Frames Of Blood

CHAPTER 18: DAMIEN

The silence lingered after the map was rolled up, stretched taut between them like a wire neither wanted to pull too tight.

I lean against the edge of the rooftop wall, eyes on her.

“You know,” I said quietly, “when you said my name back there—when you were pissed—it almost sounded like you cared.”

Scarlett didn't even glance my way.

“Don’t start.”

“Not starting anything.”

A beat passed.

“You just call me Damien. I call you Scar. It fits.”

That made her head turn, just enough for the moonlight to catch the sharpness in her eyes.

“Don’t call me that.”

The words landed with more weight than the night air could hold.

“Only people who loved me called me Scar,” she said, voice low but firm. “And they’re dead.”

I didn’t flinch. But I didn’t smile either.

“Fair enough.”

I paused. Then said it anyway.

“I’m not trying to be your friend.”

She arched a brow.

“Good.”

“I don’t want to play soft with you. You’d smell it a mile away. But that thing you're afraid of—whatever it is that makes you shut down every time I look at you too long…”

I stepped just slightly closer—not close enough to crowd her, but enough to be felt.

“That doesn’t have to be fear. Or loss. Doesn’t even have to be love. But it could be something.”

Scarlett blinked slowly. A long silence followed.

Then she shook her head—once, short, sharp—and stepped away.

“You need rest.”

I opened his mouth, but she cuts me off.

“And while you’re doing that, do me a favor—clear that thought out of your head.”

My voice was cool now. Controlled. But her fingers flexed at her sides, betraying the static still buzzing under her skin.

She turned away, already heading for the rooftop exit ladder.

“We hunt Harold. That’s it. Everything else is distraction.”

“Scarlett—”

“Don’t.”

And just like that, she disappeared into the shadows.