Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
MARLOWE
“We need to get out of the street,” Reese says, stepping forward for the first time. His voice is soft for a man who looks like he could kill without blinking. He glances at Damian, then jerks his chin toward Nathan. “I’ll take care of this mess.”
I stiffen, and a chill crawls down my spine. “No,” I say, louder than I mean to. “Don’t hurt him.”
Reese raises an eyebrow, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. “I won’t. I promise. I’ll just get the windshield fixed,” he says.
I turn toward Damian. His jaw is locked tight, eyes narrowed, but something flickers through him. A shift in his face. Not quite shame. Not quite regret. Just a shadow of something he doesn’t want me to see.
“Will he really not hurt him?” I ask.
Damian lowers his gaze and gives a slight nod. It’s reluctant. But it’s enough.
Cody walks up beside me and touches his hand to my elbow. “I’ll stay with them, Lo. Nothing bad will happen, I promise.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Nathan’s still standing by the car. The interior is littered with broken glass.
The pieces catch the light like glitter.
He’s staring at me like he doesn’t recognize what’s happening.
His hands curl, uncurl. He looks like he wants to say a dozen things and doesn’t know which one to pick.
“You’re going to go with him?” he asks, voice strained. “Just like that?”
The words land harder than I expect. I flinch.
Because no, it’s not just like that. Nothing with Damian has ever been simple.
I’m not going because I forgive him. I’m still so angry and confused by all of this.
I’m going because I need answers. And if I have to sit in a room with the devil himself to get them, I will.
I meet Nathan’s gaze and shake my head slowly. “Thank you for driving us back.”
His expression darkens. “Lo, you can’t be serious.”
Bridger steps between us, his voice low but firm. “She’ll be fine. Let’s take this conversation to my place.” He turns to Reese. “Fix this up for him. Meet us there.”
Reese gives a short nod, already pulling his phone from his pocket. Nathan doesn’t move. He stands there frozen, staring at me, his face a mask of horror. His eyes flick to Damian, then to Neve, then back to me. “Really, Lo?” he asks, voice tight.
I nod. “I’ll be fine. I’ll text you.” He doesn’t like it. Not one bit. But he doesn’t argue again. He just stands there, stunned, like he can’t figure out how the hell he ended up there.
Before I can say anything else, I feel it—Damian’s hand at the small of my back. Warm. Possessive in a way that makes my pulse jump. He says nothing, just guides me gently toward his SUV. He opens the passenger side door for me, then holds out his hand.
I hesitate for a breath. My eyes flick to his face. There’s weariness in it—etched deep into the lines around his mouth, under his eyes. He looks older somehow. Not in years, but in damage. Like whatever he’s been through aged him overnight.
His cheek looks mangled, the gash worse up close than I expected. A long rivulet of blood snakes from it down to his jaw, then drips off his chin. The sight makes something tighten in my chest. What the hell happened to him?
His gaze drops to mine. And in that instant, I see it.
I see him. Not the man who punched out a windshield.
Not the one who kept secrets and let me fall apart in silence.
I see my Damian. And he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that makes sense.
There’s a plea in his eyes. A desperation that runs deeper than fear.
Like he knows this is his last shot and he’s not sure he deserves it.
Something shifts inside me. Not forgiveness. Not trust. Just movement. Just breath. I can breathe again. And I take his hand.
His grip is firm, solid, as he helps me climb up into the seat. I settle in, heart pounding, nerves buzzing like static under my skin. He shuts the door with a quiet click.
Damian rounds the front of the SUV and climbs into the driver’s seat.
He doesn’t start the engine right away. Just sits there, breathing hard, blood still dripping from his chin, his hands gripping the wheel.
His knuckles are a torn, bloody mess with shards of glass embedded in raw, split skin.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t loosen his grip, as if the pain is the punishment he’s decided he deserves.
Then he turns to me. His eyes trace over my face, pausing at my mouth, my eyes, my throat—like he’s memorizing every piece of me in case I vanish.
