The Ache That Stayed (Devotion & Damage #2)

CHAPTER 1

The Stranger

The man had stopped screaming ten minutes ago. Now he only made wet, choking sounds every time I hit him.

Rain hammered the bridge overhead hard enough to drown out the sound of breaking cartilage. It lashed against the asphalt relentlessly until my body settled into its rhythm. Wind cut through my clothes, the kind of wet cold that settled into bone.

The tunnel under the bridge reeked of piss and mud.

Moss crawled along the stone walls, slick with years of neglect, while graffiti bled through damp concrete.

The guardrail rattled when the wind pressed against it like old bones shifting beneath skin.

Water dripped somewhere in the dark, steady as a metronome.

Nobody used the old bridge anymore. The new motorway a few miles north made sure of that. The place had become a haven for junkies and dealers. Tonight, one of them had been easy to pay off, desperate enough to look the other way for cash and stupid enough not to ask questions.

I found an old plastic bucket and sat on it, lighting a cigarette. The hood of my sweatshirt kept most of my face hidden, but the flare of the lighter was enough. I watched the panic spread through him the moment he realised I wasn’t angry.

I was patient.

Because men knew what to do with anger. Calm was worse.

The heaviness in my chest was back. I drew in a deep breath and let the smoke burn my lungs. The nicotine rush dulled the ache, but only temporarily. It never fully left.

I’d had my fun with this man. My bruised knuckles bore witness to it. He tried to get up but slipped, gravel tearing into his palms as he dragged himself forward.

There was only one way out. Kill me and escape.

But I’d battered the motherfucker so bad that he could barely stand.

He tried to crawl away, palms skidding uselessly over wet stone.

His breath came out in broken gasps, teeth chattering louder than the rain.

His face was already swollen with one eye sealed shut.

Blood streaked down his chin, turning thin and pink beneath the rain.

It ran in thin rivulets, disappearing into the cracks in the concrete.

He coughed wetly, spit stringing from his mouth onto the ground beneath him.

“Please,” he sobbed. “I didn’t know—”

I walked toward him slowly. I stubbed the cigarette right in the middle of his forehead as he screamed. Burning flesh and tobacco briefly masked the stench of piss.

I hit him.

Once.

Twice. My fists were steady, deliberate, with each strike measured with practised ease.

“I didn’t know she mattered to you,” he gasped through blood. “I swear, I just watched. I thought—”

I punched him again. He folded with a wet sound, face smashing into the ground. More blood mixed with the mud and rain—dark and thick, until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

I pressed my boot on his face, letting him choke on the mud. His breath hitched wetly beneath the sole, each gasp bubbling through filth and rain. His hands flew up instinctively, grabbing my boot, tapping, clawing, doing whatever he could to get me off his sorry face.

I crouched in front of him.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Anger made men sloppy. Calm violence left cleaner endings.

My hands didn’t shake. Gore didn’t bother me—it never had. Blood was just blood. Flesh was just flesh.

What mattered was intent—the difference between punishment and erasure.

I grabbed his hair and hauled his head back. My grip tightened until tendons stood out along his neck and his eyes bulged. He squealed, high-pitched. Pathetic.

“You should’ve stopped at thinking,” I spoke into his ear.

My thumb pressed into his windpipe. Not enough to kill him.

Just enough to make him panic. He thrashed against my hold, slipping.

His shoes skidded uselessly on the wet ground.

He wheezed, face turning an ugly shade of red.

Spit and blood spilled from his mouth as he tried to suck in air that wouldn’t come.

Adrenaline pushed the emptiness into the background.

“I didn’t—please—”

The man’s eyes widened with panic. His gaze flicked up to mine, wild with terror now, hands clawing at my wrist. But the more he writhed, the tighter my grip got. I brought my mouth to his ear and spoke slowly and calmly.

“This is the part where you stop talking,” I told him.

He shook his head frantically. “I won’t say anything—I swear—”

I twisted his arm behind his back. There was a clean, sharp crack as the joint gave.

He screamed then—high and broken, almost animal.

With one hand still wrapped around his nape, I dragged him to the guardrail separating the black river.

I drove his throat into the guardrail hard enough to rattle his teeth.

The sound was sharp, metallic, and satisfying.

I wrapped my hand around the back of his head and pushed him harder again.

I heard a crack, and his body went slack, collapsing in on itself like a puppet with its strings cut.

I stood there for a moment, rain soaking me to the skin, watching the life drain out of his eyes.

