Chapter 31

Damon

Seri is a boneless mess against me, exhausted, her body limp as I carry her upstairs. She doesn't fight me. Doesn't argue. I had debated about getting her dressed before leaving the sitting room, but the blanket wrapped around her was good enough. And that alone tells me how drained she is. Her usual fire that usually fought me dimmed, but it’s still there—burning low, flickering beneath the surface.

I don't put her on the bed. She’s too much of a mess for that right now, physically and emotionally. Instead, I take her straight into the bathroom. She barely lifts her head as I set her down on the chair in the corner of the room before moving to turn on the taps, filling the tub with warm water. The scent of cedar and bergamot fills the air as I pour in a few drops of oil.

When I turn back to her, she’s watching me. Silent. Guarded.

I reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head before undoing my belt. Her eyes track the movement, but she doesn’t say anything. When I step out of my pants and boxers, she finally reacts—just a flicker of something in her gaze, something uncertain. Not fear, no. But hesitation.

I step into the tub first, lowering myself into the water before reaching for her hand. “Come here.”

She hesitates, her body stiff. I don’t pull. I don’t force. I just wait. After a moment, she stands and lets the blanket fall away, steps forward, letting me guide her into the water with me. She’s facing me, before turning around and bending her knees, her body trembling slightly as she lowers herself between my legs. The moment she sinks against my chest, something inside me tightens.

I wrap my arms around her, pulling her in, feeling her breath slow against me. The water laps at our skin, warm and comforting, but it’s not just the bath easing the tension in her muscles—it’s the touch. The connection. She’s letting me hold her.

That’s not nothing.

I take the washcloth, dipping it into the water before running it over her back, slow and deliberate. “Talk to me, Seri.”

She stiffens. “About what?”

I press my lips to her damp hair, inhaling her scent—cherry, chocolate, and something uniquely her. “About what’s haunting you. Why did you fight us so hard?”

She doesn’t answer right away. I let the silence stretch, my hands continuing their slow, soothing movements. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast but steady.

Finally, she exhales, her voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t want to hear it.”

“I do.” I run the cloth up her arm, then across her collarbone. “Tell me.”

She shifts slightly, her hands resting against my legs. Her fingers press into my skin like she’s anchoring herself. “He made me feel small,” she murmurs, eyes downcast. “Like I was nothing without him. Like I existed only to serve him.”

A sharp edge of rage cuts through me, but I force myself to stay calm. She doesn’t need my anger right now. She needs me to listen.

“He controlled everything,” she continues, voice quiet but steady. “What I wore. Who I talked to. What I ate. If I disobeyed…” She swallows hard, shaking her head. “It didn’t matter if I fought back. He always found a way to remind me that he owned me.”

I grip the back of her neck, firm but gentle, turning her face to look at me. “He doesn’t own you anymore, Seri.”

Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, I see something flicker across her face—something vulnerable, something raw. “I know,” she whispers.

I didn’t know who this arsehole was but i wanted to find him and end him. I lean in, pressing my forehead against hers. “You’re not his. You’re not anyone’s. Not unless you choose to be.”

She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t answer either. Her fingers come up and curl around my wrist, as her eyes drift closed, her body sinking deeper into mine, like she’s trying to disappear into the warmth, into me.

I slide my other hand through the water, over her thigh, squeezing just enough to remind her that she’s here. That I’m here. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” I murmur, “but I want you to trust me. Trust us.”

Her breath hitches, and I know she’s teetering on the edge of saying more—of opening up completely—but she stops herself. I don’t push. Not tonight. Instead, I just hold her, the warm water surrounding us, my arms locked around her like a promise.

“You’re safe now, Seri,” I tell her softly. “With me. With Marius and Tyrone. We’ll take care of you.”

For the first time tonight, she nods. Just a small movement. But it’s enough for now. Seri's body is warm and pliant against me, her breath slowing, her muscles unwinding. The water laps around us, the scent of cedar and bergamot still thick in the air, but my focus is on her. On the details I missed before.

I let my fingers drift, tracing the ink across her skin—patterns of flowers and intricate mandalas, weaving together like a tapestry. The art is stunning, delicate yet bold. A contrast, just like her. I follow the lines over her ribs, down her arms, over her back. Each piece tells a story, but the more I look, the more I see what she doesn’t want me to.

The scars.

Beneath the ink, almost hidden but not quite, are faint ridges of old wounds. Along her ribs. Across her back. The worst are on her thighs—identical, horizontal lines, too precise to be anything but self-inflicted. A sharp pang twists in my chest. I know what those are.

My fingers still over them, my jaw tightening. "Seri..."

She stiffens. Just for a second. Then she shifts, pulling her legs slightly away, like she can pretend I didn’t see. But I did.

"These aren't from him, are they?" My voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is heavy.

She exhales slowly, staring at the water instead of me. "No."

I wait. Letting the silence press her, coax her into giving me more.

She drags her bottom lip between her teeth, debating, before finally speaking. "They’re not from him but they are from being with him." Her fingers skim the water. "Before I knew how to fight back."

The admission is soft, barely audible over the slight ripple of the bath, but it hits me like a sledgehammer. Before she knew how to fight back. Meaning there was a time when she didn’t. A time when she let the pain consume her, when she turned it inward instead of outward. A time when she was breaking, alone.

My fingers tighten around her thigh, grounding her. Grounding myself. "And now?"

She lifts her head, finally looking at me, her expression unreadable. "Now I survive."

A muscle in my jaw ticks. That’s not enough. Surviving isn’t the same as living.

I cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheek. "You don't have to just survive anymore."

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t answer. She won’t let me carry this yet. Won’t let any of us. But she’s here, in my arms, in my world now. And that’s a start. I press a lingering kiss to her temple before reaching for the towel, pulling her up with me. She doesn't fight it as I lift her out of the water, wrapping her in soft fabric, drying her off with slow, steady movements.

By the time I get her to the bed, she’s boneless again, exhaustion weighing her down. I slide in behind her, pulling her against me, my arm locking around her waist. She doesn’t resist. Instead, she presses back, letting me keep her close, letting me be her shield for the night.

I tighten my grip. "Sleep, angel."

For a long time, she doesn’t move. Then, just as I think she’s drifted off, I hear her whisper.

"Goodnight, Damon."

A small, simple thing. But from her, it feels like everything.

I close my eyes, pressing my lips to the back of her neck. She may not believe it yet. But one day, she will. She’s safe now. She’s ours.