Damien’s POV
I stood outside her door, holding a bag of takeout from that Italian place she used to love. Did she still like mushroom risotto? Or had three years changed that too?
My hand hovered over the keycard. I’d stood here for five minutes already. Pathetic.
*Just open the damn door.*
I swiped the card. The lock clicked. Green light.
The suite was dark when I stepped inside. Curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. Only the bathroom light was on, casting a thin line of yellow across the floor.
"Sera?"
No answer.
She was curled up on the bed. Sa position as yesterday. And the day before that. Facing away from . The blanket pulled up to her chin.
I knew she was awake. Her breathing was wrong.
"I brought food." I held up the bag like an idiot. Like she could see it.
Nothing.
I set the bag on the table. The containers made small plastic sounds as I unpacked them. Fork. Napkin. Water bottle.
"You need to eat." My voice ca out rougher than I ant. "You barely touched yesterday’s food."
Still nothing.
I walked closer to the bed. Stopped a few feet away. Close enough to see the tension in her shoulders. The way her hands gripped the blanket like armor.
"Leave it on the table." Her voice was flat. Empty. "I’ll eat later."
"This isn’t a prison."
"Then unlock the door."
My jaw clenched. "You know I can’t do that."
"Can’t? Or won’t?"
"Both." The word ca out harsh. Final. "You’ll run. We both know it."
She laughed. The sound was bitter. Wrong. Nothing like the laugh I rembered.
"So it is a prison. Good to know we’re being honest now."
I wanted to argue. To explain. To make her understand that this wasn’t about control. It was about keeping her safe. Keeping her here. Keeping her *mine*.
But the words stuck in my throat.
"Just eat the food, Sera."
"Fine."
She didn’t move.
I stood there like an idiot for another minute. Waiting for... what? For her to turn around? To look at ? To give sothing other than this cold, empty voice?
Nothing.
I left the food on the table and walked out.
---
The next day was the sa.
Breakfast from that bakery near the pack house. Fresh croissants. The cinnamon rolls she used to steal from my plate on Sunday mornings.
She was in the bathroom when I arrived. I heard the shower running. Heard her moving around behind the closed door.
I left the food on the table and waited.
Twenty minutes later, she erged. Hair wet. Wearing the clothes I’d left for her yesterday. She walked past like I was furniture.
"Morning." I tried to keep my voice light. Normal.
"Morning."
She sat on the edge of the bed. Stared at the wall. Didn’t acknowledge the food. Didn’t acknowledge .
"I brought breakfast."
"I see it."
"Are you going to eat?"
"I don’t like being watched."
She turned back to the wall.
I left.
---
Day four. Five. Six.
They all blurred together.
Different food. Sa result.
She wouldn’t eat when I was there. Wouldn’t talk beyond one-word answers. Wouldn’t look at unless it was to deliver another knife between my ribs.
So nights I stayed. Slept on the couch while she curled up on the bed as far from as possible.
Those nights were worse than the days.
I could hear her breathing. Hear her cry sotis when she thought I was asleep. Hear her whisper things I couldn’t make out but sounded like prayers or pleas or both.
I wanted to go to her. To hold her. To tell her everything would be okay.
But I’d proven I couldn’t be trusted to touch her. Couldn’t be trusted not to lose control.
So I stayed on the couch and listened to her break apart and hated myself more with each passing hour.
Lucas found in my office at midnight. Staring at paperwork I hadn’t read. Drinking whiskey I couldn’t taste.
"You look like shit," he said.
"Thanks."
"You’re not surviving this."
I stared at him. At my best friend. My brother. The person who’d stood by through everything.
And I knew he was right.
"I don’t know what to do," I admitted. "I don’t know how to fix this."
"Talk to her?" He stood up. "Or maybe... maybe make your love burn again."
The door closed behind him.
I sat there in the silence. In the dark. With the whiskey and the paperwork and the truth I didn’t want to face.
He was right.
---
The bar was loud. Crowded. Full of people living normal lives with normal problems.
I hated all of them.
The whiskey burned going down. Good. I ordered another.
"Rough night?"
The bartender. Young guy. Friendly face. Probably made good tips with that smile.
"Sothing like that."
"Woman troubles?"
I laughed. The sound was bitter. "Is it that obvious?"
"Always is." He poured another drink. "Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Fair enough."
The drinks kept coming. The bar got louder. Or maybe quieter. I couldn’t tell anymore.
Everything was fuzzy. Warm. Distant.
"I should go," I mumbled. "Need to see her. Need to... need to..."
What? What did I need to do?
I stood up. The floor tilted. I grabbed the bar to steady myself.
"You okay to drive?" The bartender looked concerned.
"I’m fine."
I wasn’t fine.
But I had to see her. Had to go to her. Had to...
The elevator took forever. Each floor was an eternity. The hallway stretched on impossibly long.
Finally. Her door.
I fumbled with the keycard. Dropped it twice. Finally got the door open.
The suite was dark. Quiet.
She was in bed. Small shape under the covers.
I stumbled toward her. Tried to be quiet. Failed miserably.
"Sera," I slurred.
She didn’t respond.
I reached the bed. Stood there swaying. Looking down at her.
Then I saw it.
She was shaking.
Her whole body trembling under the blankets. Small, violent shudders that made the covers ripple like water.
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