Chapter 23: Not Herself

Reaching his room, he laid her gently on his bed, her wet clothes soaking into the mattress. Not knowing what else to do, he stood there staring at her. His jaw tightened.

He didn’t know why he had brought her here instead of her own room. Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was fear that Mathew would come back for her. Maybe it was something he refused to name.

Sucking in a deep breath, he turned away and went to the counter. The bottle of dry gin was still there. He grabbed it, uncorked it, and took a long, burning swallow. Then another. And another. The alcohol burned, but it did nothing to calm the unease twisting inside his chest.

When he turned back, Sofia stirred.

Her lashes fluttered. Her brows pulled together as if she were waking from a bad dream.

“Damien…?” she whispered, her voice soft and confused.

He froze.

Her eyes slowly opened, hazy, unfocused. They weren’t the eyes of the girl who had just been punished. They were the eyes of someone far away.

“You’re here,” she murmured. A faint, almost shy smile touched her lips. “Did we… did we run in the rain again?”

Damien’s breath caught.

She looked down at her damp clothes, at the water clinging to her sleeves. “I got sick again, didn’t I?” she said quietly, more tired than afraid.

His heart twisted.

The healer’s sedatives. Shock. Fever. She wasn’t in the present. She was slipping into the past—into a time when he was still safe to her.

“Lie down,” he said roughly.

She tried to sit up instead, wobbling. “I’m cold,” she whispered. “I’m shivering… Can I borrow one of your clothes?”

He closed his eyes.

For a second, he wanted to snap at her. To remind her who he was now. To remind her where she really was.

But she wouldn’t remember.

So he turned and walked to his closet.

Sofia slowly followed him, unsteady on her feet. He grabbed a clean long-sleeve shirt and handed it to her without looking.

“Change,” he said. “I’ll be in the room.”

He left the closet and went back to the counter, pouring more gin into the glass. His hands were shaking now.

A few minutes passed.

Then the door creaked softly.

Damien turned—and froze.

Sofia stood there in his shirt. It fit her perfectly, the sleeves covering her hands, the hem brushing her thighs. Her hair was still damp, her cheeks pale, her eyes cloudy with sickness and memories. Her nipples were very visible.

He swallowed hard, the drink in his hand forgotten.

“You always gave me your clothes when I got wet,” she said softly, like she was talking to a younger version of him. “They made me feel safe, and your smell is the most alluring smell in the world.”

Something inside Damien cracked.

He looked away, dragging a hand down his face.

“Fuck, Sofia,” he muttered.

She took a small step closer, confused. “Why are you angry?” she asked quietly. “Did I do something wrong?”

He frowned at her and wished he could just yell the truth to her face, but on second thought he thought about her condition, which might worsen if he did it. And despite how much he didn’t want to care, he saw himself caring for her.

“Go back to sleep, Sofia,” he muttered under his breath. He knew if she slept and woke up, the effect of the healer’s medication must have worn off.

Sofia swallowed hard. “Can I sit with you? I don’t feel sleepy.”

He watched her for a long second, his jaw tight, before snapping, “You’re sick. Go back to bed and sleep.”

Sofia blinked, startled by his tone. “I… I just wanted to sit with you,” she said softly.

“Bed,” he repeated, sharper.

She hesitated, clearly confused, then nodded and turned back, climbing onto the mattress. She pulled the blanket over herself, her eyes never leaving him.

A few seconds passed.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked in a small voice. “Tell me and I’ll apologize. You’re acting strange.”

Damien’s chest burned.

You hurt me. You betrayed me. I trusted you.

The words screamed inside his head—but he didn’t say them.

He took another swallow of gin instead.

Silence stretched between them.

Then he noticed the bed shift.

He looked up.

Sofia had slipped off the mattress. She walked toward him slowly, like she wasn’t fully awake. Before he could react, she climbed onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, resting her forehead against his.

Damien froze.

Her body was warm, her weight real, her breathing uneven. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused when she lifted her face to look at him.

“I can’t bear the thought of you being angry with me,” she murmured, like it was the only thing that mattered. “Please forgive me if I did something wrong.”

His heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

“Sofia… get down,” he said, but the words had no force.

She didn’t move. She just held him, clinging like she used to when she was younger, when the world felt too big and he was her safe place.

Damien swallowed hard, staring into her dazed eyes, knowing she wasn’t really seeing him—she was seeing the boy he used to be.

Damien opened his mouth to snap at her.

“Sofia—”

But she moved first.

Slow, unsteady, like she wasn’t fully in control of her own body, she leaned up and pressed her lips to his.

It was soft. Hesitant. Warm.

Damien froze in shock.

This was their first kiss.

She pulled back just a little, her lashes fluttering, her lips trembling. “I… I’ve always wanted to do that,” she whispered shyly. “I wanted to give you my first kiss.”

His wolf growled low inside him, not in anger—but in something wild and possessive.

Before he could think, before he could remember everything he was supposed to hate about her, Damien’s hands came up and pulled her back to him.

He kissed her.

Harder this time. Deeper. Like he had been starving for it.

For one reckless moment, he forgot the hate, the accusations, the pain. He forgot the world. All he could feel was her—warm, trembling, real in his arms.

Sofia made a small, surprised sound and kissed him back, awkward and unsure, like she didn’t quite know what to do, but she wanted to be there with him anyway.

That alone made him kiss her more.

Her lips were clumsy, innocent, nothing like the women who had kissed him before.

Damien’s control snapped like a dry branch in a storm. His hands slid down from her waist, his large palms gripping her curves, pulling her flush against his lap. A low, guttural moan vibrated from his chest into her mouth as he felt the friction of her soft body against his growing heat. The scent of rain and her sweet, feverish skin was a drug more potent than any gin he’d ever swallowed.

He was losing himself in the clumsy rhythm of her lips, his mind finally silent for the first time in years.

But suddenly, the pressure of her arms around his neck slackened.

Her movements, once hesitant and warm, suddenly ceased. Her body grew heavy, losing its tension entirely. Damien’s hands tightened on her, thinking she was melting into him, but then her head rolled forward, her forehead thudding softly against his shoulder.

“Sofia?” he rasped, his voice thick with unspent desire.

There was no answer. Only the sound of deep, rhythmic breathing and the dead weight of her body in his arms. The fever and the sedatives had finally pulled her back into unconsciousness.

The silence that followed was deafening. Damien sat frozen on the chair, the ghost of her innocent kiss still burning on his lips while his heart hammered a frantic, painful rhythm against his ribs. His body was screaming for more, his blood on fire, but the girl in his arms was gone—lost back to the darkness of her forced sleep.

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