The Wicked Beasts That Roam

Chapter 6

The ceiling above Damian spun in circles, twirling so much he had to close his eyes for the sake of not puking. He wiped at the sweat lining his forehead, swearing to never get this wasted again. He'd been drunk for a while now―a day or two, maybe a week, possibly more. Liquor was his distraction at the moment.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to think about the other night when she'd stood at the kitchen patio, and how he couldn't stop himself from walking up to it. Something had called to him, and wildly, he caved. That same morning she had stepped out her door and he'd seen the words and questions beginning to form on her tongue as she started to speak, but he quickly ducked into his room for refuge.

And though the liquor was supposed to be his distraction, it did little to soothe his thoughts and his urges. If anything, being drunk amplified them. And the only thing that stopped him from going upstairs and humping the fuck out of that woman was the fact that he couldn't walk to save his life.

All he could do was lay there and drink and think, while his brain ran everywhere, unveiling haunted memories of his old life. Like the lashes, the starvation, the crunching sound of his wings as they were ripped out. Recollections flashed in his mind, a relentless horror movie of his past. He winced and put the bottle to his lips. A nightmare. That was all it was.

He couldn't cope with memories. And no, he didn't cry when he remembered them—he got angry. Bad things happened when he got angry: vampires ended up dead, women winded up with a mouthful, and a pack of Oreos were savagely eaten.

If it was morning or afternoon, he didn't know. Didn't care to know. What did time matter anyway? He was in a never-ending cycle of years and centuries. Forever lost with no sense of direction. He was solely here to breathe, fuck, and drive his car.

Escaping Hell had been his life's goal, and he conquered that long ago. Then it switched to obtaining money. He got that. Now what was left to conquer? To escape? To defeat? He had everything and wanted none of it.

"Did you drain all these bottles dry?" Aidyn was staring down at him. Damian had dropped at least thirteen bottles of Jack on the floor.

"Mm," was the most Dom could reply.

Aidyn's lip quirked. "Do you need help to your room?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head so the room wouldn't spin.

"I think you do." His brother paused. "Jade!"

"Yeah?" her voice answered at the door of the bar.

"Can you watch him real quick? You know, make sure he doesn't fall off the counter and kill himself?"

"Uh, sure."

And then he heard his brother whisper, "when I get back, I'll give you five bucks to help me get him up to his room."

"Sounds good."

Damian glanced over at her as he heard his brother's footsteps fade. She stared out the window, her long, dark curls shining in the sunlight. The downward curve of her lips, matched the sullen, dry look in her eyes. As if struck by a cinder block, Damian's heart dropped and his hands became shaky. He didn't need her touching him. Dear God, it would line him up for more trouble. He could walk just fine―with a little help from walls and other sturdy objects. Eh, maybe he could crawl instead.

He rolled off the counter, thinking his feet were more than stable enough to hold him. His legs buckled beneath him as they touched the floor, sending him face first to the polished tile.