11. Willow
11
WILLOW
I t's been a week since the surgery, and I’ve barely had a chance to breathe. The days are a blur of pain meds, dull hospital lights, and nurses who come in at the worst times. My body aches like I’ve been through a war, but it’s nothing compared to the feeling of being able to breathe without struggling to catch my breath.
I am told I am lucky. My surgery was easier than others and my recovery seems faster, whatever improvements they made seems to be blending well with my body. But I’m not sure how I feel about that. I spent the first few days in and out of sleep, a haze of confusion and half-conscious thoughts. The doctors kept reassuring me that everything went as planned, that I was healing, that I’d be fine.
But I haven’t seen Vincent.
I know, in the back of my mind, he’s out there. He has to be. I can feel it in my chest, in that space where my heart used to live, before it became a pile of dust. He should be here, shouldn't he? He should be standing by the door, trying to pretend he’s not dying to touch me, to hold my hand, to tell me everything is going to be okay.
But I haven’t seen him. Not even a text. Not a whisper of his presence.
I try not to think about it too much, though, because I know I’m not really alone. Cast hasn’t left my side. Not once. Damien has been staring at me from the corner of my room, not saying a word since I’ve woken up and I don’t know how to feel about it. I want to tell him everything, feel the closeness we have been feeling for the last couple of weeks, but he stares at me like I betrayed him, like we’re back in high school.
I avoid his eyes, staring at the sterile instruments on the counter, trying to focus on the soft voice of Dr. Peters as she works. Her hands are steady as she adjusts the wires and monitors, checking the new mechanical heart embedded in my chest.
“Heart rate’s steady,” Dr. Peters mutters to herself as she taps a few buttons on the monitor. “Tightening the connections here—should be ready to go soon.”
The anxiety I’ve been trying to suppress creeps back up, gnawing at the edges of my mind. Where is he? Why hasn’t he come? He should be here, shouldn’t he? He should be the one sitting beside me, watching over me. After everything we’ve been through, I thought he’d be here. Maybe he’s angry, maybe he’s avoiding me—maybe he’s already moved on.
I can’t help it. The thoughts come in waves, each one worse than the last. What if I’ve pushed him too far? What if this... what if all of this was too much for him to handle?
“Willow, focus.” Dr. Peters’ voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts, and I force my attention back to her, to the cool press of her hands on my chest as she continues her work. “How are you feeling now, Willow?”
I force a smile, one that I hope is convincing enough. “Better,” I say, my voice hoarse, but it’s not a lie. Physically, I feel a little stronger. The dizzy spells are fading, the pain duller, less persistent.
“That’s good to hear,” Dr. Peters says. She taps a few more keys on the monitor. “Your vitals are holding steady. No complications to report. This is exactly what we want to see.”
I inhale deeply, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. "That's good," I mutter, forcing myself to relax. "So when can I go home?"
Dr. Peters straightens up, her expression thoughtful. "In a couple of days, barring any setbacks. You’ll need to come in for weekly check-ins, though, just to monitor your progress. But you’re healing well, Willow. The heart seems to be syncing nicely with your body."
I nod absently, not fully processing her words. My mind is elsewhere, fixated on the empty space beside me where Vincent should be. The ache is still there, the constant reminder that something is off, that something important is missing.
"That sounds good," I manage to say, keeping my voice neutral. "I’ll look forward to getting out of here."
Dr. Peters smiles at me, oblivious to the turmoil swirling inside. "We’ll give you a little more time to rest, but you’re on track. Just keep monitoring your energy levels and avoid any strenuous activity for a while."
I give a weak smile and nod, but I can’t focus. Not with the worry eating at me. Not with the knowledge that Vincent is still missing, and I have no idea why.
As Dr. Peters gathers her things to leave, Cast shifts closer. His brow furrows, a look of concern flickering in his eyes. I can feel his gaze on me, but I don’t want to meet it. Not when I’m struggling with this emptiness, this hurt I can’t explain.
