Chapter 34 Damien
Damien
I’ve been camped out on the worn leather couch in the den since late afternoon, pretending to scroll through my phone but mostly just replaying the conversation with Lionel Adams in my head.
“Bad day?” he asks.
I shake my head, then shrug, realizing how pointless it is to pretend with him. “Yeah. You could say that.” I glance over my shoulder, making sure nobody else is lurking in the hallway, and nod toward the kitchen. “You got a minute?”
He arches a brow. “For you? Always.” He slides past me into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water.
I take the stool at the island, knuckles white around my phone. For a second, I don’t say anything. I’m not even sure how to start, but Killian’s got the kind of patience that fills the room and makes you want to spill your guts just to break the silence.
“Look, I need your advice. And… probably your connections,” I mutter, raking a hand through my hair.
Killian pauses with the cap of the bottle half-twisted. His eyes go a little wider, something flickering behind the cool facade. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”
I try for a smile, but it dies before it lands.
So, I just lay out the whole mess—what happened with Noah’s dad four years ago and today at Blackthorne, the threats, the way he talked about legacy and control like Noah’s some kind of asset instead of a person.
I mention Brent Simmons, about the warning, about the way Lionel Adams carries his power like a weapon, and how the room always feels colder when he’s in it.
Killian doesn’t interrupt, not once. He listens the way he does on the ice, eyes flicking over me, jaw clenched, hands folded in front of him. By the time I finish, he’s dead quiet, the kitchen lit only by the undercabinet lights, all the chaos of the house on pause.
“You did good getting him on record,” he says, tone all business now. “So, I’m guessing you want to know if I know anything about Simmons, and if there’s a connection between him and Adams.”
“Yeah,” I say. “If there’s anything I can use—anything we can use—to get the fucker off our backs. I’m sick of feeling like he’s one call away from burning everything down.”
Killian’s mouth pulls into a hard, thoughtful line.
“I’ll make a few calls. My dad will know someone who worked the Simmons case, and I’m pretty sure there were sealed records no one wanted public.
If Adams was involved in getting him disqualified, or if he’s hiding something from the Olympic Committee, we’ll find out.
Might take a few days to get leverage, but I’ll get it. ”
I sag a little, some of the tension easing out of my spine. “Thank you.”
He waves me off. “You’d do the same for me. But don’t be an idiot, Damien. If Adams escalates, you don’t go after him alone, and you don’t play hero.”
“I know,” I say, even though I’m not sure I do. “I’m just—I’m fucking pissed off, man. I’ve never hated anyone like I hate that son of a bitch.”
“I get it, trust me,” Killian’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “You want me to handle anything personally? Alibi, clean up, whatever—just say the word. That’s what Sin Bin is for. And next time, text me before you try and do something dumb.”
“Yeah, I will,” I say, running a hand through my hair again. “I just—I needed to talk to someone who gets it. Someone who isn’t gonna tell me to take the high road.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “Moore, you’ve seen my family tree. High road’s not for politicians. I know how to bury a secret and when to bury people with secrets.”
I huff a laugh, but it barely lands before my phone buzzes on the counter, and I see Ryan’s name flashing across the screen. I answer, the dread already twisting in my gut. “Ry? What’s—”
“D, I know you told me to check on Noah in case that fucker was still here, but you need to get here. Now. Noah’s—he’s on the bathroom floor.
He’s not responding. There’s—” Ryan’s voice breaks, breath hitching.
“There’s… There’s vomit everywhere. I don’t know how long he’s been like this.
Just—just get here, alright? Bring Nate if you have to, I don’t fucking care, just come. Please.”
My blood goes cold. For a moment, I’m not in the Sin Bin anymore. I’m back in high school, hearing the crack in Ryan’s voice when he told me Noah was skipping meals and missing practice. I never wanted to hear that sound again.
“I’m on my way,” I say, grabbing my shit. “Keep him on his side if you can. Don’t try to move him completely. I’ll call Nate and be there in ten.”
“Yeah, yeah—I’ve got him,” Ryan says, voice breaking. “He’s so cold, D.”
“I’m coming,” I promise, already bolting for the door.
Killian grabs my shoulder, steadying me for a beat. “What’s happening?”
“It’s Noah,” I say, my voice breaking as I try to shove his hand off, but he doesn’t let me. “Fuck—I don’t know what happened, but Ryan says he found Noah on his bathroom floor, and he’s non-responsive. I—I can’t—I gotta go—”
“Text me Noah’s address, and I’ll get Nate and a doctor there,” he says and pushes me toward the door. “Keep your head, Moore. Noah needs you alive.”
“Thanks, Kill,” I nod, breath coming in ragged, and bolt for the door, nearly slamming into Thorn in the hallway, ignoring his shout as I barrel out the front door. I hit the driveway, fumble with my keys, and peel out of the lot so fast I almost hit a trash can.
My heart is thundering, a wild animal in my chest, but the only thing I can see is Noah—curled up, hurting, scared, and alone, and I wasn’t there.
I wasn’t fucking there.
Hold on, Blue. I’m coming.