He reaches across the console and cups the back of my neck.
His palm is warm. Steady. A little rough.
The feel of it sends heat curling through me like smoke. “I fucking love you, Lo,” he says.
The words slam into me. No hesitation. No soft lead-in.
Just the truth, ripped straight from whatever raw place inside him has finally cracked open.
It stirs something deep in my belly. Something old and aching and starved.
His gaze doesn’t waver, even as it flicks over my features like he’s terrified I won’t say it back.
I open my mouth to speak, to give him something—anything—but the back doors open at the same time.
Bridger climbs in behind him. Neve slips in beside him, letting out a low groan as she settles into the seat.
The moment breaks. I close my mouth, swallow hard, and stare out the windshield while Damian starts the engine.
But my skin still burns where he touched me.
And the words are still echoing in my chest.
The drive is fast and no one talks. Damian’s hand stays clenched on the wheel the entire time, blood drying along the curve of his fingers. The silence fills every inch of the SUV. It sits on my chest like weight. By the time we pull up to Bridger’s place, my stomach is in knots.
I’ve never been to Bridger’s apartment before. I expected it to feel temporary—empty, like someone crashing for a few months before disappearing again. But when I step inside, I’m caught off guard.
It’s lived in. Fully. There are boots by the door, different pairs, like he has a routine and never leaves in the same ones.
Framed photos line the hallway, not staged or decorative, but real—Bridger and Damian with Cody at a beach bonfire, one of Delilah smiling with a birthday cake in front of her, frosting on her cheek.
There’s a blanket folded over the arm of the couch, worn at the edges, like it’s been used a hundred times.
The kitchen has magnets and a grocery list and a half-full bottle of vitamins sits on the counter.
It’s a home. He’s not just staying here.
He’s settled. Bridger Cross has put down roots in this place, in this town, and I didn’t even notice.
And Damian… He hasn’t left either. He’s still here.
He stayed. I was so afraid he wouldn’t that I never let myself consider what it meant that he did.
I didn’t look at the signs. I didn’t ask the questions.
Even Delilah’s memory care facility is less than an hour from here.
How the hell didn’t I see it?
Maybe because I was too wrapped up in my own fears. Too stuck in that part of me that always thought people don’t stay. That if you look away for one second, they’re gone.
But none of that matters now.
What matters is that my apartment is gone. My business is ash. Everything I own has been burned or buried in the ruins. I am standing barefoot in someone else’s living room wearing a crop top with burn holes in it, and I have no idea what the hell is happening or what comes next.
I turn to Damian. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to demand to know what’s going on. Instead, I whisper the only thing I can manage. “Tell me everything.” My voice shakes, but I hold his gaze. “Start talking. I need to know what the hell is going on. Every piece. No more secrets.”
Damian nods once, his voice rough. “Come on. First, let’s get some clothes on you guys.”
I glance over at Neve and let out a loud raspy laugh that turns into a hacking cough. She’s still wearing the hospital gown, tied up at her waist. Both of us still wearing the damn hospital wristbands.
Bridger steps past us and disappears into a room down the hall. “I’ve got some stuff they can wear,” he says.
A moment later, he’s back with an armful of clothes—oversized sweatpants, a few T-shirts worn soft from too many washes. He sets them down on the couch without ceremony.
Damian reaches into his pocket, pulls out a knife, and flips the blade open. He grabs my wrist gently, turns it, and slides the edge beneath the wristband. One clean cut, and it falls away.
Neve grabs a shirt and a pair of sweatpants off the pile, holding them up like she’s already imagining the comfort. “Can I take a shower?” she asks, already stepping toward the hallway. “And maybe we should give them some privacy.”
Her eyes flick briefly to me, then to Damian, like she knows what’s about to happen isn’t her story to sit in on.
Bridger nods and follows her. “Bathroom’s down the hall, last door. Towels are under the sink.”