"Willow..." he says, his voice soft.
I cut him off, shifting to get out of the bed. “I need to use the bathroom.”
Damien grabs my arm to steady me and I look at him surprised he’d even touch me. I don’t want to hear what Cast has to say, because I have been asking the same question: where is Vincent? And all his responses are clipped or uninformative as if he is talking to a child.
I don’t fight Damien when he walks me into the bathroom, nor when he keeps a steadying hand on my hip as I grip the sink. The room is dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of the bulbs above the mirror. I meet his gaze through the reflection, searching his gaze for a hint— for anything other than the blank stare he gives me—but all I find is exhaustion. And maybe pity.
I let my gaze trace over him—the blonde buzz cut adorned with its latest design, a sharp contrast to the cold steel of his grey eyes. He’s handsome in that effortless, dangerous way, the kind that makes girls whisper and watch from afar but never get close enough to touch. His jaw is clenched, his expression blank but there’s a storm brewing beneath the surface. I wonder if it’s because of me.
He catches me staring through the mirror, and for a moment, neither of us move .
“Do you hate me again?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Damien’s fingers twitch against my waist before he lets go, leaving me colder than I was before. His gaze flickers, something unreadable flashing through it.
“Did I ever stop?” he counters, his tone quiet, careful.
“Yes,” I whisper without hesitation. “I know you did, and you know you did, so stop acting like it is so easy to glare at me all the time. You told me you love me.”
“It is not easy to love you Willow.” He whispers, taking a step forward. “It feels like a branding iron down my throat. Like someone is trying to claw my heart out through my chest.”
I swallow hard, my fingers curling against the cool porcelain of the sink. His words shouldn’t affect me, but they do. They always do.
Damien doesn’t stop moving until he’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath ghosting over my temple. He looks at me like I’m something he doesn’t know how to hold, something that keeps slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he grips.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.
I turn my head slightly, enough to see the way his jaw is clenched, the tightness in his throat like he’s swallowing down something sharp and jagged.
“What do you mean?”
His eyes flick to mine in the mirror, and for the first time in a long time, I see it—his grief. Raw and unfiltered, barely held together by whatever force of will he has left.
“You don’t have her heart anymore.” His voice wavers, just enough that if I wasn’t listening so closely, I might miss it. “The last part of her that was still here… it’s gone.”
His mother. The heart she gave me, the one that kept me alive, that kept me tethered to him in ways neither of us ever said out loud.
My chest tightens, because I know exactly what he’s saying. Without it, I’m just me. Not a living reminder of what he lost. Not the girl carrying the last echoes of his mother’s heartbeat.
“Damien--”
“I love the girl my mother died for. I love the girl who’s almost died from my mother’s heart failing her. What type of person does that make me?”
“You can’t control who you love,” I whisper, finally turning to look up at him, a small smirk on my lips. “And some people would say it’s poetic.”
His breath catches, and I watch the war rage in his eyes. This close, I can see the way his pupils dilate, how his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for me but won’t let himself. Like touching me might burn, but not touching me is worse.
“Poetic,” he echoes, his voice rough, almost mocking. His fingers flex at his sides, knuckles going white. “That’s one word for it.”
I don’t move away. I should. I should put space between us, create distance before we both cross a line we can’t come back from. But I don’t. Because I want to know what happens if I stay.
His jaw clenches, his body vibrating with tension. "You think this is fucking poetic?" he grits out, his hand lifting, hovering over my waist like he wants to grab me, pull me closer, but something inside him resists. "Because it feels like hell."
"Then stop fighting it," I whisper, tilting my chin up slightly, challenging him, daring him. "If it's hell either way, why not give in?"
His exhale is shaky, and for a second, I think he’s going to break. I think he’s going to grab me, kiss me like he’s been holding himself back from doing for so long. But he hesitates. His fingers finally land on my waist, just a whisper of contact, but it’s enough to send heat curling down my spine. His touch is careful, reverent, like he’s memorizing the shape of me beneath his hands.
