Page 43 of Damian

I roar into the night; the sound echoing through the mountains. I paw at the ground and my hooves dig deep into the earth. Walker is free, and he demands action.

He spars with the trees. His massive fists and horns crash against the trunks, splintering wood and shaking the ground. Each strike releases a bit of the pent-up aggression.

The clearing soon bears the marks of our fury. Trees splintered and uprooted, the ground churned and scarred. Our breaths come in heavy snorts, steam rising from his nostrils in the cool night air. Walker continues sparring until the bull’s rage is spent, leaving him panting and exhausted, but finally at peace.

The others who’d joined me followed the same path of brawling with nature. A part of us feared what our aggression might do to one another. None of us have ever sparred with such deep emotions. We are a danger to one another, despite knowing the enemy is not among us.

Gradually, I allow the transformation to reverse. My fur recedes, my muscles shrink, and my horns disappear. Within moments, I’m a man once more, standing naked amidst the devastation we have wrought.

I take a deep breath, and the tension drains from my body. My bull is calm and satiated for now. I’m not the only one. I look around at the others. Peace has filled each of us.

After getting dressed, we trek back to the labyrinth.

Inside, Emjay waits for me. She scans me for any signs of distress. A small smile plays on her lips. “Feel better?” she asks.

“Much,” I reply, with a heart filled with relief. “Thank you for understanding.”

She nods and together we return to the campfire.

Chapter 30

Emjay

“Is this what love feels like?” ~ Emjay

It’s late. The camp is quiet, the only sounds— the crackling of the dying fire and the distant rustle of leaves in the wind. Everyone else is asleep, their bodies splayed out in various states of exhaustion. Despite the long days and the grueling journey, I’m not tired. My mind is too restless. Thoughts churn in a ceaseless whirlpool of memories and questions.

“How did you know my poppa’s name?” I ask Damian, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us.

“Is Ioannis your poppa?” he responds, his gaze steady and unwavering.

I nod, feeling a plethora of emotions at the mention of the man who’d shaped so much of my early life.

“Willow told me his name. Why poppa and not patér?” he questions.

I shrug, struggling to articulate the complex web of feelings associated with the terms. “I never heard the word patér until I met you. There’s so much love behind the word. I’m glad poppa never held that title.” The word feels foreign on my tongue, a sentiment I’ve never associated with the man who raised me.

“And momma?” Damian adds, his attitude gentle but probing.

“Again, mitéra is a precious sentiment I’ve never experienced,” I admit, hanging my head in shame. “I smiled the day Poppa beat Momma to death. I even wished I’d swung the final blow.” The confession hangs in the air like a dark cloud that had been festering in my soul for years.

Damian places his fingers under my chin, lifting my head until our eyes meet. “It would be a lie to say my feelings don’t mirror yours,” he explains. His deep timbre soothes my raw emotions like a balm.

My body sags with relief. The burden of my dark secret eases with his understanding. I’ve dreaded this confession more than any of the others, fearing that it would drive a wedge between us.

“I still hate her,” I continue, the words tumbling out of me in a rush. “I haven’t forgiven her.” The bitterness in my words surprises even me. The depth of my unresolved anger bubbling to the surface.

Damian’s look softens with empathy, his own pain reflecting in their depths. “Forgiveness is not something you owe anyone, Emjay. It’s a gift you give yourself when you’re ready. And it’s okay if you’re not there yet,” he assures me, his tone filled with a gentle promise.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready,” I admit with the weight of my past pressing down on me.

“Then take your time,” he replies, his fingers still resting lightly under my chin. “Healing isn’t a race. It’s a journey. And I’m here with you every step of the way.”

The fire crackles, sending sparks into the night sky. I look at Damian, seeing not just a man but a kindred spirit who understands my pain in a way few others ever could. His presence is a soothing promise that I’m not alone.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, barely above a whisper.

A small smile plays at the corners of his lips. “Me too.”

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