CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
RAVEN
When I wake, I don’t know where I am—not for the first few seconds.
Not in the panicked, breathless way I used to—those wake-ups where my heart tried to crawl out of my chest before my eyes even opened. This one is quieter. Softer. The room is grey with morning light, and everything smells like leather and sleep and him.
Damien.
His arms are still around me.
And we’re still on the floor.
There’s a blanket over us, thin and heavy, and I feel the sharp press of the hardwood through my hip where we didn’t quite line the throw right. But I don’t move.
His hand is on my back, steady, warm.
For a long moment, I just breathe.
It’s strange—this silence. It doesn’t buzz. It doesn’t watch. It just is. The space around me doesn’t feel like it’s closing in. The walls aren’t whispering.
I shift slightly.
His hand doesn’t tighten.
He’s asleep.
Damien—asleep.
I tilt my head back, careful not to wake him, and catch the shape of his face in the early light. Hair mussed. Brows relaxed. Lips parted, just enough to break the tension he always wears like armour.
He looks young.
Almost human.
My chest aches.
I hate how much I want this to be real.
I close my eyes again, press my forehead against his collarbone, and let myself pretend.
That this is normal.
This is what it looks like being held instead of hunted.
That the man wrapped around me wasn’t the one who whispered “Little Spider” into my skin until I trembled.
He told me last night.
Everything.
His silence was a confession.
And I accepted it.
Not because I forgive him.
But because I understand what it means to survive ugly.
I’m tired of pretending that my own reflection isn’t cracked in the same places.
My fingers curl around the edge of his shirt. His heartbeat is slow, deep beneath muscle and bone. The beat that doesn’t lie.
And I whisper so softly I barely hear it myself.
“I’m still here.”
Because I am.
And that matters.
That has to matter.
I exhale, slow. Try not to notice the soreness between my legs. The heat in my core. The way my body still echoes with what he did to me—what I let him do. It doesn’t feel wrong. Just haunted. Like a cathedral after a storm.
I shift again, this time to ease the cramp in my hip.
Damien stirs.
His fingers flex once, and I feel the press of his thumb move against my spine—slow, instinctive.
“Raven,” he murmurs, low and gravel-slick.
I look up.
His eyes are open now, just barely.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
And then—I smile.
Not big. Not bright.
But real.
His gaze holds mine. There’s no smirk. No tension.
Just something that might be regret. Or awe.
We lie there like that, eyes on each other, the morning heavy with things we’re not saying.
And I know—I know—this moment can’t last.
But I let it stretch.
Because something in me is shifting, too.
I don’t want to be afraid anymore.
Not of him.
Not of myself.
I pull back slightly, just enough to sit up. The blanket slides off my shoulder, and the air bites across my skin. Damien follows, slower, sitting back on his heels, eyes flicking over me like he’s checking for damage.
I reach for my hoodie, pulling it over my tank, trying not to wince at how everything still throbs. He notices. Of course he does.
“Do you want me to help with—”
“No,” I said. “I’ve got it.”
He doesn’t press.
Just nods.
I rise to my feet carefully, and he stands, too, keeping a few feet of space between us. That, more than anything, makes my throat tight.
He’s learning restraint.
He’s letting me choose.
I head toward the bathroom, not fast, but deliberate. I need space. Water. Maybe a new layer of skin.
I don’t look back.
The faucet creaks when I turn it, and the pipes groan like they resent being woken.
I splash cold water on my face, then again, harder, until the pulse behind my eyes eases. I brace my hands on the sink and finally look at myself in the mirror.
I look… alive.
Wrecked. Tired. Marked.
But alive.
My eyes are clearer.
Like I’m finally stepping out of a thick, humid dream.
I reach for a towel and freeze.
Something moves in the mirror’s corner.
Not a person—just a shape.
A shift.
Like light bending where it shouldn’t.
I whip around. Nothing.
No one.
Just a hook on the back of the door.
Just my reflection behind me.
I hold still.
Heart ticking faster now.
