Chapter 11
Damien
Ifeel like someone is watching me all the time now.
Every crowded street feels wrong. Every unfamiliar face in the lobby of my building catches my attention for too long. Every black SUV parked outside the arena makes something ugly tighten in my chest before my brain catches up and reminds me I’m being paranoid.
Sebastian hasn’t actually resurfaced. Not yet. That almost makes it worse, because now I’m waiting for it. Waiting for the moment my past finally catches up to me in a way I can’t outrun.
And the more I wait, the more unstable I feel.
Atlas notices.
He notices when I start scanning rooms before we enter them. He notices how close I stand to him in public now, how my hand always finds some part of him without me realizing it.
Shoulder.
Back.
Knee.
Anything.
At first I tell myself it’s because of the publicity. Cameras expect physical affection now. Fans eat it up when we touch. That excuse stops holding up pretty quickly, because I start initiating it even when nobody’s watching. Especially when nobody’s watching.
I start kissing him more.
Touching him more.
Dragging him into empty locker rooms and quiet hallways and dark corners of parking garages because being near him is the only thing that settles the panic clawing inside my chest.
Sex becomes the easiest coping mechanism. It’s enough to turn off the panicked feelings for a little while—it’s enough to feel safe with Atlas while he calls me honey and kisses me.
If I frame it that way, then I don’t have to admit the truth—that Atlas makes me feel safe in a way nobody ever has before. And that terrifies me enough that I keep trying to bury it.
Unfortunately, Atlas isn’t stupid.
“You’ve gotten clingy,” he says one night while I’m practically lying on top of him on his couch.
I glare at him from where my head rests against his chest. “I hate that word.”
“It’s accurate.”
“I’m not clingy.”
His arm tightens slightly around my waist. “You called me three times yesterday because I took too long at the grocery store.”
“You were taking forever.”
“I was there for probably twenty minutes.”
“You could’ve been murdered.” I say it jokingly, but I hold him tighter.
Atlas laughs softly. “You’re insane.”
Maybe I am, because the idea of something happening to him makes my stomach turn violently.
I start getting territorial, too. That part sneaks up on me.
A bartender flirts with Atlas after one of our games, and I slide an arm around his waist before I even think about it. A reporter touches his shoulder during an interview and I physically move between them without realizing what I’m doing.
Atlas notices all of it.
The worst part is that he likes it.
I can tell.
Every possessive touch makes his expression soften in that dangerous way that gets under my skin. Every jealous reaction from me seems to feed something warm and pleased inside him. But underneath that, I can also tell he’s worried. Because I’m changing.
The harder my paranoia spikes, the harder my edges get. I snap at people faster now. I’m always tense. Atlas keeps watching me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t fully understand yet.
I know he wants answers.
I also know he’s trying not to push me.
That almost makes it worse.
The envelope looks normal—white, standard, and slightly crumpled, like it got shoved into a pile of fan mail before someone sorted it and dropped it onto my kitchen counter this morning.
I almost don’t open it. Most of the letters we get now are the same: fans telling us they support us, people projecting entire relationships onto something that started as a publicity stunt, paragraphs about how Atlas and I helped them feel seen.
It’s overwhelming sometimes, but ultimately harmless.
This one feels different before I even touch it. I don’t know why.
It just does.
I stand in my kitchen staring at it for longer than I should before finally picking it up. No return address. My thumb slides under the flap, and for a second I hesitate.
Then I open it.
The paper inside is folded once.
Neatly.
Carefully.
Like whoever sent it to me took their time.
That makes my stomach twist. I unfold it slowly. And the second I see the handwriting, everything in my body goes cold.
I missed you, sweetness.
That’s it. No signature. No explanation. Just four words written in a hand I recognize immediately.
My fingers tighten around the paper hard enough to wrinkle it.
“No,” I whisper.
My heart starts pounding before my brain can catch up.
I know that handwriting the same way I know the shape of my own name.
I’ve seen it on scraps of paper shoved into my pocket when I was younger.
On notes left behind after nights when I was used too roughly.
On the back of receipts and torn napkins and anything Sebastian could get his hands on when he felt like reminding me that I belonged to him.
Sweetness.
He always called me that.
The room tilts slightly. I drop the paper onto the counter like it burned me.
“No,” I say again, louder this time.
