CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
DAMIEN
She said my name.
Bloodied. Bruised. Wild-eyed.
And she said my name.
The screen crackles in front of me—grainy security footage, timestamped twenty minutes ago, streamed from a stolen feed I clawed out of the backup server hidden behind that bastard’s shrine.
I shouldn’t be able to see this.
But I do.
And I can’t look away.
Raven—stumbling through the corridor barefoot, wrapped in nothing but sweat and panic, her hands still shaking, her mouth red from fighting.
She found the camera.
Looked straight into it.
And said the one thing I can’t fucking breathe without.
“Damien. Find me.”
My hands curl into fists on the desk.
The screen jumps—static—then returns.
She’s locked in a room now. Lights cut. Vent open. Something moves toward her.
A shape that shouldn’t be real.
It wears my face.
It wears my fucking face.
The video goes black.
The feed dies.
The laptop slides off the table and shatters, but I don’t remember moving.
I’m already up. Grabbing blades. Guns. Fire.
I’m done being watched.
Now they burn.
All of them.
The facility groans around me as I move.
The wind claws through the broken windows as if it’s trying to warn me—or mock me. I can’t tell anymore.
The fire alarm is ringing in my head, but it isn’t on.
My footsteps echo down the ruined hallway, over wax-stained tiles and cracked linoleum that still smells like bleach and sweat and fear.
The doors close behind me.
One by one.
Sealing me in.
I check the blade at my thigh, the gun at my spine.
My fingers tremble.
Not from fear.
From restraint.
Because I know—he wants me to lose control.
He wants me to come in hot, blind, angry.
So he can watch.
So I slow down.
Breathe through the smoke I’m choking on.
And then I see the first one.
A doll.
Handmade.
Strapped to a gurney.
Wearing Raven’s clothes.
Her exact clothes.
Same torn sweatshirt. Same broken lace panties I left on the floor days ago.
The doll is bleeding from the eyes.
Pinned to its chest—a note.
Taped with surgical precision.
She screams less now.
But only for me.
—N
I rip it off and keep moving.
Down the next hall, the lights flicker—not all at once. One by one. A slow strobe of cruelty, dragging my shadow along the wall in fractured, twitching pieces.
The silence isn’t silent anymore.
There’s a hum in the walls. A clicking in the vents.
A soft… dragging sound.
Like something wet being pulled across tile.
Like a body.
Or worse—my body.
Being reenacted.
Again and again.
I round the next corner and stop.
Another screen.
Mounted on the wall.
Flickering to life the second I step into view.
And there she is.
Raven.
Curled in the corner of a pitch-dark room.
Still naked.
Still shaking.
But whispering now.
To herself?
To him?
I press closer.
She’s rocking.
Muttering.
“He’s not real. He’s not Damien. Damien wouldn’t leave me. He wouldn’t leave me. He wouldn’t—”
Her voice breaks. She covers her mouth with her hands like she’s trying to catch the scream before it escapes.
She’s shattering.
And he’s letting her.
I punch the screen.
It doesn’t crack.
It laughs.
Distorted audio blares—a low, warped version of my voice: “Don’t worry, baby. I’m here. Just like you asked.”
Then silence.
Then a sound I didn’t expect—
her moan.
But it’s not pleasure.
It’s a cry.
Of confusion.
Of betrayal.
Of survival.
I fall to my knees, fists bruised, blood on my tongue from biting down so hard I split my lip.
He’s not just touching her.
He’s replacing me.
The screen flickers again.
Static blurs the image for a second. I brace for it.
I should’ve looked away.
But I don’t.
Because it’s her.
Raven.
Still in that sterile room.
Still watched.
Still filmed.
But something’s changed.
She’s not in the corner anymore.
She’s on the mattress.
Lying still.
Breathing heavy.
And he’s there.
N.
Wearing my face.
Kneeling between her legs.
His hands on her thighs—possessive, worshipful, familiar.
Too familiar.
My throat burns as I force myself not to blink.
Because the worst part?
She’s letting him.
Her eyes flutter closed.
Her breath catches—just like it does for me.
He leans down, whispering something I can’t hear.
She nods.
She fucking nods.
Then he kisses her.
Slow. Deep.
Exactly the way I kissed her the first time I told her she was mine.
His mouth trails down her neck. Her chest.
His hands cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until she arches.
She moans.
“Damien…”
My name.
She says my name.
But it’s him she’s looking at.
And I feel something rupture.
Not jealousy.
Not rage.
Loss.
Because I can tell—this isn’t her giving in.
This is her surviving.
She’s performing.
Playing submissive.
The way she did the first time I tested her.
She remembers what I want.
And now she’s giving it to him.
Her lips part as he slides down between her thighs, licking like he knows the exact rhythm of her body—because he does.
He watched me do it.
He studied it.
He’s not fucking her.
He’s copying me.
And she’s letting it happen.
Because she thinks it’ll keep her alive.
Her voice is barely audible over the static.
“I’ll be good. Just don’t hurt me like before.”
My knees hit the floor.
I dig my fingers into the wall beside the screen, blood dripping from where my nails tear skin.
She’s not lost.
She’s pretending.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because now I’ve seen it.
Now I’ve watched her give my name to someone else’s mouth.
And I swear—I will peel the face off his skull while he screams with it still on.