"You're dangerous," he murmurs, his thumb dragging the slightest fraction against my hip. "You always have been."
I smirk, breathless. "And you're a coward."
His grip tightens, and I barely get the chance to inhale before his lips crash against mine, fierce and unrelenting. It’s not gentle. There’s no hesitation, no softness. Just hunger, desperation, and the weight of everything we’ve been holding back. His hands move, one sliding up my spine, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss.
I moan into his mouth, my fingers gripping his shirt, pulling him closer until there's nothing between us but heat and breath and the sound of our ragged exhalations. His body presses against mine, trapping me against the sink, and I arch into him, needing more, needing everything.
"Fuck," he groans, breaking away just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breathing uneven. "This isn't supposed to happen. "
I smile, running my hands up his chest, feeling the way his heart pounds beneath my touch. "Then why does it feel so good?"
He curses under his breath, then kisses me again, harder this time, like he's trying to imprint himself onto me, like he's trying to make sure I’ll remember this even if we never do it again. His hands roam, his grip firm, possessive.
And I let him. Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m slipping away. I feel grounded. I feel wanted. I feel alive.
His lips are on mine again, and this time, it’s slower, deeper, like he’s savoring me. The roughness from moments ago melts into tenderness. His hands, still firm, still possessive, glide down my sides, careful, so careful, even as his body presses me harder against the edge of the sink. I can feel the cold ceramic digging into my back, but I don’t care. All I care about is him. The warmth of his body, the way his breath hitches when I slide my hands under his hoodie, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen.
“Damien,” I whisper against his mouth, my voice trembling. His name has never felt so heavy on my tongue, so desperate. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes searching mine, and I see it—the conflict, the fear, the raw, unrelenting need .
“You’re going to ruin me,” he murmurs, his voice low, strained. His kiss deepens, tongues tangling, hips pressing closer, and I can feel him—hard, insistent—against my thigh. My breath hitches, and I pull back just enough to whisper, “I’m not fragile.”
His eyes flash. “You just had heart surgery, Willow. You’re supposed to be resting.”
“And yet,” I say, my voice trembling with need, “here we are.”
He growls softly, a sound that sends shivers down my spine, and before I can react, he’s lifting me onto the sink. The coolness of the porcelain seeps through the thin material of my gown, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is him, the way his hands cradle my hips, the way his eyes never leave mine.
“This is a bad idea,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice. Only hunger.
“Then tell me to stop,” I challenge, my fingers sliding into his hair, tugging gently.
He doesn’t. Instead, his hands move to the ties of my gown, and slowly untie them. The fabric falls open, and I feel a surge of vulnerability, of exposure, but it quickly disappears when I see the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
His hands glide up my thighs, warm and steady, and I shiver, my breath catching. “Damien,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
His hands move higher, skimming over my hips, my waist, before finally, finally cupping my breasts. I gasp, arching into his touch, and he breaks the kiss to murmur against my skin, “You’re so beautiful, Willow. So fucking beautiful.”
His thumbs brush over my nipples, and I moan, my head falling back. The sensation is electric, lighting up every nerve in my body, and I can’t help but reach for him, my hands fumbling with the hem of his hoodie. He helps me, tugging it over his head and tossing it aside, and then his chest is against mine, skin on skin, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
His hands are everywhere, touching me, exploring me, and I can’t get enough. I want to feel all of him, every inch, every scar, every curve. My fingers trace the contours of his muscles, his back, his arms, and when I reach the waistband of his sweats, he lets out a low groan, his hips pressing forward.
“Willow,” he says, his voice ragged. “If we keep going…”
“I don’t want to stop,” I whisper, my lips brushing against his ear. “I want you, Damien. All of you.”
He curses under his breath, but his hands are already moving, sliding my gown off my shoulders, letting it pool around my waist. His eyes roam over me, taking in every detail, and I feel a rush of heat, of desire.
