Chapter 1
DAMIAN
One Month Later
Ilook at myself in the mirror. At the cut on my cheek, healing now, but not completely healed. The wound is forming a scar, a crescent moon on my left side. I almost miss the way it stung when Julian’s baby sister first sewed it up.
It was a reminder. Of what they did. Of what I have to do.
I walk to my front window. Across the street, one of my neighbors is putting their Christmas decorations up. It’s almost time for the holidays. A time for good cheer and making memories. Yeah. Fucking hilarious.
If my neighbors were to look at my house, they wouldn’t know it’s modern and expensive on the inside.
They wouldn’t see the gym and the marble counters in the kitchen, and the walk-in shower.
They’d see a rundown hellhole—dirty windows, an overgrown garden, and the old stone wall around the backyard holding the place together.
That’s how I like it. Let them see the Beast. The name they gave me. The name they still use on the streets.
The Beast. One day, I’ll remind them why.
My phone pings. Groceries.
I move through the clean interior of my home, my hand trailing over the surfaces. Inside: spotless. Outside: wrecked. A contradiction I don’t care to unpack. My fingers drift to the scar, hot and new, but I shove away the thought before it becomes anything poetic.
I unlatch the rear gate before he arrives—my delivery instructions always say, “Leave at back door”—then slip out of sight before the driver gets here.
No one knows I’m here. No one knows I’m still breathing.
And I need it to stay that way. Not until I’m ready for the payback that ends things permanently.
The kid drops the bags by the back door. Headphones in, working fast. Maybe he’s intimidated. Maybe that’s useful.
Once he’s gone, I relatch the rear gate and haul the groceries inside. I eat simple meals—meat, vegetables. No booze. No indulgences. I need my body and my mind clean. I need to be a weapon when the time comes.
A two-hour gym workout is just what I need. No thoughts about anything other than the next weight set, sweat dripping down my body, plastering my shirt to me.
Every so often, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I hate the fade. I hate what it reminds me of. And if I ever step back into civilization, it’ll be the first thing people notice—before my size, before my presence. A dead giveaway to a past I’m trying to bury six feet under.
I’m almost done with the workout when my doorbell rings.
I freeze and then move swiftly across the room. Grab my gun and stride into the hallway, finding a window that gives me a vantage of the front door.
If they’re here now, then it’s time for war. But they wouldn’t use the doorbell. Neither would Julian. He knows to text.
When I see her, I set my gun down.
Celine, Julian’s kid sister. Never seen too much of her since Julian likes to keep his two lives separate. I remember her as a bright-eyed girl playing nurse…now she’s a real one. Good for her. Not sure why she’s on my doorstep.
She’s not… unattractive. Her soft brown curls frame her face, her coat tugged tight over curves she probably has no idea she’s showing. She’s holding a hamper. And suddenly I see her in a warm house, cocoa on the stove, laundry at her hip—
No.
I slam the image out of my head.
Being trapped in here is making me insane.
I call Julian. The doorbell rings again.
“Your sister is here,” I growl.
He sighs. “I’m sorry. She wanted to check your injuries. And when I mentioned you’re not celebrating Christmas, she almost cried.”
“God damn it, Julian. I thought you wanted her kept away from this.”
“Well, you’re not going to tell her what we do, are you?”
The doorbell rings a third time. She’s persistent.
“She guessed something about our life. Last month. I saw it in her eyes. She knows.”
“She doesn’t,” Julian snaps. “She might suspect. But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to know.”
A fourth ring.
I hang up and stride to the door.
She steps back, her eyes snapping wide when I fill the doorway, my gym shirt sticking to my heaving chest.
“Inside,” I snap.
She laughs, tilting her head. “Excuse me?”
“We’ll talk inside.”
Without waiting for a reply, I turn and stride down the hallway. I close the door to the rest of the house and wait.
She follows a moment later. The door closes behind her with a quiet click. She sets the hamper down, then moves her hand to her zipper.
“No, Celine,” I growl.
She takes a step back. Good. She should be cautious—but I hate that part of me likes it.
“You’re not staying,” I tell her.
“You’re very polite, Damian. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“It’s one of my many talents,” I mutter, raising an eyebrow.
“I brought you some Christmas stuff,” she says, almost shy. “Decorations. Some treats. Julian said you don’t celebrate Christmas.”
When I don’t reply, she rushes on. Something in me twitches at how earnest she is, but I shove it down.
“And I wanted to check your injuries. People mess themselves up when they don’t take care of things after… after we do our work.”
She stops, breathless.
A smile almost hits me. I feel it twitching.
“Are you done?” I ask.
She crosses her arms. “You could at least say thank you. I didn’t have to do this. Julian wouldn’t tell me why you don’t celebrate Christmas. He said it wasn’t his place.”
“He was correct.”
“So…”
I laugh darkly. Not really a laugh. More of a choking noise.
“Is something funny?” She demands, her cheeks flushing.
“Celine, you did your duty. Look at me—this is healing. It’ll leave an ugly scar, sure, but I don’t mind. Keeps people the hell away. Julian shouldn’t have told you where I live.”
She looks around the entranceway, at the clean tiles, the neatly stacked sneakers. “It’s not what I expected.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Just…” She hesitates, getting a look in her eyes like she doesn’t fully know why she’s here. As if an instinct led her here, and now she regrets it. “I think people should celebrate Christmas. I know, okay. I know how cheesy that sounds. Blame the long hours! They’re messing with my head.”
She turns, then turns back, flustered.
“It’s the first of December tomorrow.”
“You say that like it matters.”
“This is the only time of year when we get a built-in chance to be happy. A free pass.”
I take a step forward. Then another. She stares up at me like I’m some kind of unhinged animal. Maybe I am.
“When I was thirteen—before you were born—my parents died in a car accident. Christmas Eve. That’s why the holiday doesn’t mean shit to me. Now we’re done.”
Softness flickers across her face, quickly shuttered. She pouts—not cute, more… frustrated. And it hits me.
Makes me feel like an asshole.
“I guess so,” she mutters. “Should I leave the hamper?”
“Take it.”
Another huff. “Fair enough. Coming here was probably a mistake, right?”
Her disappointment hits harder than it should. “The thought is what counts, Celine. So, thank you.”
She gives me a small, shaky smile. “You’re welcome. And I’m sorry.”
“Forget I said anything.”
Oversharing isn’t my thing. Hell, sharing at all isn’t my thing.
“Well… see ya.”
She carries the hamper out. I shut the door quickly and watch through the peephole. Her hips sway under the weight, and I look too long. Too damn long.
When she glances back at the house and bites her lip, something kicks in my chest I don’t want to name.
I run. Actually, run back to the gym.
She’s too soft. Too innocent. And I’m too far gone already..