The current of the river was swollen—slow, patient, hungry. It didn’t rush. It pulled. I watched how the lights from the bridge above cast dancing reflections on the river’s belly, like teeth flashing before a bite. The downpour had finally stopped.

I grabbed the man’s body and tossed it over the railing into the black water. He went down with a large splash, and then it was quiet.

Somewhere far in the distance, traffic hummed faintly—life moving on, indifferent.

The cold settled deeper into my bones.

I watched until the river swallowed him whole like a hungry beast.

I lit another cigarette and studied my hand, flexing it.

Physical pain almost felt foreign now, in comparison to the dull ache that hollowed my chest, gnawing me from the inside.Violence had always been easy.

It was the one thing that numbed everything else, the way morphine numbs pain without healing the wound.

I stripped my hoodie and jeans and tossed them into the water—the river would do the rest. I turned back to the car, breathing steady, pulse even, and put on fresh clothes and my leather jacket.

My boots still had some blood on them, but I ignored it.

I checked myself once in the rear-view mirror and smudged the blood on my jaw and neck.

It didn’t come off; instead, it just sat there like war paint.

No one questioned blood on a night like this.

I drove, the windows fogging from the heat of my own breath. I needed noise. Alcohol. And a fuck that meant nothing after a night like this. A temporary fix enough to quiet the thoughts for a few hours.

The rain blurred the city into streaks of colour and light. Tyres hissed through standing water, each turn sending a thin spray against the doors. I passed pubs, bars, and restaurants.

The first club was too quiet—like people went there to let their thoughts run free. I, however, wanted to escape mine.

The second was too empty—a ghost town, mostly filled with men who looked like they would be heading straight to their graves from the pub.

The third was chaos—crowded, loud, alive. Perfect. The place was packed with bodies and noise. Messy. Alive. Music pounded through the walls like a heartbeat.

Halloween.

Masks everywhere. People drunk enough to believe anonymity was armour.

I parked, straightened my jacket, and stepped out. I slipped a bill to the bouncer, Greg, as he handed me a mask—it was a masquerade-themed party.

There was blood on my knuckles. On my collar. I didn’t bother cleaning it off. Tonight, it would pass for costume. No one looked twice.

A woman bumped into me as I entered the club.

“Nice costume,” she purred as her friend dragged her drunk ass away from me.

Inside, the heat hit me first—sweat, alcohol, perfume layered thick enough to choke on.

The floor stuck slightly under my boots, spilled drinks clinging to rubber and leather.

The club was a riot of bad decisions—lights strobing like a migraine behind the eyes, music throbbing, laughter spilling out like alcohol, and strangers grinding against one another as though they’d paid for the privilege.

I pushed through the crowd and ordered a drink I wouldn’t finish.

This was what life had been these few years.

Bars. Beds. Bodies that blurred together. It kept the noise dull enough to function.

I turned slightly, scanning the room out of habit. I catalogued exits automatically. Bartender. Security near the stairwell. Three men already drunk enough to start problems.

And then—my eyes landed on her.

Something about her snagged against my attention before I could look away.

Black lace clung to her body, skimming the tops of her thighs.

Full sleeves in sheer lace. A neckline low enough to invite sin.

She wore a matching black laced masquerade mask, half-hiding her face but not her effect.

Her body was soft where most women here were sharp—curves that didn’t apologise for existing.

Her body moved to the beat. Her hair fell in loose waves against her exposed back. The burgundy in her hair almost looked red as the light caught it, making it look like she was wearing a crown of fire.

She reminded me of her.

I killed the thought before it could fully form.

The rhythm in my chest slowed strangely. The noise didn’t stop—but my body did. A glass clinked somewhere behind me. I registered it like it mattered. My heartbeat dropped into a strange, deliberate rhythm. As though my body had found a frequency it had been searching for without realising it.

This was new.

I didn’t feel hungry.

I didn’t feel violent or numb.

I felt… alert. Focused.

She turned her head slightly, eyes flicking in my direction through the mask. Just a glance. Barely a second. But it was enough.

The noise I’d been keeping at bay—the one alcohol and violence usually muffled—surged back, louder than ever.

I turned away and swallowed the amber liquid in front of me, breathing in deeply, shutting my eyes so the music could swallow my thoughts. But it only sharpened them. And every thought was her.

Violence had never scared me.

But this?

This sharp, unbearable awareness beneath my skin for a stranger in a black lace dress? That unsettled me in ways violence never could.