I walk to the door, and crack it open.
Damien’s in the kitchen, shirtless, coffee brewing.
He doesn’t look up.
Doesn’t move.
Just hums—a tune I know.
One I’ve heard whispered through vents.
Incy wincy spider…
But slower.
Mangled.
Different.
Off-key.
I grip the edge of the door tighter.
My skin prickles, but I shake it off.
It’s nothing. Just habit.
Just shadows.
I step out.
The apartment smells of coffee and rain.
It’s strange how normal it feels. How the morning hums with the illusion that nothing’s broken, that the air wasn’t thick with fear just hours ago. The hardwood under my bare feet creaks in all the usual places, and I move like a shadow through a life I’m not sure belongs to me anymore.
Damien glances over his shoulder as I enter the kitchen.
He’s dressed now. T-shirt, soft and worn. His forearms still bare. One hand cradled a mug. The other—his right—is turned just enough that I catch the black mark on his wrist again.
Venator.
My stomach tightens, but I don’t look away.
I don’t need to.
Last night was the truth. And I’m not pretending anymore.
“You okay?” he asks again.
Same words. Different tone.
I nod, and this time I mean it more than I don’t.
He slides a second mug across the counter. I catch it before it tips, wrapping both hands around the warmth.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He watches me over the rim of his cup, but doesn’t speak.
I sip.
It’s bitter.
Good.
We stand there, leaning on opposite ends of the kitchen island like we’ve done this before. This is something we do.
My throat feels thick.
I searched for something to say. Something that won’t sound like a landmine.
“Are you… going to the gym today?”
His lips twitch—just a little. “Are you trying to get rid of me already?”
“No,” I say, maybe too fast. “I just—”
He holds up a hand, the one without the ink. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to want space.”
I nod and take another sip.
There’s a beat.
Then another.
Then he says quietly, “I’ll be here until you ask me not to be.”
And that—that sits somewhere deep in my ribs.
I’ll be here until you ask me not to be.
I don’t reply.
I just keep drinking.
I drift to the window sometime later, after the coffee’s gone and the dishes are in the sink and Damien’s retreated to the other side of the apartment, headphones in, back turned. He’s giving me distance without moving far. Like he’s still learning what it means to be nearby without taking.
The glass is cold under my fingertips.
Outside, the city stretches awake. Cars, pigeons, some poor guy trying to wrangle a broken umbrella. The usual rhythm.
But there’s something off.
I take a moment to realise what it is.
There’s a note tucked under the door.
I stare at it.
Small. Folded. cream-coloured. Just resting there like it’s always been part of the morning.
My breath stills.
But it’s not panic that seizes me—it’s confusion.
Because Damien never uses paper. Not for me.
He’s digital. Photos. Texts. Recordings.
Ones and zeros, always. Never ink.
I walk toward the door slowly. Quietly.
Damien doesn’t notice.
The floor creaks once under my heel, and I pause. Wait. Listen.
Still nothing from him.
I crouch.
The note is plain. No name. No handwriting on the outside.
I glance over my shoulder.
Then, I pick it up.
I don’t open it.
Not yet.
Just stand.
The paper feels heavy between my fingers. Real in a way the rest of the morning doesn’t.
I run my thumb along the fold.
Still, I don’t open it.
I walk into the bedroom, close the door behind me, and sit on the edge of the bed.
And only then, with the curtain drawn and my breath shallow, do I unfold the note.
There’s just one sentence inside.
The thin, careful ink writing resembles printing but not quite.
Do you remember what he took from you that night in the chapel?
The mug falls from my hand.
Coffee stains the comforter like blood.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
That sentence doesn’t belong to Damien.
And that night—the one no one knows about, the one I never speak of—was never his to remember.
Only one other person was there.
And he shouldn’t know where I am.
He shouldn’t know who I’ve become.
I stand. My knees shake.
And outside the bedroom door, Damien’s still humming. Low. Distracted.
Not watching me.
Because this time… he’s not the only one watching.