Chapter 4 #3
“You begged me to be good,” he whispers, his voice slipping, raw and childlike. “You begged me not to scream.” My throat locks. “You told me we’d go to the quiet place if I didn’t make a sound.”
The quiet place.
Something flickers in the back of my skull.
A pulse.
A static hum.
A word I don’t remember knowing.
I shake my head.
I shake it too fast.
Like I can shake it loose.
But it stays.
It lingers.
The quiet place.
His breath drags across my temple, his grip shaking.
“You told me the quiet place would be safe.” His mouth ghosts over my ear, soft and filthy. “You told me we’d stay there forever.” My pulse fractures. “You told me we’d never come back.”
His other hand drags up the chain, pulling it taut, coiling it tighter, winding me closer like he’s afraid I’ll vanish again.
“And then you left me.” His voice breaks. “You left me there.”
A sob punches out of him, sharp and cracked and not meant for me. “I waited.” His breath catches. “I waited in the quiet place.”
His grip slides to my throat, not cruel, not hard—just enough to keep me there.
“I waited for you to remember me.” His thumb drags over my lip again, softer now. “And now you do.”
His lips press to mine, slow, delicate, like I’m something holy.
Like I’m something he thought he’d never touch again.
“And now you’ll stay.” His forehead rests against mine. “You’ll stay this time.”
I nod because I don’t know what else to do, because I think I mean it. I think some part of me remembers the quiet place too.
His breath steadies.
His grip softens.
And I think maybe—Maybe I’ve already been waiting for him too.
His breath stays pressed to mine like he’s afraid if he lets go, I’ll forget him again.
Like I’ve done this before.
Like I’ve already left him before.
His thumb traces the seam of my lips, soft, steady, careful.
His other hand never leaves the chain.
“You’ll stay this time,” he whispers.
I nod.
“I’ll stay.”
But the words feel strange in my mouth.
Like they belong to someone else.
Like I’ve said them before.
His mouth drags over my cheek, slow, desperate, like he’s trying to memorise me.
“You promised.” My stomach knots. “You said we’d stay in the quiet place.”
His breath catches like he’s remembering it right now.
Like he’s still there.
“You said if we were quiet, he’d never find us.”
I swallow hard.
“I don’t remember that.”
His thumb presses against my lip until I can’t speak.
“You do.” His eyes flick to mine, sharp, steady, wild. “You remember.” His grip tightens in my hair. “You just don’t want to.”
My pulse stumbles.
“Damien—”
His smile sharpens.
“You always forget the hard parts.” He pulls me closer, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath shaking. “You remember the chapel, don’t you?”
My ribs lock.
His thumb slides lower, dragging across the scar on my ribs, slow and deliberate.
“You remember the door that never shut.”
I shake my head too fast.
“You remember the songs you used to hum when you were scared.”
I bite my lip, my pulse slamming into my throat.
“You remember the shoes.” His breath skips. “You remember me.” His thumb taps the scar again. “You remember what happened when I stopped being quiet.”
I choke on a sob I don’t understand.
He cups my jaw, soft, reverent, like I’ve already broken.
“You remember what he did when you screamed.”
I shake my head, but I feel it now.
The echo.
The pull.
The thread buried somewhere I’m afraid to touch.
“I don’t—”
“You remember the quiet place.” His voice fractures. “You told me if we were quiet enough, he’d leave me alone.”
His thumb taps the scar again.
The pressure lingers.
His breath ghosts over my cheek.
“You told me if we didn’t move, if we didn’t cry, if we didn’t breathe too loud, he’d take someone else.”
The weight of the words punches through my ribs.
“You promised he’d take someone else.” His lips ghost over my temple. “And he did.”
The room shrinks.
The walls tighten.
The chain burns against my skin.
I can’t tell what’s real anymore.
I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
His mouth brushes mine, soft, careful, like I’m already breaking. “You told me it would be okay.” His voice drops to a whisper, cracked and trembling. “You told me I’d be safe.” His breath shakes. “You told me you’d come back for me.”
My throat shatters.
He pulls the chain tight, winding me into him, locking me down.
“You forgot.”
His smile cuts deep.
His lips press against my pulse.
“But I didn’t.”
His hands slide into my hair.
His mouth crushes mine.
“You remembered me.” His grip softens. “And now you’ll stay.”
The chain rattles as he pulls me into his lap.
His arms cage me there, his breath steadying against my temple.
His voice softens.
“You won’t leave me this time.”
I can’t speak.
I can’t move because I think some part of me remembers the quiet place too.
I just don’t know why I buried it.
Or what I promised to forget.
His arms stay locked around me like he’s waiting for me to disappear again.
Like I’ve done it before.
Like he’s still waiting for me to break the promise I don’t remember making.
His breath stutters against my temple.
His hands tighten when I shift.
“You’re mine,” he breathes, his voice soft but trembling at the edges.
“Yes,” I whisper, my throat too tight, my pulse stumbling.
“You’re mine,” he says again, a little harder this time, like he’s trying to pin the words in place.
I nod.
“I’m yours.”
“You always were.”
His voice sharpens, his hands clenching in my hair like he’s afraid I’ll try to crawl out of this now that I’ve tasted the weight of it.
Like I’ve done that before.
“You always were mine.”
My chest aches.
