CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
RAVEN
The sheets smell like him.
Smoke and sweat. Leather and sin.
Damien.
His name wraps around me before I even open my eyes.
The bed beneath me is firm—his bed. The one I’ve woken up in a hundred times, legs tangled with his, throat sore from screaming his name in ways no prayer should echo.
I shift slightly. My body aches in all the familiar places—between my thighs, in my wrists, along the fading bruises across my ribs. My mind hums, heavy and fogged, but the comfort of it lulls me.
I don’t remember how we got here.
But I know he’s near.
I smell him.
Feel him.
And when the mattress dips beside me, I don’t flinch.
Because it’s him.
His hand finds my waist, warm and steady. His lips ghost along my shoulder.
“You’re safe now.”
His voice is lower than usual. Rougher. Like he’s been screaming.
But the words sink into my skin like balm.
“I missed you,” I whisper, leaning back against him.
He kisses the curve of my neck, tongue flicking over a healing bite mark. “I was always with you.”
His fingers drift between my thighs, and I gasp—because the pain is real. The soreness.
But I want it.
I want him.
I roll over, eyes still half-closed, and he meets me with a kiss. Slow. Possessive. Familiar. So familiar.
“Don’t leave me again,” I murmur into his mouth.
He smiles. It’s dim in the room, but I see the shape of it.
Too wide.
Not quite right.
I pause.
His hand cups my cheek.
“You begged me to come back.”
He slides between my legs, his body pressing into mine, and I don’t stop him. Even when his mouth moves to my ear and whispers:
“You scream the same as you did at fifteen.”
Something snaps.
My eyes fly open.
The room isn’t Damien’s.
The scent is too clean. Too sterile beneath the smoke.
The mirror in the corner—cracked. The walls—off-white, not black.
The floor—linoleum.
His smile.
Not Damien’s.
“No—”
He thrusts into me hard, claiming me in one savage motion, and I scream.
He leans down, breath hot against my mouth.
“Don’t worry, little moth,” he whispers. “You’ll love me soon enough.”
I gasp—his body pressed flush against mine, driving into me like he owns every inch he touches.
And for a second, I want to believe he does.
That this is Damien.
That I’m safe.
That this is just another one of his brutal, possessive ways of saying I’m his.
But the words don’t match the rhythm of his breath.
The cadence is wrong.
The grip is wrong.
The kiss is wrong.
He’s fucking me like he knows someone else already did.
And then—he laughs.
Low. Mirthless. Razor-sharp.
Not Damien.
I freeze.
The weight of his hips slamming into mine doesn’t stop, but something in my chest does.
He leans down, lips brushing my cheek, and whispers:
“Does he make you cry like I do?”
I shove at his chest, suddenly shaking.
He lets me.
He wants me to see.
And I do.
His face hovers over mine—and it’s Damien’s, but it isn’t.
The eyes are colder.
The smile, wider.
The voice dipped into a memory I thought I buried years ago.
“No,” I whisper, horror climbing my throat. “You’re not him.”
He doesn’t flinch.
He just tilts his head like a puppeteer admiring his work.
“I never said I was.” His voice softens. “You just wanted it badly enough to believe.”
I crawl backward, shaking, the sheets twisted around my legs.
His body glistens with sweat. My blood’s on his chest. My trust is still on his tongue.
“Get away from me!”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he reaches for my ankle and drags me back toward him—slow, methodical—like he’s reeling in a catch he already knows can’t escape.
“No,” he says gently. “You don’t get to run. Not from me. Not again.”He climbs over me, pinning my wrists, and leans in so close I can smell the lie on his breath. “You gave him your screams. Now give me your tears.”
I thrash.
Bite.
Spit in his face.
He doesn’t even blink.
He smiles wider.
“That’s more like it.”
I scream—but it dies in his mouth as he kisses me again, pressing down, swallowing every inch of resistance.
He’s strong.
But I’ve been broken before.
And now?
I know the difference between being claimed and being consumed.
I snap my head to the side, baring my teeth, and I bite.
Hard.
His shoulder tears under my jaw, blood flooding my mouth.
He yelps—more shock than pain—but it’s enough.
His grip slips.
I move.
I twist my hips, knee driving up between his legs. He stumbles back with a curse, and I crawl across the bed, hand flying for the edge of the nightstand—Nothing.
No weapon.
Just moth wings. Paper. Dozens of them. Scattered like fallen petals.
Useless.
I vault off the bed barefoot, sprinting for the door. My legs are slick, bruised, trembling—but rage is stronger than trauma.
Behind me, I hear him growl.
“RUN, THEN!”
I tear down the hallway. It’s wrong—tilted, flickering, curved, like the walls are breathing with me.
I don’t care.
I follow the cold.
The scent of bleach.
The whisper in my head that says this is where he drags the ones who say no.
I find a staircase.
Narrow. Rusted.
I take them two at a time.
It leads to a locked metal door.
I slam into it.
Nothing.
But there’s a camera in the corner—watching.
I look right into it.
I don’t scream.
I stare.
Eyes wide.
Mouth bloodied.
Hair wild.
“Damien,” I whisper. “Find me.”
I don’t know whether he sees it.
But I pray he does.
The second I say his name—the lights go out.
And behind me, I hear the door slam shut.
Then a voice through the intercom.
Softer now.
“You shouldn’t have done that, little moth.”
The lights cut out.
And with them—air.
It’s not just dark.
It’s suffocating. The kind of dark that lives inside lungs, crawls down your throat, and fills the back of your eyes with static.
I don’t move.
I listen.
Nothing.
Then—Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not footsteps.
Not breathing.
Claws.
Metal on metal.
From behind the walls.
I spin, back pressed to the sealed door, heartbeat slamming.
There’s no light—except for the camera’s tiny red eye, watching me from the ceiling like it’s amused.
Then comes the hiss.
Not human.
Not quite.
A mechanical click echoes to my left.
A vent panel creaks open.
No.
No.
I stumble backward, hitting the door so hard I feel it in my teeth.
And then—He speaks again.
The voice that isn’t Damien’s.
“He hurt you too gently.” A pause. “Let me teach you how to break the right way.”
Something slithers from the vent.
I see flesh.
Bent. Wrong.
Limbs painted black with ink or rot—or both.
Eyes that don’t blink.
And in its hand?
A mask.
Damien’s face.
Worn. Torn.
Stretched like latex.
It places it on.
Tilts its head.
“Still want him now?”