My chest feels tight, like my throat is swelling closed.
He knows where I live. That’s the first thought that breaks through the panic.
The walls of my apartment suddenly feel too thin. Too exposed.
I turn toward the windows immediately, scanning the street below like I expect to see him standing there, watching.
There’s nothing unusual.
Just cars.
People walking.
Everything looks normal.
That doesn’t fucking help, because nothing about this is normal.
My gaze snaps back to the letter. I don’t want to touch it again.
I pick it up slowly, forcing my hands to stay steady long enough to check it again.
It’s him.
It has to be.
My stomach twists violently. He’s close. Closer than I thought.
Closer than I’m ready for.
My fucking dad had to choose him. Sebastian is a malevolent god. He’ll get what he’s owed.
I run a hand through my hair, pacing the length of the kitchen.
Think.
Think.
There has to be a way out of this.
There has to be something I’m missing.
But every possibility leads to the same place. He found me.
After all this time, he found me.
I thought being on a shit hockey team would be fine—get paid well, but nothing crazy enough to make me a superstar.
I got too cocky with this fucking fake dating publicity.
I got too messy. I forgot how hard it was to pull myself out of my hometown and run away halfway across the country.
And now none of that matters, because Sebastian is on my trail.
My phone buzzes somewhere behind me. I flinch like it’s a bullet shooting past my ear. That pisses me off enough to ground me slightly.
I grab the phone.
Atlas.
The name settles something in my chest immediately.
But I don’t answer.
I can’t.
Because I don’t even know what I would say.
Hey, remember how I told you nothing was wrong? Actually, the guy who used to be my pimp knows where I live.
Yeah.
No.
I drop the phone back onto the counter and drag both hands over my face.
I need to calm down.
I need to think.
Instead, my brain spirals harder.
Every memory I’ve spent years locking away starts clawing its way back to the surface—the way Sebastian used to watch me like I was something he could take apart whenever he wanted, the way he smiled when I tried to pull away from his sharp kisses, the way he said my name while he tightened his grip around my throat.
The way he’d say I missed you like it was a promise instead of a threat.
I shove the letter into a drawer and slam it shut.
I grab my jacket without thinking and leave the apartment. I can’t stay here.
The rest of the day blurs.
Practice.
People talking.
Atlas laughing at something Carter said.
I don’t know what they’re saying. I’m barely there.
I go through the motions without actually being present. Everything feels too loud. Too close. Every unfamiliar face catches my attention for too long. Every movement in my peripheral vision makes my chest tighten.
Atlas keeps glancing at me like he’s trying to figure something out.
I avoid him.
Because if he looks at me too closely, he’s going to see how fucked up I am.
And I don’t know how to explain something I haven’t even fully processed yet.
That night, a nightmare tears my mind into ribbons, pulling every painful memory straight from my heart.
It feels like a warning.
And it’s real enough to destroy me.
I’m eighteen, dressed in a see-through shirt even though it’s snowing.
Cold pavement under my shoes, cigarette smoke in the air, streetlights flickering over cracked sidewalks in the neighborhood I spent years trying to forget.
Then Sebastian appears—dark hair, evil eyes, and sharp teeth hidden behind a smile that used to ruin me. Back then, I thought he was beautiful. Back then, I thought he loved me.
I remember the first time he touched me.
That’s the worst part.
Because he was gentle first.
Patient.
Careful.
He learned exactly what I needed before he started taking pieces out of me. Before he started selling my soul for a few coins.
In the dream, he’s leaning against the hood of his car, watching me approach him like he already knows how this ends.
“There he is,” he says softly.
I hate how my younger self reacts to him. How hopeful he still feels. How desperate for affection.
“You’re late,” Sebastian says.
“Dad was drunk again.”
“Shocking.” Then he reaches for me.
And suddenly the dream shifts. I’m in his apartment. Then his car. Then some shitty motel room.
The scenes blur together like old film reels while Sebastian kisses me and tells me I’m special and pretty and his. Every memory is poisoned by what came after.
“You know I take care of you, right?” he murmurs against my throat.
I remember believing him.
God, why did I ever believe him?
Then the dream changes again.
I’m older now. Harder. Exhausted in the way only survival makes you.
Sebastian is angry.
I told him I wanted out.
“No,” I say in the dream. “I’m done.”