𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 | 𝟏𝟖+

39

Luis sighs, "Cat, I know you're worried. I am too. But I know my son... and I know he'll come back."

"Bullshit!" I spit, the word tasting like venom on my tongue. "That's a cop-out and you know it, you selfish prick!"

The fear and the helplessness are eating me alive, and I need someone to lash out at. But Luis doesn't rise to the bait. He just looks at me, his eyes heavy with a look that makes me want to scream at him all over again. "You done?" he asks mildly, one eyebrow raised.

I deflate like a popped balloon, all the fight rushing out of me in a single exhale. "I can't lose him, Luis," I whisper, my voice cracking in a sob.

Luis nods, pushing himself up from his chair with a groan. "I know, kid."

He walks over to the liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. "Here," he says, pouring a generous amount into each glass. "This'll take the edge off."

I take the glass, throwing back the shot in one burning swallow, the whiskey settling in my empty stomach like a ball of molten lava. I lay down across the couch cushions. The bottle is back in my hand before I even realize I've reached for it, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides as I pour myself another shot.

︻デ═一

It's been hours since Damien tore out of here like a bat out of hell, and I'm still wondering if he's ever coming back. I'm just about to pour myself another drink, hoping to drown out the worst-case scenarios playing on a loop in my head, when the front door slams open.

I jump up from the couch, as Damien stumbles into the living room. He's a fucking mess, his eyes bloodshot and his clothes reeking of booze and smoke.

"Damien!" I gasp, rushing over to him. "What happened? Did you find Rome? Is he...?"

Damien looks at me, pain in his eyes. "He's in a coma," he says, his words slurring together. "Hooked up to all these fucking machines, barely clinging to life."

I feel like the floor's been yanked out from under me, tears escaping my eyes. "Damien. I'm so sor-"

"Don't!" he yells, cutting me off with a slashing motion of his hand. "Don't you fucking say you're sorry, like he's already dead. He's not, okay? He's not fucking dead!"

I nod frantically. "I know...I'm sorry...maybe you should take a shower?" I suggest gently, reaching out to touch his arm. "Try to get some rest, Damien. You're exhausted."

Damien pulls away from me. "Don't tell me what the fuck to do, Catherine!" he shouts.

My tears spill over in hot, silent tracks down my cheeks. I just stand there, my arms wrapped around myself as I watch him storm off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the windows. I sit back down onto the couch. I don't understand why he's shutting me out, why he's pushing me away when we need each other more than ever.

I know he's hurting; I know he's drowning in the same grief and anger that's been eating me alive since the moment I watched Penny die. But doesn't he see that I'm right there with him? That I'm the person who can understand exactly what he's going through?

I want to go to him, crawl into bed beside him. But as I'm listening to Damien raging and breaking things in the bedroom, there's a cold, creeping sense of déjà vu. It's like I'm right back there in that tiny, suffocating house, cowering in the corner as Lymon storms around in a drunken fury.

I can almost feel the sting of his hand across my face. The memories come flooding back, vivid and so fucking real that for a second, I can't breathe.

I know Damien's not Lymon. I know he would never lay a hand on me, no matter how far gone he is. But there's something about the way he's acting right now, it scares me. It reminds me of the man I used to be so terrified of, the man I'm still terrified of even though he's gone.

I hug my knees tighter to my chest, trying to breathe through the panic. I tell myself that it's different this time, that Damien's just lashing out because he's hurting, and he doesn't know how to process the pain.

But there's a small, insidious voice in the back of my head that whispers that maybe it's not.

No. He's not like Lymon.

No. He's the man who saved me, the man who showed me what real love looks like.

I take a deep breath and slowly push myself up from the couch, my feet whispering against the hardwood as I make my way down the hall.

The bedroom is pitch black when I slip inside, the only sound is Damien's ragged breathing. I can just make out the shape of him on the bed. Carefully, I slide between the sheets, the cool fabric a shock against my skin. For a moment, I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling as I try to gather my courage.

And then, slowly, I reach out. My hand finds the solid warmth of Damien's back, my palm smoothing over the tense muscles as I scoot closer.

He stiffens at my touch, a sharp inhale hissing through his teeth. But he doesn't pull away or tell me to leave. So, I curl myself around him, molding my body to his until there's no space left between us. My arm slips around his waist, my cheek pressing against the nape of his neck as I hold him close.

For a long moment, neither of us speak. We just lie there in the darkness, breathing each other in. And then, so softly I almost miss it... Damien whispers, "I'm sorry."

I feel my throat go tight, tears welling up in my eyes. "It's okay," I murmur, my lips brushing against his skin. "I understand, Damien. I really do."

He shakes his head, a shuddering sigh gusting from his lungs. "It's not okay," he says. "The way I acted, the things I said... it's not okay, Cat."

I just hold him tighter, my fingers splaying over his heart. Damien shifts in my arms, rolling over until we're face to face. Even in the darkness, I can see the pain all over his face.

"I love you," he rasps, his hand coming up to cradle my cheek. "I love you so fucking much, Cat. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out," I whisper, the words a promise. "I'm not going anywhere, Damien. Never."