Under His Roof
1438 Words
CHAPTER 10 —
*****
Maree
Waking up no longer felt like drowning.
That realization came slowly—quietly—over the next few days.
At first, I woke only in fragments. A ceiling that wasn’t white and cold like the room before. Darker walls. Softer light. Curtains instead of concrete. The faint smell of something warm—wood, leather, faint traces of smoke and cologne.
Damon’s room.
I knew it instinctively, even before my mind fully settled.
The bed beneath me was larger than any I had ever slept on. The sheets were thick and soft, heavy in a way that made me feel held instead of trapped. When I shifted, my body protested, pain blooming along my back and ribs, but it was duller now. Managed. Controlled.
Someone had been taking care of me.
That someone was Damon.
He didn’t always speak when I woke.
Sometimes I’d open my eyes and find him sitting in the chair near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, staring at his phone without really looking at it. Sometimes he stood near the door, speaking quietly to a guard, his voice low and firm. Sometimes he wasn’t in the room at all—but I always knew when he returned.
I felt it.
The air changed when he entered. Not colder. Not warmer.
Just… steadier.
Doctors came in regularly. They checked my vitals, changed my dressings, murmured words I barely understood. Damon watched every movement, every touch. When a doctor lingered too long, Damon’s gaze sharpened. When one spoke too loudly, Damon silenced him with a look alone.
No one questioned it.
Elena came too. She helped me bathe, helped me change clothes—soft ones, nothing tight or painful. She never explained anything, but she wasn’t cruel. Not anymore. She spoke to me like I was fragile glass instead of an object.
“Drink this,” she’d say gently. “Slowly.” “Rest.”
And Damon always made sure she left.
“You don’t need an audience,” he said once, dismissing her with a nod.
After that, it was just us.
He brought me food himself. Nothing extravagant. Soup. Bread. Tea. Things that didn’t hurt my throat or stomach. The first time he placed the tray on my lap, our fingers brushed.
I froze.
He noticed immediately.
He stepped back.
“I won’t touch you unless you ask,” he said simply.
I didn’t know what to say to that.
So I ate.
At night, he stayed.
He never slept beside me—not really. He sat in the chair or leaned against the headboard, boots still on, jacket nearby. Sometimes I woke in the middle of the night and saw him staring at the door like he expected someone to break through it.
Like he was guarding me.
Once, in a moment of courage I didn’t understand myself, I whispered, “You don’t have to stay.”
He didn’t even look at me.
“Yes, I do.”
That was all he said.
Days blurred into each other. For the first time since the orphanage, time didn’t feel like something chasing me. I wasn’t dragged anywhere. I wasn’t questioned. No one raised their voice. No one hurt me.
My body healed faster than my mind.
Sometimes memories crept in—dark ones. Whips. Blood. Cold laughter. I woke shaking once, breath trapped in my chest, tears burning my eyes.
Before I could even make a sound, Damon was there.
Not touching.
Just close.
“Breathe,” he said quietly. “You’re here. You’re safe.”
I believed him.
That was the strange part.
I shouldn’t have.
But I did.
One afternoon, while sunlight filtered through the curtains, I finally asked the question that had been sitting heavy in my chest.
“How long… am I staying here?”
Damon paused where he stood near the window. He turned slowly, studying my face like he wanted to answer carefully.
“As long as you need.”
I frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’m giving.”
I hesitated. “Your father—”
“He won’t come into this room.”
The certainty in his voice startled me.
“This is mine,” he continued. “And what’s mine is protected.”
Something fluttered in my chest.
Not relief.
Something warmer.
He noticed my expression and added, quieter, “No one touches you here. Understand that.”
I nodded.
That night, I slept deeply for the first time.
No nightmares.
No screams.
Just silence and the steady sound of his breathing somewhere nearby.
In the morning, I found fresh clothes laid out for me. Simple, soft. A robe. Slippers.
I dressed slowly, testing my strength. When I stepped toward the mirror, I barely recognized myself. The bruises were fading. My eyes looked bigger. Older.
Alive.
When I turned, Damon was watching me from the doorway.
“You’re standing,” he said.
“I wanted to,” I replied.
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
Not the sharp, dangerous smirk I’d seen before.
A real one.
Brief. Unguarded.
It startled me more than his anger ever had.
Later, we sat together on the bed. Not touching. Just close enough that our shoulders almost brushed. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It didn’t feel like a threat.
I spoke without thinking.
“Why are you doing this?”
He stiffened slightly.
“This wasn’t part of the plan,” I added quickly. “Taking care of me. Keeping me here.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Plans change.”
“Because of me?”
He looked at me then. Really looked.
“Yes.”
The word settled between us.
Heavy.
Honest.
I didn’t know what to do with it.
So I said the only thing that felt safe.
“Thank you.”
He nodded once.
That night, as I drifted toward sleep, I realized something terrifying.
For the first time since my life fell apart, I wasn’t waiting for pain.
I wasn’t counting exits.
I wasn’t bracing myself.
I felt… held.
Protected.
And I didn’t know yet that comfort could be just as dangerous as fear.
- Writer