“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs, his hands sliding down to my thighs, spreading them gently. “I’ll be careful.”
“I trust you,” I say, and it’s the truth. I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust him. Not with my body, not with my heart.
He kisses me again, slow, deliberate, his hands moving to the waistband of his sweats. I watch, my breath hitching, as he pushes them down, and then he’s there, hard, ready, and all I can think is yes.
My hands reach for him, pulling him closer. “Please.” I groan.
He hesitates, his eyes searching mine, and then he nods, his hands sliding under my thighs, lifting me slightly. I feel the tip of him, pressing against me, and I moan, my hips tilting to meet him.
He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
“Then take it,” I breathe, my body trembling with anticipation. “Take me, Damien. ”
He doesn’t wait. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady, and I feel him press into me, slow, so achingly slow, as if he’s savoring every second. I gasp, my fingers clutching the sink so tightly my knuckles turn white, and I arch my back, giving myself completely to him.
“God, Willow,” he groans, his voice strained. “You feel… you’re… fuck. ”
He moves then, slow, so slow, and it’s both agony and ecstasy. Every inch, every movement, sends sparks of pleasure through me, and I can’t help but moan, my hips rocking to meet his.
“God, Willow,” he groans, his hands tightening on my thighs. “You feel so good.”
“So do you,” I whisper, my breath hitching as he fills me completely. “Damien, I…”
He kisses me then, cutting off my words, and I lose myself in the way he feels, the way he moves, the way he’s so careful, so gentle, even as his body betrays the hunger he’s trying to hold back.“Damien,” I moan, my voice trembling. “More. Please.”
He hesitates, his hands tightening on my hips. “Are you sure? I don’t want to?—”
“I’m sure,” I interrupt, my voice breathless but firm. “I can take it. I need it.”
A low growl escapes him, and he shifts, his hands sliding up my back, pulling me closer to him. His thrusts grow deeper, more insistent, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan, the pleasure building with every movement.
“You know what you are, Trouble?” He murmurs, his voice rough with desire .
“What?” I gasp into him as he rockets his hips and fills me to the hilt.
“My fucking heart, Trouble.” He groans, pulling out of me and then slamming home again. “My whole fucking soul.”
I can’t speak, can barely think, as his rhythm quickens, his movements growing more urgent. My body responds to him, every nerve alight with pleasure, and I feel myself teetering on the edge, so close to falling over the cliff.
“Damien,” I gasp, my fingers clawing at the sink. “I’m… I’m…”
“I’ve got you,” he growls, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me back against him with every thrust. “Let go, Willow. I’ve got you.”
And I do. The pressure builds, unbearable, and then I’m falling, my body convulsing with pleasure as I cry out his name. He follows me over the edge, his thrusts growing erratic, his grip on me tightening as he buries himself deep inside me, his own release shuddering through him.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our ragged breathing, the feel of his body pressed against mine, the warmth of his skin against my back. He rests his forehead against my shoulder, his chest heaving, his hands still gripping my hips.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost hesitant.
I nod, my body still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. “I’m… I’m okay,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “That was… that was amazing.”
He lets out a soft laugh, his breath warm against my skin. “Yeah,” he agrees, his voice rough. “It was. ”
He pulls back slightly, his hands sliding up my sides, and I turn to face him, my body still tingling with pleasure. His grey eyes are filled with a mix of desire and concern, and I can see the way he’s holding himself back, the way he’s trying to keep himself in check.
“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing against my bottom lip. “I’ve never… fuck to think I spent the last four years missing that.”
“Never make me wait that long again,” I chastise, my hand reaching up to cup his cheek, my thumb brushing against his stubble. “Because I want more. I want you , Damien. All of you.”
He lets out a soft groan, his forehead resting against mine. “You’re going to be the death of me, Willow,” he murmurs.
“Or you’ll be the death of me first,” I whisper back.
“Never,” Damien whispers, before drawing me into a slow, deep kiss.