Not from fear.
From the pressure of how badly I want to believe him.
Even though the words don’t feel like they belong to this moment.
Even though they feel older.
Older than us.
Older than this.
His thumb drags across my lip again, slow, like he’s tracing something he lost.
“You remember when I told you we’d stay in the quiet place forever.”
It’s not a question.
It’s a statement.
A lock.
A thread I can’t pull.
I want to say no but the word won’t form because I don’t know if that’s the truth.
Or if I’ve already buried it.
His breath catches. “You cried when I left.” My pulse falters. “You begged me to stay with you.”
He’s so sure.
So certain.
“You begged me not to go with him.” His grip tightens. “You said you’d keep me.” His smile flickers, fragile, fractured. “But you forgot.”
His breath breaks.
His mouth drags across my jaw, his lips reverent like he’s touching something he thought he lost.
“You always forget the hard parts.” His thumb taps my lip again. “But I don’t.” His forehead presses to mine. “I remember all the hard parts.”
His other hand drags the chain tight, winding it around his fist, pulling me until there’s no space left between us.
“You said you’d save me.” The words cut. “You promised.”
I want to tell him I don’t remember but some part of me whispers that maybe I do.
Maybe I just buried it too deep.
“You told me you’d save me,” he breathes again, like the words are fragile, like they might break if he says them too loud. “You told me you wouldn’t let him take me.” His voice shakes. “You told me you’d come back for me.”
My throat burns.
My heart fractures.
His hands slide to my throat, soft, careful, holding me there like I’m something holy.
“But you didn’t come back.” His breath ghosts over my lips. “You let him take me.”
I shake my head, desperate, but I don’t know what I’m denying.
“I— I didn’t— I didn’t know— I didn’t mean to leave you—”
His thumb presses into the hollow of my throat.
“You forgot.” His voice is so soft I almost miss it. “You promised you wouldn’t forget.” His mouth grazes mine. “But you did.”
The air collapses between us.
His hands grip the chain tighter, dragging me closer, locking me into him like he can still make me stay.
“You forgot.” His breath shudders. “But I didn’t.”
He kisses me like he’s stitching me back into him.
Like he’s anchoring me to the place I left him.
His lips crush mine.
His voice breaks.
“You won’t forget me this time.”
I choke on a sob I don’t understand.
I don’t know if I remember.
I don’t know if I want to.
But his hands keep me here.
His chain keeps me here.
And I let him.
Because what if I did forget?
What if I did leave him?
What if I promised I wouldn’t?
What if I promised to save him?
What if I broke that promise?
And what if he’s been waiting for me to come back this whole time?
His hands tremble where they’re buried in my hair, his knuckles scraping against my scalp, desperate and grounding.
“You used to hold my hand in the dark,” he whispers, his breath warm and shaking against my cheek.
I close my eyes.
The darkness behind my eyelids feels different now.
Heavier.
Cold.
“You told me to count the cracks in the ceiling so I wouldn’t hear the door opening.” His thumb drags over the scar on my ribs again, circling it, marking it like it’s his territory. “One. Two. Three.” His voice is a ghost of a child’s. “You never made it to ten.”
My chest heaves.
“Damien, please.”
“You always stopped at seven.” His grip on my waist tightens, pulling me so flush against him that I can feel every jagged breath he takes. “Because that’s when he’d reach the bed.”
A sharp, electric pain spikes in the back of my head.
I see a ceiling.
I see cracks like lightning.
I hear a latch click.
“I remember the counting,” I breathe, the words tasting like copper.
His body goes still.
Rigid.
“I remember the number seven.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes wide, pupils blown so large they’ve swallowed the colour.
“You remember,” he says, and it’s not a relief. It’s a sentence. “You remember the trade.”
My heart stops.
“What trade?”
His smile is the most broken thing I’ve ever seen.
“You were the one he wanted first.”
The room spins.
The monitors flicker, their blue light washing over his wrecked face like a bruise.
“You were the one he reached for.” His voice drops to a whisper, cold and hollow. “But I told him I’d be better.”
He drags the chain up, the cold metal clinking against the buttons of my shirt.
“I told him I’d never scream.”
“I told him I’d stay in the quiet place forever if he just let you sleep.” His breath hitches. “And you slept, Raven.”
“You slept while I prayed for both of us.”
I can’t breathe.
I can’t find the air.
The floor has disappeared, leaving me hanging on the only thing that’s real—him.
“I didn’t know,” I sob, my forehead dropping to his shoulder, my tears soaking into his skin. “I swear I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
His hands move down my back, sliding under my shirt to find the skin, his touch searing.
“That’s why I had to bring you back.” His mouth finds mine again, but this time it’s not feral. It’s starving. “I had to bring you back so I could finally stop counting.”
He winds the chain around his wrist, pulling it tight until the link at my ankle bites deep.
“Now we both stay at seven.” His voice is a low vibration against my lips. “Now neither of us has to hear the door.”
And for the first time, I don’t want him to let go.
I don’t want him to unlock the chain.
I want to be buried here, in the dark, in the quiet, in the debt I can never pay back.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into his mouth.
“Don’t be sorry.” His eyes find mine, sharp and possessive and final. “Just be mine.”
He drags the chain one more time, the sound final and heavy, as he pulls me into the dark with him.
“Always.”