Chapter 37
Damon's POV
I stood there like an idiot, staring at my empty hand.
The space where Elena's wrist had been still felt warm, but the way she'd yanked away—Jesus. That wasn't hesitation. That wasn't uncertainty. That was rejection. Pure, visceral.
My wolf snarled inside my chest, confused and furious.
I turned slowly, aware of every eye in the room tracking my movement. My father looked disgusted. Isabella looked disappointed. Randy just looked tired.
"Sit down," Marcus said flatly. "We're not finished here."
But I couldn't focus on whatever lecture was coming. All I could think about was the look on Elena's face before she broke—that moment when I'd asked her to speak up for me, to say something, to help me the way she always did.
And she'd just... shattered.
I'd done that. Somehow, without even meaning to, I'd broken her.
The realization sat in my gut like a stone, cold and heavy and impossible to ignore.
When had I last seen her cry like that? Really cry.
The memory hit me suddenly, sharp and unwelcome.
---
She'd been maybe ten, hiding in the corner of the Blackwood gardens after some event where her father had snapped at her for spilling juice on her dress. I'd found her curled up behind the hedge maze, her face blotchy and red, trying so hard to be quiet that her whole body shook with the effort.
"Hey." I'd crouched down next to her, awkward and unsure. "You okay?"
Her voice had been so small. "Dad's always angry at me. I don't know what I did wrong."
"You didn't do anything wrong." I'd meant it, too. "He's just... adults are weird sometimes."
She'd looked up at me with those huge, wet eyes. "Do you think I'm bad?"
"No." The answer came instantly. "You're not bad, Elena. You're good. Really good. Better than most people."
She'd thrown her arms around me then, sobbing into my shoulder while I awkwardly patted her back and promised her everything would be okay. That I'd always be there. That she didn't need to be afraid because she had me.
Eventually, she'd stopped crying. She'd pulled back, sniffling, and given me this tremulous smile that made something in my chest feel too tight.
"Promise?" she'd whispered. "Promise you'll always stay?"
"I promise."
---
I'd kept that promise. For years, I'd been the one she came to when things got bad. The one who listened when her parents fought, when she felt invisible, when she needed someone to tell her she mattered.
And now?
Now I was the one making her cry.
"Damon!" Marcus's voice cut through my thoughts. "Are you even listening?"
"No," I said honestly. "I'm not."
I stood up, ignoring Isabella's sharp intake of breath, and walked toward the door.
"Where do you think you're going?" my father demanded.
I didn't answer. Didn't look back. Just pushed through those heavy doors and broke into a run.
The night air hit me like a slap, cold and sharp, but I barely felt it. My legs carried me across the grounds, past the gates, onto the snow-dusted streets that led toward the Cross estate. My breath came in harsh clouds, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I didn't know what I was going to say when I got there. Didn't know if she'd even see me.
I just knew I couldn't leave things like this.
By the time I reached the Cross gates, I was panting, my dress shirt soaked with sweat despite the freezing temperature. I stabbed the intercom button, watching the security camera swivel toward me.
"It's Damon," I said into the speaker. "I need to see Elena."
Silence stretched out, long enough that I thought maybe they'd just ignore me. Then the gate clicked open.
I bolted up the driveway, taking the front steps two at a time. The door opened before I could knock—Vivian stood in the entrance, her expression unreadable.
"Where is she?" I asked, still catching my breath.
"Upstairs." Vivian's voice was calm, too calm. "In her room. She's still crying."
The words hit harder than I expected. "I need to talk to her."
"Wait." Vivian's hand came up, not touching me but creating a barrier nonetheless. "I need to ask you something first."
I forced myself to stillness, though every instinct screamed at me to push past her and run upstairs.
"Are you refusing the engagement?" Vivian asked quietly.
"We should have the right to choose—"
She cut me off, her eyes boring into mine. "Damon, do you love her?"
The question hung between us like a trap.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried to find the right words.
"She's..." I struggled. "She's more like family. She's important to me. I care about her."
"Family." Vivian repeated the word like it tasted bitter.
"If you see her as family," Vivian continued, her voice dropping to something cold and final, "then this... whatever this is between you two... it needs to end. She doesn't need a brother who keeps her dangling. She doesn't need someone who only remembers she exists when it's convenient. You two need to keep your distance."
"Please, I'm worried about her..." I pleaded.
"She'll be fine," Vivian cut me off. "She needs to learn to be strong."
The door closed in my face with a finality that echoed through my chest.
I stood there in the snow, my breath forming clouds in the freezing air, staring at the dark facade of the Cross manor. Above me, on the second floor, Elena's window remained shuttered, the curtains drawn tight against the world. Against me.
My hand lifted toward the doorbell, hovered there for a long moment, then fell back to my side.
I turned to leave, my boots crunching through fresh powder, but I looked back one last time at that dark window. The silence behind it felt accusatory, final. Something twisted in my gut, sharp and unfamiliar.
---
Sleep didn't come easy when I got back to Blackwood Manor. I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. Every time I closed my eyes I saw her—the way she'd folded in on herself at dinner, the trembling of her shoulders, the broken sound of her apologies. By the time exhaustion finally dragged me under, the dreams were waiting.
Elena stood in front of me, her face blotchy and wet, eyes red-rimmed and accusing. She looked exactly as she had tonight, except this time when I reached for her, she recoiled again, jerking backward like I'd burned her, and the look in her eyes—God, the look in her eyes was pure disappointment. Not anger. Disappointment. Worse.
I tried to step closer but my legs wouldn't move, my body frozen in place while she backed away, shaking her head slowly.
"Elena, wait—" My voice came out desperate, strangled.
But she was already turning, already walking away, and no matter how hard I fought against the invisible force pinning me down, I couldn't follow.
I woke with a gasp at four in the morning, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it hurt. Sweat soaked through my shirt despite the cold room, and when I pressed my hands against my face, the panic didn't fade—if anything, it intensified, this sick feeling of something vital slipping through my fingers.