Page 82 of Pretty When He Bleeds

Roman

I’mhalfwaythroughpracticewhen I realize something’s fucking wrong.

Damon hasn’t texted me all day.

At first, I thought maybe he was just busy—lost in his paintings or dealing with his usual broody bullshit—but as the hours passed, the silence started gnawing at me. Now, standing on the ice, my gut twists with something ugly.

I pull my phone out of my bag between drills, swiping to our texts. Nothing. I try calling, but it goes straight to voicemail.

The longer his silence stretches, the worse the feeling in my chest gets.

“Bishop!” Coach barks. “Get your head in the fucking game!”

I nod, shoving my phone back in my bag, but it’s pointless. My focus is shot, my legs feel heavy, and every time I skate toward the puck, my mind is somewhere else. With him.

Something isn’t right.

I barely last another five minutes before I skate over to Killian. “Cover for me.”

He frowns. “What? Where the fuck are you going?”

“Damon’s place.”

His expression changes then when he looks at me properly. He doesn’t ask why, doesn’t tell me to wait—he just nods. “Go.”

I don’t waste another second. I skate off, ignoring Coach’s shouts behind me as I unclip my helmet and toss it onto the bench. I rip off my gloves, grab my phone, and check for the hundredth time.

Still nothing.

Fuck this.

I call an Uber before I’ve even finished untying my skates, yanking them off and shoving them into my bag before booking it out of the rink. Damon’s apartment isn’t far, but every second that ticks by in that car feels like an eternity.

Something’s wrong. I fucking know it.

By the time I get to his building, my jaw clenched so hard it aches. I practically sprint up the stairs to his floor, skipping the elevator because I can’t fucking wait.

What if I’m too late? What if something—

No. Fuck no, I can’t think like that. When I reach his door, I don’t bother knocking since he gave me a key. But the second I step inside, the smell of paint hits me—thick and cloying, heavy in the air like he’s been at it for hours.

And when I see him, my stomach fucking drops.

Damon’s standing in front of a canvas, completely zoned out, his hands covered in black paint, his body unnervingly still except for the slow drag of his brush across the canvas. His eyes aren’t clear. Not like they had started to become these past few weeks. They’re hazy. Like he’s gone. Like he’s somewhere else entirely.

“Damon,” I say, stepping forward, but he doesn’t react.

I swallow hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Babe,” I try again, softer this time. “Talk to me.”

Nothing.

Fuck.

I move closer, close enough to see the canvas properly now, and my chest tightens.

It’s just… black. Layer upon layer of black paint, uneven strokes, some parts still wet and glistening under the dim light. It’s messy. Chaotic. And it fucking scares me.

“Damon,” I say again, and this time, I reach out, my fingers brushing against his arm.

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