Bullet ✔️

Chapter 42

I only woke when someone banged hard on the front door, and as I got out from under the warm, comfortable blankets, I knew in my gut that Damian was standing on the other side of it. It was like a magnet was placed on the other side of the wood, pulling me towards it, no matter how much I tried to stay in my room and shut him out. It was impossible.

My feet dragged across the floor, and I only stopped once I reached the door and pressed my forehead against it, feeling each new bang of his fist vibrate through my whole body.

"Isabelle, I know you're there," he said, his voice lowered and hoarse. "Let me talk."

A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed it quickly, before saying loudly, "I have nothing to say."

"Then listen." When I didn't respond, he added, "I really don't want to pour my heart out while your neighbors can hear me, sweetheart."

After another minute and a half of considering, I forced myself to take a step back and unlocked the door—but I didn't open it. A silent message that I wasn't welcoming him into my home, I was just tolerating his presence. So I stepped back and stood in the middle of the open, practically empty space with my arms crossed as the door opened and he stepped inside.

He was breathtakingly gorgeous, as always, wearing his leather jacket over a black t-shirt and a dark pair of jeans. He looked way more put together than I did, with my sweats from the day before. As the door closed behind him, I forced myself to look at him—really look at him—and my heart broke again.

It was clear he wasn't fine. His stubbles weren't trimmed that morning, his hair was more messy and disheveled than usual, and his eyes—his eyes were red and bloodshot, with the beginnings of dark bags under them. Elina wasn't joking when she said he hadn't slept.

I didn't speak, though. I already said I didn't have anything to contribute to this conversation, so I waited for him to break the heavy silence.

"I would never hurt you," Damian said, his eyes locking with mine. My heart stuttered, sending shivers through my body that I fought not to let him see. But I narrowed my eyes at him, and he added, "Intentionally."

God knew he'd already hurt me. "You pulled the trigger on me," I countered, standing my ground.

"Like I said," he growled, sounding frustrated, "I would never hurt you int—"

"You pulled the fucking trigger, Damian!" My hands flailed, releasing the power stance I promised myself I'd keep, along with my mouth not being able to shut the hell up.

His nostrils flared and he stalked to me, his eyes darkening with his growing rage. I stepped back until I hit the wall, and his hands went up to each side of my head, caging me in, as he said, his voice cold and low, "I've known the weight of a loaded gun since before I could count to ten." I stared into his eyes, seeing a flicker of that familiar safety I wanted to cling to with all my might. "Every gram of every bullet it imprinted in my muscle memory," he continued, "so the moment I grabbed that gun I knew there was only one bullet, and I knew it was meant for that stupid prick holding you against your will."

I balled my fists, willing myself to listen to his words, but it was hard. The image of him holding that gun straight at my face and pulling the trigger made my ears ring, and I was back in that dark warehouse, the smell of blood and gunpowder entering my nose again. I could hear Orlov's laughter as the click sounded, echoing off the bare walls. My stomach turned over and I was sure I was going to empty it all over the man in front of me, but the urge died down as his fingers slowly caressed my cheek, and I was back in the present, staring into Damian's black eyes.

They weren't cold at all. They were full of worry and sadness, making me almost kick myself for making him feel like that when I just left him—but I still didn't know what I wanted. Was he even telling the truth? How could he know the difference between a loaded and an empty gun? It weighed the same before and after to me, when I'd emptied one at the range.