It's Okay Not To Love

Chapter2

Behind Closed Doors

DAMIEN

I cursed under my breath for the umpteenth time as I paced to and fro in my bedroom. It was 11 a.m., and I couldn’t bring myself to leave the room. The woman I married had seen a part of me I had worked hard to keep hidden since I was twelve. I never allowed my domestic workers to sleep in this house for that very reason, so no one would ever know about the nightmares. But now, she had witnessed it.

I dragged my hands through my hair in frustration. Why had she been awake at that hour? Or maybe it was my screams that had pulled her from sleep.

Turning to the large mirror, I caught sight of the angry red marks circling my neck. Once again, I had tried strangling myself in my sleep. My jaw tightened. Grabbing a turtleneck sweatshirt from the wardrobe, I pulled it over my head, adjusting it until the bruises disappeared from sight. Satisfied, I left the room and headed straight to the dining hall, starvation gnawing at me.

But the moment I entered, I froze.

My brothers were there, dining comfortably with the woman I had just married, whose smile looked more like a mask, her shoulders stiff from their chatter. Who wouldn’t be uncomfortable with them? Arrogant. Vulgar. Cruel. My brothers had no other qualities.

I cleared my throat as I walked toward the table and slid into the empty seat beside her. Immediately, the noise died down. She gave me a small smile and gently pushed my food toward me.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said softly, setting a fork in front of me.

“Father told us to come meet your beautiful wife. And I must say, she certainly is very good-looking,” Barry, the eldest, drawled, his gaze lingering on her in a way that made her shift in discomfort.

“Easy, Barry,” John, the second, said with a smirk. “We don’t want you having her in your mind before you actually have her for real.”

“Unless you want Damien to kill you this time,” Brian, the youngest, added with a loud laugh. Barry’s sharp glare silenced him instantly. He cleared his throat and looked away.

Beside me, the woman I married toyed with her food. Her fork barely scraped her plate, but her ears, her entire being, were tuned to their words.

I glanced at Barry. The way his hand trembled around his cutlery made me smirk. He was already uncomfortable. I dug into my food, savoring his unease.

“In case you’re wondering what Brian means by kill,” John cut in, his eyes flicking toward Barry with a sly smile, “I’ll tell you the story.”

I didn’t like where this was going, but I had no desire to stop him. Let her hear. Let her know.

“It happened when we were young. Barry had bullied Damien as usual, but that day was different.”

Brian snickered behind his palm. Barry, however, paled. Even after all these years, the memory still rattled him.

“Damien woke up in the middle of the night, walked to Barry’s room, and began to strangle him,” John continued, his tone almost amused. “Barry would have died if one of the maids hadn’t walked in. Apparently, it traumatized him. And as you can see, he’s still scared.”

Barry’s cutlery rattled against the plate, his fingers betraying the fear he tried so hard to hide.

“Drop it, John. Who says I’m scared?” Barry forced a laugh, though the tremor in his voice gave him away.

Eventually, my brothers left, leaving the house silent again. It was just the two of us. She gathered the plates quietly, then finally spoke.

“I’ll take these to the kitchen,” she said, sliding her chair back. I stood as well.

“You have the maids for that,” I replied, frowning at her insistence. Still, I shrugged it off.

“I’ll be in my room. If you need anything the maids can’t help you with, feel free to knock,” I added with a smirk. My eyes swept over her before I could stop myself. She was striking. The gown she wore clung to her curves, making me gulp down what was left of my water in one go.

“I want to sleep with you today.”

I nearly choked. My head snapped toward her, the plate in her hands making her look like some irresistible waitress. Only her eyes, those wide, innocent eyes, set her apart.

“How brazen,” I muttered, stepping toward her. Carefully, I took the plates from her hands and set them back on the table. Then my arms slid around her waist, pulling her against me until her chest pressed into mine.

After hearing John’s story, shouldn’t she be scared of me? Shouldn’t she want to run? Instead, she stood frozen, her lashes trembling as she squeezed her eyes shut.

Her lips caught my gaze, soft, parted, inviting. I almost leaned in.

“What I mean,” she blurted in one breath, “is I want us to share a room together.”

The spark died instantly. I released her, stepping back.

“I don’t want you sleeping alone and having such nightmares,” she added.

My blood boiled. She shouldn’t have seen that. She shouldn’t know. If I could erase that scene from her mind, I would. But it was too late. It would be imprinted there forever.

“Not today,” I said sharply, turning away.

Her voice followed me to the door. “The story John spoke about. Is it true?”

I stopped, meeting her gaze over my shoulder. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes, curious, searching.

“It is,” I said flatly, before twisting the knob and shutting the door behind me with a bang.

That was what she needed to hear. She needed to know. She needed to believe I was a monster. Because I was. Anyone born of my father was destined to be.

---

The memory clawed its way back, vivid as ever.

I had watched my mother beaten by my father’s men, flogged like a criminal, simply because he discovered our plan to run away with three of his gold wristwatches. She had screamed at me to leave, begged me not to watch. But my father gripped my shoulder, forcing me to witness her pain. She screamed and cried for help but everyone just watched from where we all stood as there was nothing we could do.

Her cries rang in my ears as the whip lashed her skin again and again until her breaths grew faint.

“Stop,” Father commanded at last.

Relief never came.

“Light her up.”

And then, flames.

I watched, helpless, as my mother burned alive, her screams seared into me forever.

That night, I fell asleep in tears, but it didn’t last long. A crushing weight dragged me awake. I opened my eyes and froze.

She was on top of me. My mother. Burnt beyond recognition. Her charred body hovered, her hollow eyes boring into mine.

“I shouldn’t have become his mistress. I shouldn’t have had you.” Her voice was hoarse, bitter, broken.

“It’s all your fault!” she screamed, her blackened hands wrapping around my throat.

I woke up with a violent cry, my own hands tightening against my neck. Choking myself. Again.

With every ounce of strength, I wrenched my hands away and reached for the bottle of water on my nightstand, but my trembling fingers knocked it to the floor.

I stumbled after it, crawling, the room spinning.

But when I looked up, she was there again. Her burnt body, crawling toward me. Her hands reaching. Her voice shrieking.

“It’s your fault!”

“No… leave me alone! I’m sorry… I’m sorry, it’s all my fault!” I cried, tears streaming.

A loud bang rattled my door, jarring me back to the present. My heart thudded painfully, anchoring me to reality.

I snatched the bottle from the floor, twisted it open, and drank desperately. The water burned down my throat, grounding me, pulling me back.

Finally, my chest eased. My breaths steadied.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered, my voice raw. “I’m so sorry.”

I closed my eyes, ignoring the pounding on the door.