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I’m not sure if a serial killer having my back is a relief—or something I should be more afraid of. Either way, I don’t have much of a choice, especially with this wound. With no viable options right now, I just have to trust him. “Okay.”
He smiles and kisses the top of my head. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs.
I lean my head back against the cushion, wondering if I evenwanteda way out of this when I feel him get up off the couch. I crack open an eye, seeing him go to the kitchen. “Where are you going?”
He looks at me, his gaze distant. “I need to go take care of something,” he replies, slipping on his coat. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. Just stay here and rest.”
I watch him as he puts on his shoes. “Is it work?” I ask, my words a thinly veiled double meaning.
“Yes,” he responds before turning away to leave.
Before he walks out the door, I say, “Stop killing. At least for now.”
He stops and turns back to me with a long stare. “I’ll try.” And then he exits the apartment, locking up withmykeys.
I sigh heavily and sink into the couch, my energy draining away. Somehow, I don’t think he’ll keep his promise.
I drift in and out of sleep, my mind caught between reality and the hazy landscapes of my dreams. Time ticks by, each minute stretching out endlessly. My dreams meld into reality and I find myself staring down an alleyway, struggling to see through the foggy darkness. Then I see him—a shadowy figure, knife raised above his head, poised to plunge it into my chest as he lunges at me.
Instead of screaming and running, I feel the weight of a serrated hunting knife in my hand. I flex my fingers around the hilt—and drive it into his stomach. He howls as the blade slices apart his flesh, again and again, ripping him apart like an animal. I step back, withdrawing the knife as he collapses to the ground. Blood pools around his body, its warmth screaming in my veins like a sweet song.
Crimson droplets pepper my hands and face. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, a strange calm settling over me, knowing that I did what needed to be done. I spin on my heel, turning away from the scene of death—and suddenly jolt back into the real world.
I wake up, my heart thundering against my ribs. Sweat beads down my forehead as I gasp for air. I look around, expecting to see the alleyway again. But I’m in my living room, where moonlight streams through the kitchen window.It’s already evening?I close my eyes, my body still shaking from the memory of what I did.
But part of me—the deepest, darkest part—clings to that feeling of having power over life and death. Whispers that it had been necessary to kill to survive. A strange need stirs within me, and I clench my fists, knowing I can’t allow this dark side to take over. But the temptation lingers like an unwelcome guest, taunting me with possibilities.
How would it feel if I completely surrendered to it?
I don’t have time to dwell on these thoughts as I hear the jangling of keys. Damon walks in, with grocery bags looped over one arm while carrying something in the other. He meets my gaze before flicking on the light and crossing the living room.
“Sorry for leaving you alone for so long,” he says, setting the bags on the kitchen table. “I had to swing by work and finish up some things. I also didn’t forget about making your dinner.” Glancing back, I see him and my partially eaten birthday cake in its container. He notices me staring and adds, “Happy birthday, Gwen.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice a bit hollow. I bite my lip, unsure of how to explain what I’m feeling. Damon is no stranger to the darkness that haunts me, so I’m unable to understand my hesitance. Instead, I decide to change the subject. “What did you get?” I motion to the wrapped box peeking out from one of the bags.
He smiles, his blue eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I suppose I’ve kept you waiting long enough,” he says, plucking the box from the bag before handing it to me. “It’s your present.”
“Present?” I echo, my brow lifting.
“Open it,” he insists.
I peel away the wrapping paper and open the box. Inside is a knife with a jeweled hilt, tucked into soft velveteen cushioning. I take it, turning it over in my hands, admiring the intricate details of its design. “Beautiful,” I breathe, unexpectedly moved by the gesture.
“I thought you might like it.” His expression softens, and he takes the hand that holds the blade in his. “It symbolizes protection, your strength. It can help you cut through anything—metaphorically or not.” He smirks and moves away, heading back to the kitchen. “Let me get dinner started.”
While he rummages around the cabinets, I stare at the knife, admiring its cold handle against my skin, its weight reassuring. As gorgeous as it is, I can’t help but wonder if this is more than a present, if Damon has some ulterior motive for giving it to me. I return it to the box and set it aside on the coffee table, snatching the glass of water.
After quenching my parched throat, I contemplate how to broach the subject—one that has been bothering me. “Why do you do what you do?”
He fills a pot with water and places it on the stovetop. “Kill?” he says without turning to face me.
“Yeah.”
“Expecting me to have a tragic backstory or something?” he teases, grabbing another pot and putting it on the other burner. “Well, I suppose you could call it that.”
Damon is a man shrouded in mystery, and I realize once again that I know little about him—at least not the truthful parts. Just how many pieces of himself has he hidden away from the world? And me. “You know all these things about me. I think it’s only fair that you tell me what you were like before.”
He falls silent for a moment, and I watch as he pours sauce into the smaller pot. “Before I was a killer?”
