Chapter 8
Elena's POV
"I'm fine," I said quietly, pulling my hand free from his grip. Where he'd touched me felt cold. "Your mother was... direct. But she wasn't cruel."
That was a lie. The way Isabella had looked at me, the disappointment in her voice when she'd called me reckless and irresponsible—it cut deeper than I wanted to admit. But what hurt more was realizing I'd stood there and taken it all, apologizing for things I hadn't done, covering for mistakes that weren't mine.
Damon's shoulders sagged with relief, and he let out a long breath. "Thank God. I knew you'd come through for me." He reached for my hand again, squeezing it briefly before letting go. "That's what I love about you, Elena. You're always there when I need you."
The words should have warmed me. Instead, they sat heavy in my chest like stones.
"We're friends, right?" Damon continued, running his fingers through his disheveled golden hair. The gesture was unconscious, practiced—I'd seen him make it a thousand times before. "Best friends, since we were kids. Friends help each other out. That's just what we do."
"Friends," I repeated. He clearly had never taken our engagement seriously.
He smiled then, that easy, careless smile that always made other girls sigh. But all I could see was the red-haired woman in the car, the way his hand had cupped her cheek with a tenderness he'd never shown me. All I could hear was his voice on the phone earlier, casual and unconcerned, asking if I'd made it back to the dorm while he'd been tucked safely away with someone else.
"Elena?" Damon's brow furrowed. "You okay? You look kind of pale."
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
"I can't do this anymore," I said.
The words came out quieter than I'd intended, but they rang in the silence like a bell.
Damon blinked. "Do what?"
"This." I gestured between us, at the whole situation. "Covering for you. Lying for you."
Genuine confusion flickered across his face. "I don't understand. Did my mother say something to you? Because she can be harsh sometimes, but she doesn't mean—"
"This isn't about your mother." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how cold the room was despite the roaring fire. "This is about me. I have my own life, my own problems. I can't spend all my time circling around yours."
Damon stared at me like I'd started speaking a foreign language.
"I need to go home," I said, turning toward the door. "It's late, and I have studying to do."
"Elena, wait."
I heard him call after me as I walked toward the door, but I only quickened my pace.
---
The car I'd called was waiting outside the gates, engine running against the cold. I climbed into the back seat, gave the driver my address, then sank into the worn leather and closed my eyes.
My phone buzzed almost immediately. Damon, sending a string of texts I could read without opening.
Are you mad at me?
I really didn't mean for any of this to happen
We should talk tomorrow, okay? Maybe grab lunch?
I turned the phone face-down on my lap and watched the city lights blur past the window. The snow had stopped, leaving everything crystalline and still under the streetlamps. Beautiful, in a cold sort of way.
Half an hour later, the car pulled up to the Cross estate. It was nearly ten. The house loomed dark against the sky, only a few windows lit on the upper floor. Six months ago, before we'd dismissed most of the servants, the place would have been warm and welcoming even at this hour. Now it looked like what it was—a dying dynasty desperately maintaining appearances.
I paid the driver and trudged up the front steps, my key already in hand. The lock turned with a soft click that seemed too loud in the stillness.
Inside, the foyer was tomb-quiet and twice as cold. I shrugged off my coat and hung it carefully on the rack.
Upstairs, a low, angry voice broke the silence. I'd heard this fight before, or variations of it.
Glass shattered somewhere above me, followed by my mother's voice, sharp and cutting. "You're drunk again! When aren't you drunk anymore, Donald?"
"I'm trying to save this family!" My father's roar rattled the chandelier. "Do you think the territory protection agreement just happens? Do you think other packs will respect us out of charity?"
I stood frozen in the entrance hall, one hand still on the bannister. The smart thing would be to go to my room, shut the door, pretend I couldn't hear them tearing each other apart. That's what I'd always done before.
But tonight, something made me stay.
I climbed the stairs slowly, following the sound of breaking things and breaking hearts.
The scene in the study was exactly what I'd expected and somehow worse than I'd imagined. My father sat slumped on the sofa, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. My mother stood across from him, the cracks showing in her carefully maintained composure.
They both froze when I appeared in the doorway.
"Elena." My mother's voice shifted immediately, smoothing into something calmer. "You're back. How was it at the Vance estate?"
"Fine," I said quietly. "Damon's... he's okay. The silver burns aren't too bad."
My father snorted, a sound of disgust he didn't bother to hide. "Of course he's okay. The golden boy always is. Someone else always pays his debts."
"Donald." My mother's tone carried a warning.
"What?" He gestured broadly with the whiskey bottle. "It's true. That boy's been cleaning up messes his whole life and somehow still manages to look like the victim."
"He—" I started, but my mother cut me off.
"Go to your room, Elena."
But my father lurched to his feet, swaying slightly. "No. She should hear this. She's old enough to know some things."
My mother's face went pale. "Donald, don't—"
"Know what?" I asked, even though part of me didn't want to know the answer.