Page 69 of Sticks & Serpents

“Damien?” she asked softly, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

I tried to shift away, to divert her attention, but it was too late. She had seen them—the faint but unmistakable patterns etched into my skin. Scars from years of trying to take control of the chaos inside me. Each one told a story I wasn’t ready to share.

Her gaze locked onto mine, and I could see the mix of concern and confusion swirling in those hazel depths. It was a look that made me want to bolt but also made me want to draw her closer—to let her see all of me, even the parts I kept hidden beneath layers of bravado.

“What happened?” she pressed gently.

I felt the weight of her question hanging in the air between us like a thick fog. How could I explain? How could I put into words the pain that led to these marks?

“Nothing,” I muttered, deflecting with practiced ease.

But Holly wasn’t convinced. She leaned closer, determination etched across her features as if she believed she could peel back every layer I had built around myself.

“Damien…” she urged softly, almost pleadingly.

Her fingers trembled as they traced over one scar—a ghost of pain now turned into something raw and exposed under her touch. And damn it if that didn’t twist something inside me.

I fought against it. Fought against letting her in—against allowing anyone past the walls I had built so carefully around my heart—but there was something about Holly that pulled at every instinct within me. The truth threatened to unravel right there in the dim light of morning as we both hovered on the edge of something unspoken and dangerously real.

“Did someone—?” Holly’s voice was soft. Too soft. She stopped, swallowed hard, and tried again. “Did you do this?”

Her question hit me like a punch to the gut. My breath locked in my chest, and I felt my entire body stiffen at the accusation. I should’ve been more careful. Should’ve covered them. Should’ve never let her see this.

The words were already forming in her throat—the concern, the pity, the questions that would dig into my skin like a blade. I could see it in her eyes, that mix of fear and compassion. It was everything I’d wanted to avoid. Everything I didn’t want to face.

I hated the thought of her looking at me like that—like I was broken or damaged goods. The scars weren’t just reminders of my past; they were a part of who I had become, and if she started to pity me? It would tear down every wall I’d built around myself.

“Damien…” she whispered, searching for an answer in my silence.

I turned my head slightly, forcing myself not to look directly at her as if that might shield me from what came next—the inevitable fallout of my reckless life spilling into hers. My mind raced through all the moments where I had felt powerful, invincible, but here I stood feeling vulnerable under her gaze.

“What happened?” she pressed gently.

It was like she wanted me to confess something deep and dark, to tell her about the demons that simmered beneath the surface.

But how could I explain?

How could I put into words the pain that led to these marks?

If she knew…

She would never look at me the same way. She would never want me. She would see me for what I was: a monster.

I clenched my jaw against the urge to retreat further into myself, but there was no escaping now. Holly had pulled back layers I thought were buried forever with each touch of her fingers on my skin.

I sat up abruptly, grabbing my jeans from the floor and slipping them on with shaking hands. The cool fabric felt like a barrier against the heat of her gaze, but it didn’t help. I could still feel Holly’s eyes on me, searching, digging for answers I wasn’t ready to give.

“Damien,” she said softly, reaching for me.

I jerked away, my heart racing as panic surged through me.

“Don’t.” My voice came out sharp, defensive—more of a warning than an explanation.

She blinked, startled. “I wasn’t?—”

Her words faded into the silence between us, leaving behind a tension thick enough to cut through. I hated that I’d let her in this close. Hated that I had opened myself up just enough for her to see beneath the surface—into the chaos that roiled inside me like a storm ready to erupt.

I could feel my stomach knotting tighter as she sat there, vulnerability spilling from her every glance. The last thing I wanted was for her to pick me apart—to dissect the scars and wounds I had hidden for so long behind layers of arrogance and anger.

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