you’re messing shit up with her.”
I stop walking. Turn to him, sharp. “She stays in the dark until it’s over,” I say. “You have no idea how bad her panic attacks can get. I’ve seen them. I know what sets them off. If she knows someone worse than Joel is after us, it’s over. So no, I’m not dumping this on her.”
He shakes his head, teeth clenched. “And once Clay is taken care of?” he asks, voice hard. “You think everything’s just going to fall into place?”
“It’ll be fine,” I snap.
Bridger scoffs. “Is that what you keep telling yourself?”
I glare at him, but he keeps going.
“Shit might be fine, Damian. You might get it handled. But by the time you do, she’s not going to want anything to do with the psychopath she seems to be dating.”
“It’ll work out,” I say, more to myself than to him.
Bridger snorts. “Maybe it’s time you thought about leaving her for good.”
I turn my head slowly. “What?”
“That’ll keep her the safest—”
“Never,” I growl, cutting him off, the word snapping like a whip in the space between us. “I’m not going to live without her.”
He watches me for a beat, expression unreadable. I’m the one who looks away first. “Let’s just go to your place,” I mutter. “I’ll make the calls there. She’ll be fine tonight. Neve’s with her. She’ll cool off. It'll be fine.”
Bridger walks around to the passenger side and yanks the door open. “You are the biggest idiot I know,” he mutters. “Really.” He slams the door shut, and I follow a second later, jaw tight, pulse hammering. I don’t respond, because I already know I’m too far gone to be anything else.