24. Damien
24
DAMIEN
Chapter 24 (Damien):
The ice bites into my skin, sharp and unforgiving, cutting through the heat in my muscles. Sweat chills too fast, my lungs burn, my legs ache—but I push harder. Faster. The pain is grounding, the only thing keeping me tethered.
I shouldn’t care this much. Shouldn’t let it get to me. But the image won’t leave my head—Willow crumpling, terror in her eyes, Vincent’s name on her lips.
I launch into a jump, skates slicing the ice. The world blurs, weightless for a second—then I land, pain jolting through my bones. I welcome it. Because the guilt is worse.
Vincent still can’t walk without help. Two months of him pretending he’s fine when he’s not. He avoids me. Like I stole his future.
And Willow—fuck, Willow. She’s slipping away, eyes colder, words fewer. Waiting for me to say something. But I don’t know what.
So I keep going. Again. Again. Because the ice is the only place where pain makes sense.
It’s never enough.
I’m breathing hard, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts, when I hear the heavy creak of the arena doors. My shoulders tense, my body reacting before my brain catches up. No one’s supposed to be here. Not this late.
The soft clink of glass echoes through the empty rink.
I glance toward the entrance and immediately know—Cast.
He stands just beyond the barrier, one arm resting lazily on the railing, the other gripping a half-drained bottle of beer like it’s the only thing holding him together. He looks like hell. His dark brown curls are a mess, falling in wild disarray over his forehead, and his green eyes—normally sharp, full of barely concealed amusement—are bloodshot. Shadowed. Wrecked.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
Then he lifts the bottle in a mock toast. “Figured I’d find you here.” His voice is rough, raspier than usual.
I skate toward the edge of the rink, pushing up against the barrier. “You look like shit.”
He huffs out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a scoff. “Yeah, well, you don’t look much better, cabrón.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he takes me in. “You sleep?”
I don’t answer.
He frowns, but it’s a hollow thing, lacking his usual bite. “Didn’t think so.”
Up close, he looks worse than I thought. The smudges beneath his eyes are darker, deeper. There’s a tension in his jaw, a weariness in the way he holds himself, like something’s been eating him alive from the inside out. The kind of exhaustion that sleep won’t fix. The kind that festers.
“What the hell happened to you?” I ask.
Cast’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his grip tightening around the bottle until his knuckles go white. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a haunted appearance in his bloodshot green eyes. Something fractured.
He finally exhales, slow and measured, then mutters, “Valentina is my sister.”
For a second, I think I misheard him. The words don’t make sense. Can’t make sense.
“What?” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to.
Cast’s lips twitch, but it isn’t amusement—it’s something bitter. “You heard me, cabrón.” He takes a long pull from his beer before setting the bottle down on the rink barrier. His hand lingers there, fingers drumming against the glass like he needs the movement to keep himself from shattering.
I shake my head, my mind racing. “You’re telling me the woman who threatened Willow and almost killed Vincent—the assassin I’ve been hunting—is your fucking sister?”
His jaw flexes. “Yeah.”
I stare at him, searching for some sign that this is a joke. Some sick, twisted attempt at humor. But Cast isn’t laughing. He’s not even smirking.
“Since when?” I demand. “Since when have you known?”
“Since two days ago.” His voice is tight, strained. He runs a hand through his messy curls, gripping the back of his neck. “I knew my father trusted Ricardo in a way he didn’t trust anyone. But I didn’t know why.” He exhales, his shoulders dropping. “Not until I finally saw her; she looks exactly like my mother.”
I should say something. Should react. But my brain is still struggling to keep up. Valentina. Cast’s sister.
The assassin who almost killed Willow.
The woman I’ve spent weeks fantasizing about ending.
My stomach twists, rage warring with a sentiment I can’t name.
Cast meets my gaze, his green eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. “Yeah.”
The word is sharp. Final.
I swallow hard. “And what are you gonna do about it?”
For the first time, resolution flickers behind his eyes. Something lethal.
He picks up his beer, takes a slow sip, then snickers. “What do you think?”
