Page 86 of Filthy and the Beast

I rub the back of my head. “Couldn’t sleep, I guess.” I notice his hand, wrapped in a bandage. “Shit. Are you okay?” Concern grabs me. “Did you get mugged again?”

Shaking his head, Damian removes his jacket. “Just a rogue piece of broken glass. I should be fine.” When he turns back to me, his shoulders slump.

“Tired?” I ask.

Hate him working so much.

Hate I can’t solve his problems for him, although I remind myself he wants to solve them for himself.

“Yeah.” He bites his lip. “Tonight was a hard night.”

“Come here.” I pull him close, give him a big hug. Damian relaxes against me, his breath ragged. When I pull back to look at him, tears glimmer behind his glasses.

“Hey.” I cup his cheek, studying him. “What’s wrong?”

His face falls. “I might have quit the job tonight.”

“Oh.” My thoughts swirl. He’s hurt and upset. Maybe something happened. Need to take care of him, but the crush of responsibility falls on my shoulders, too.

He needs this job with me, which means I have to find the money to keep paying him.

I push the thought aside. It’s not for now. Instead, I manage a crooked smile.

“You hate that job,” I tell him. “I’m glad you quit.”

He laughs softly. “Yeah. But I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

Inspecting the bandage, I take his hand. “You cleaned this yourself?”

Damian nods.

“Come on.” I hold his hand gently, leading him toward the bathroom in my quarters. “I’m sure that bar isn’t clean enough.”

We pass through the heavy door—crossing the boundary, but I don’t stop myself, try not to think about it. That’s where the nearest first aid kit rests, so that’s where we’re going.

I hit the light in the bathroom, find the little white box. Both of us silent, I unwrap his hand. The wound isn’t too deep, but it’s raw and red, running right down his palm by his thumb. “Fuck, that must hurt,” I grumble, running the hot water.

“I’m really okay.” His voice wavers.

I dab the wound with a cloth. “Are you?”

“Sparing the part where I feel like a total failure?”

“Why the fuck would you?”

“Because that job was the most money I’ve ever made. I was good at it, too. But I couldn’t get beyond feeling anxious and worried and stressed whenever I got there.” He shakes his head. “Plenty of people hate their jobs. They don’t all cry and quit.”

“Hey,” I say sternly. “You’re not a quitter.”

Hate seeing him sad like this. He’s the sunlight. Shouldn’t be sad.

“Thanks,” Damian says softly. “I think I’m just embarrassed.”

“Why?” I dab ointment on his cut.

“Why? Because I’m a mess. Ever since you’ve met me, I’ve been scrambling, trying to figure my life out. I must look like a total airhead.”

I look up from the wound and lock his eyes. “You’re fucking amazing.” My voice is firm. “You’re smart and talented and kind. You work your ass off, never slack on any of the jobs I give you, keep a good attitude the whole time. And somehow, you find time in there to bake fucking cookies and arrange flowers and a million other cute-ass things. You treat people right and make the world a better place, Damian, so no, you’re not a failure.”

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