Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57067 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“I won’t say anything,” he whimpers.
My nerves hum, a craving to fight something real clawing under my skin.
“Even if I believed that, I still couldn’t let you go, Leon.”
“You can,” he pleads.
“I know what you did to those girls,” I growl.
Even through swelling, shock hits his face. “What girls?”
“Don’t play dumb. The oh-so caring boss covered it up. His most loyal men covered it up. But I’ve had a lot of time on my hands in the afterlife, Leon, and I know that there were two girls. Two innocent girls. And I know how badly you hurt them. I know you enjoyed it too.”
“No,” he whispers, broken.
“I read the police report from the surviving girl… the one that magically vanished. I know you laughed while she screamed.”
“Damian—”
I shake my head. “You’re not dealing with Damian right now.”
He lifts his hands, the cuffs rattling, clasping his palms together and staring at me with a pathetic plea in his sadist’s eyes. “Buh-Beast. Please.”
“You should know me better than that by now.” I reach into my jacket and take out my gun. “When has begging ever worked? Why do you think it will now?”
I press the barrel of the gun against his forehead.
He sobs, tears carving clean pathways down the blood on his cheeks. “Any last words?”
“Please don’t do thi—”
The gunshot echoes through the abandoned warehouse.
He falls flat on his face, his body twitching with the aftershocks of death.
“Happy fucking holidays,” I grunt, pocketing my gun.
CHAPTER 4
CELINE
“Who’s ready for turkey?” I say, carrying the tray into the dining room.
Mom and Dad are spending Christmas in Australia this year, but they still decorated their whole house before leaving—glitter, garlands, and enough Christmas cheer to blind a sane person.
I set the turkey down as Mom, Dad, and Julian cheer. Dad carves as I sit down, a warm glow filling my chest. The warmth dims when my thoughts slip to Damian, to the quiet library I found, to the way he smiled as if it hurt.
Then after… the way it vanished. The darkness underneath. He looked like he hated himself for being human for even one second.
“So, how’s work, Julian?” Mom asks as we tuck into our meals.
“Good, good,” Julian mutters, looking down at his plate.
Julian “works in private security,” which is the line we give our parents and the line they accept without question. They adore him too much to imagine anything darker. But I’ve seen more than they have—the late-night disappearances, the tension in his jaw, the guilty glances. Maybe “vibes” isn’t scientific, but a sister knows.
And I never pushed. School, residency, shifts—it was always easy to pretend I didn’t see the cracks. Until Damian blew them open.
It’s just that I’ve never been brave enough to do anything about it. Plus, I’ve been busy with school and now with work.
That was before he dragged me into his world.
I push all of that away and focus on the here and now. That warm glow spreads through me when Mom starts singing me praises. “I always knew you were going to be a kick-ass nurse, Celine. I knew it ever since you were a little girl.”
I smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
If only I could stop nursing suspicion instead of patients.
“Do you hate us for disappearing for Christmas?” Mom asks, seeming genuinely concerned. “I know how much you love this holiday.”
“I want you both to enjoy yourselves,” I say, and I mean it.
Still, maybe everything with Damian feels heavier because they aren’t here. Christmas has always been a family thing—and now there’s this broody, complicated man taking up too much space in my head.
There he is, popping up in my head again.
Once we’re done eating, I pack up some leftovers, hug Mom and Dad, then walk out to my car.
“How is he?” Julian asks quietly outside, snowflakes catching on his shoulders like tiny white warnings. He looks neat again—always neat—which makes the memory of him torn and bloodied at The Crow feel even stranger.
“He’s your friend,” I say. “Ask him yourself.”
“I’ve been busy,” he replies defensively.
“With work?” I snap.
He flinches. “Yes, Celine, with work. Is there a problem with that?”
“I don’t know how he is,” I mutter. “I don’t know him.”
In the car, the moment Damian took the book from my hand flashes through my mind—the heat, the spark—and the terrifying possibility that he felt it too.
Snow thickens as I drive. I should go home. I should. But my hands steer toward Damian’s street anyway. I try to call it autopilot. It isn’t. A few minutes later, I’m parked outside his house.
It’s still difficult to believe how luxurious that big house is inside. The windows are almost black with grime. The garden is an overgrown jungle, and the path is all broken brickwork and clawing weeds. A fortress pretending to be ruins.
Maybe just like him? Gruff and dangerous on the outside, but warm and bright on the inside? That might just be wishful thinking.