I skate closer, the ice beneath my feet almost seeming to ripple with the weight of the tension in the air. Cast watches me, his jaw clenched tight, the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.
"You can’t kill her," I say, the words coming out before I even think about them.
Cast’s eyes snap to mine, narrowing dangerously. "What did you just say?"
I skate to a sharp stop in front of Cast, planting my feet as my pulse hammers in my throat. His anger crackles like a live wire, but I don’t back down.
"You can’t kill your sister," I say, voice calm despite the storm inside me. "Even after everything—she’s still your blood."
His jaw tightens, but determination flickers in his eyes. "She put a blade to Willow’s throat. She’s been pulling strings in the shadows. How the hell am I supposed to just let that go?"
"You don’t have to forgive her," I counter. "But you can’t kill her without knowing why. What pushed her to this?"
He scoffs, shaking his head. "I’m done making excuses. Done fixing things that can’t be fixed."
"You’re not fixing anything by killing her," I say, voice sharp. "You’re just proving you’ve already lost. But you haven’t—not yet."
His grip tightens around the bottle in his hand. I see the war inside him—the fury, the hurt, the last shred of family he doesn’t want to lose.
"You don’t get it," he mutters, almost to himself. "She’s dangerous."
"I know," I say. "But she’s still your sister. And you’re still her brother."
The words hang heavy between us. He looks away first, swallowing his turmoil. But before either of us can speak, the soft click of heels against the floor cuts through the silence.
I turn.
Standing in the dim light is someone I never thought I’d see again.
Willow’s mother.
We both turn toward her, and I feel the tension in the air snap taut.
“How the fuck-” I growl, but she cuts me off.
“Hockey practice schedules are public, so is your relationship with my daughter.” She says tight lipped before turning to look at Cast. “You also have a relationship with my daughter, is that right?”
“I don’t think that is any of your business,” Cast growls, his protective instincts flaring up at the mere mention of Willow. “What do you want?”
She doesn’t flinch, though. Instead, she stands tall, her gaze meeting his with a quiet determination. “I need you to talk Willow into meeting with me… Please.”
I can’t help the incredulous laugh that bubbles up in my chest. “Talk to Willow? After everything you’ve done? You abandoned her; no one is helping you do shit.”
Her eyes flick to me for just a second, and a sense of failure flickers in them—a flash of vulnerability that quickly fades. “I don’t expect her to want to see me again. But I need you to convince her. She’s my daughter, and I need her to know that I’m sorry. I need to explain. To make things right.”
Cast steps forward, his body tense, every muscle in his frame coiled like a spring. “You think she gives a damn about what you have to say? No. You don’t get to just waltz in here and ask for forgiveness like it’s nothing.”
“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” she replies, her voice growing softer, but still firm. “I’m asking for a chance to talk to her. To explain why I did what I did. She deserves to know the truth. All of it.”
I step in between them, my eyes narrowed. “Willow doesn’t need to hear your excuses. She’s been through enough. And if you think you can just walk in here and have everything magically fixed, you’re wrong.”
There’s a long, pregnant silence as we all stand there, the weight of the situation pressing in from every direction. But then, something in Willow’s mother’s face changes. Her hand trembles slightly as she reaches up to touch her chest, and I notice the faint, unmistakable hint of blood staining the corner of her mouth.
“Are you alright?” I ask, stepping forward instinctively.
She coughs again, and this time, a faint spray of blood splatters onto her hand. Her face pales instantly, and the shaky breath she takes tells me everything I need to know.
“I’m dying,” she says, her voice a whisper now, fragile and cracked.
Cast and I both freeze, staring at her in stunned silence. The reality of the moment sinks in, heavy and suffocating. The woman who’s caused so much pain, who’s been at the center of this web of violence, is standing before us, gasping for breath, blood seeping through her fingers.
“W-what?” I stammer, my mind spinning. “What the hell do you mean?—”
“I don’t have long,” she interrupts, her voice barely audible now. “I’ve been sick for months. And it’s only getting worse. But I need to speak to Willow. I need her to understand. Please.”