Page 70 of Devotion

I’mdifferent.

His assessment of how I felt as a child wasn’t far off from the present. It still rings true that I see him—therealhim—and it changes nothing. Saying this, accepting him as he is, I’m aware of what it means. That traces of the blood on his hands has now transferred onto mine.

My soul—which has always been a touch darker than most—is now a reflection of his, the beast who, as of tonight, has sworn his unwavering devotion. And through my actions over the past several weeks—my silence, my protection of his identity, despite all he’s done… I’d unknowingly done the same.

25

Layla

The dryer hums as the used sheets tumble to a rhythm.

I’m awake.

Have been since Damien left. Mostly, I’ve stared at the ceiling, rubbing my tender wrists, but my reigning emotion is regret. I didn’t have the balls to ask him to stay when he so clearly wanted that.

Honestly, I’m not even sure why I didn’t invite him. Now, I’m tormented, imagining his warmth in my bed, his skin on my skin.

Shit. I fucked up.

My friends have been texting nonstop in our group chat. Mostly, they want more info on Damien after his surprise appearance tonight. But they’ve also spent a fair amount of time gushing over how“insanely lickable”he is, according to Isha. I, on the other hand, haven’t responded to a single message. I need to let my thoughts settle before I’ll be able to answer any of their questions, knowing they’ll at least suspect that we had sex tonight. My plan is to address it all tomorrow and not a moment sooner.

I turn onto my side, and my eyes shift to the nightstand. Normally, when I’m this unsettled, I’d consider going a round with my vibrator. That tends to relax me, but the idea of it doesn’t appeal to me now. All because, now that I’ve hadhim,I have real concern that nothing—and maybeno one—will ever compare.

A terrifying thought.

I’m on my back again, forcing my eyes closed with hopes that I’ll miraculously drift off, but my mind has other plans. It’s decided to take a trip down memory lane, perhaps in search of stray memories that included Damien. Thoughts his revelation may have awakened.

But instead of seeinghim,I only seeher.

My mother.

Her memory always makes my heart heavy, like the weight of the emotional burden she’s left behind rests there. No, she wasn’t all bad, but she was bad enough that even the good moments feel like a dark cloud hangs over them. I see that evil grin on her face again as she paints herself in red, as my father bleeds out on the floor, as my innocence is drained from my soul.

It's hard not to wonder what Damien knows about her death. The story was plastered all over every news media outlet, so it’d be hard to miss. But does he mostly remember the mebeforeshe left, or the me who remained? Because a very different girl emerged from that nightmare.

My breathing quickens as I remember the suffocating feel of the thick blanket the officer placed over my head that night, shielding me from the carnage I’d already seen so much of. But then, I remember the one thing that brought me comfort.

The warm hand that held mine.

Calming words that came with the kind gesture, a promise that he wouldn’t let my mother hurt me.

My eyes pop open as an air of familiarity seeps into my bones. It’s enough that my brain has already started mapping out a weak connection between that seeming disembodied hand, to Damien.

Is that… is that even possible?

Being so young, how would he have even gotten to our house that night if…

Loud pounding at my door startles the thought right out of my head, and I bolt upright in bed, scrambling to my feet as my heart races. It takes a moment to remember where I left my robe, and by the time I grab it off the back of the bathroom door, whoever’s been trying to pound my fucking door to dust slams their fist against it again.

I’m so rattled, I don’t even check the peephole, just wanting the noise to stop, but the second I lock eyes with Martinez, I wish I’d been more careful.

“What the hell do you want?” Sighing, I lean against the doorframe, bracing my shoulder there so he knows this is as far as he goes.

“What’s wrong? Can’t let me in because your boyfriend’s in there?” he says, yelling the last part louder in case there’s someone inside to hear him ranting.

I look him over, wearing the same burgundy dress shirt and black slacks he had on earlier at the lounge. Except he’s disheveled now, and judging by the glazed look in his eyes, he’s buzzed. Not quite drunk enough to blame his poor decisions on the alcohol, but enough that it’s given him the courage to show up at my door unannounced, knowing his face is likely the last I want to see.

“You’re seriously going to give me shit about being with someone tonight when you thought it was a good idea to show up to my friend’s party with another girl? Okay, Martinez. Good night.”

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