Damien Vladermer's Arc

Chapter 6 of 13

The elevator opened into the penthouse. Skylar had gone quiet in the car, her face turned to the window. Damien lifted her without asking. She curled against his chest and let him carry her inside. She was shaking still, but she did not cry. She just held on. He did not push her to speak. A wound he could not name was worse than any he could. He set her on the couch and drew a bath. The tub filled with steam and warm water. He laid one of his shirts on the counter and a thick towel beside it. "Take your time," he said. She nodded and closed the door. While the water ran, he uncovered the food his people had left that morning. He warmed it himself. Soft rolls, a small dish of macaroni, a glazed muffin. Plain, familiar things. He wanted her to feel steady. He set the platter on a low table and waited. She came out in his shirt, hair damp, her legs bare. The shirt swallowed her. She sat close to him, closer than she needed to, and pulled a roll apart with her fingers. He watched her eat. Her scent rose off her warm skin. His throat stayed calm. The feeding earlier had bought him this quiet. He was grateful for it now. "They said no again," she said finally. She did not look up. "I sat in that office. A woman read my file. She said I didn't fit what they wanted." Her voice stayed flat, the way it did when a thing hurt too much to soften. "I asked what I was missing. She said family. Stability. People who could vouch for me." She set the roll down. "I don't have those. I never did." Damien held still. He had cleared every barrier between Skylar and that door. Money, waitlists, quiet strings pulled from his tower. He had removed the obstacles she could not see. But this one he could not buy. The academy did not want her savings. It wanted a life she had never been given. "You have somewhere," he said. "You have here." She leaned into him. "For now," she said. But she did not pull away. He put his arm around her and she let him. She talked a little more, small things, the long hallway, the cold chairs. Then her words slowed. Her breathing evened out. She fell asleep against his chest with the muffin half-eaten on the plate. He carried her to the bed and laid her on the dark silk. He pulled the cover to her shoulder. She wanted a family. A home with people to vouch for her, children of her own someday. He looked at her sleeping face and knew the truth. He could keep her warm and fed and safe. He could not give her a family. He was already dead. Whatever the academy demanded, he could not be it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.