They disappear together, and for a moment I let myself wonder.
No—hope. Maybe he can be there for her. Not just a shield when shit gets bad.
But something real. Something more than just a friend.
The thought vanishes almost as quickly as it comes.
Because the second they’re gone, I realize how badly I want that shower too.
Instead, I peel off my ruined clothes in front of Damian.
The crop top clings to my ribs, sticky with dried sweat and smoke. The boy shorts feel like they’re barely hanging on, frayed from the fire and everything that came after. I slide them off, step out, and reach for the oversized clothes Bridger left behind.
The sweatpants hang low on my hips. The T-shirt swallows me whole.
And when I glance up, I catch Damian watching.
His eyes are dark, roaming every inch of me like he’s starving.
Like he doesn’t know whether to worship me or wreck me.
His hunger is written across every line of his face, plain and brutal and unmistakable.
I look away fast, blood surging beneath my skin.
“We need to talk,” I say, sharp and quiet.
“So stop looking at me like you’re ready to fuck me. ”
His eyes snap to mine. The heat doesn’t vanish—if anything, it sharpens. “I told you, Angel,” he says, voice low. “I’m not fucking you again until you know how much you mean to me.”
I ignore the way his words settle in my chest. Ignore the heat still lingering in his eyes. “Just start talking, Damian. Now.”
He lets out a low breath, jaw flexing as he looks away for a second like he needs to steady himself. When his gaze returns to mine, it’s locked in. Serious. Steel. “My father. Clay. He’s out of jail.”
I blink. “Okay. And why is that making you lose your mind?”
His eyes go darker, voice dropping into that low, dangerous place that always makes me feel like the world’s about to change. “Because he’s a fucking psychopath,” he says. “Because he doesn’t stop. Because he will burn through anything that looks like it belongs to me.”
My stomach drops. “And?”
“And you belong to me.”
“What makes you think he’s going to do that?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, even as something cold creeps into my bloodstream.
Damian moves. Paces once. Then runs a hand through his hair and turns back toward me.
“Because that’s what he’s telling everyone,” he says.
“He got out of prison and no one showed up. No Joel. No Zero. None of us. His wife. His kids. Nobody.” He walks into the kitchen and opens a cabinet.
Grabs a glass. Fills it with water from the tap.
His shoulders are tight, like every word is costing him.
“He’s been gone for seventeen years, Lo.
And he’s not the kind of man who comes back quietly.
” Damian crosses back to me and hands me the glass without a word.
I didn’t even realize how dry my mouth was until I take it.
I sip, and the water hits my throat wrong. I start coughing, hard and sudden.
Damian’s there in an instant. He sits beside me on the couch, slides his hand across my back and rubs in slow, steady circles. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”
The touch steadies me, but it doesn’t soothe anything. My heart is still racing.
“He doesn’t know about Delilah,” Damian says once the coughs settle. “And I want to keep it that way. He doesn’t have the right to know anything about her. Not where she is. Not what she’s going through. Nothing.”
He pulls his hand back and leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the floor like he’s afraid of what’s coming out of his own mouth. “I sold the house,” he says. “All of the land. Put all the money into the memory care facility. You know how expensive that place is.”
I blink. “Wait… what? You sold the house?”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause.
“I sold the shop too.”
I stare at him. “You what?”
“I sold it,” he repeats. His voice doesn’t break, but there’s something tight in it. “Me, Bridger, Cody. We talked about it for a long time. Decided it was time. Way past time.”
He leans back, scrubs a hand down his face, then looks at me straight.
“I don’t want anything to do with Cross and Sons.
I don’t want that his shit anywhere near me.
I don’t want him touching a single thing that matters to me.
And I sure as hell don’t want any of the bad shit following me into whatever this is. ”
He looks at me like this is what he means. Me. Us.
“I’m trying to cut it all off at the root before it spreads. Before it touches you. But, fuck, Lo. I think I’m too late.”