Rules For Surviving Him
889 Words
The Carter house hadn’t changed. Same cracked tiles. Same smell of fried plantain from next door. Same ghost of the girl Aria used to be.
She dropped her bag at the stairs and breathed. Three years in Manchester was supposed to make this place feel smaller. It didn’t. It felt heavier.
Because he was in the garage.
She could hear it before she saw him. Metal clanking. A low curse under his breath. Damian Black. Her brother’s best friend. Her personal nightmare at 15.
At 19, she told herself she was done being scared.
She was wrong.
The garage door was half open. He had his back to her. Black t-shirt stretched over shoulders that looked bigger than she remembered. Grease smeared across one forearm. Dark hair falling over his forehead as he leaned into her brother’s car engine.
He didn’t turn when her shadow fell across the floor.
“Room’s upstairs. Left side,” he said. Voice like gravel. No greeting. No “welcome home.” Just orders. “I’ll send you the house rules.”
Aria crossed her arms. “I don’t need rules from you.”
Now he turned. Slow. Like he had all the time in the world to cut her with a look.
Gray eyes. Colder than Manchester rain. They dragged over her face, her neck, her hands gripping her own arms. Like he was checking for damage. Like he was counting the years she’d been gone.
“You’re not 16 anymore, Aria,” he said finally. “Stop acting like you are.”
“And you’re not my father, Damian,” she snapped back. “Stop acting like you are.”
The word hung between them. Father. He hated that word. His own father was 3 countries away, running Black Industries and sending money instead of presence. Damian had raised himself on rules and blood.
His jaw ticked. That was new. At 18 he would’ve laughed and shoved her. At 24, he just stared. Calculating.
“You’re alive because people followed rules,” he said quietly. “Your brother. Me. Follow them, or leave.”
The threat was soft. That made it worse.
Aria stepped closer. Close enough to see the scar above his left eyebrow. She put it there. Water balloon filled with ice, 15 years old and stupid. He never forgave her.
“Make me leave,” she whispered.
For half a second, something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Something worse. Interest.
Then his phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Three times. Urgent.
He glanced at the screen. His whole body went still. The badboy mask slipped for just a breath, and Aria saw it: panic. Fast. Then gone.
Work. Black Industries. Weapons contracts. The kind of business that left bodies in back alleys.
He shoved the phone in his pocket and wiped his hands on a rag. Didn’t look at her again.
“Rule #1,” he said, voice flat again. “Don’t go out alone after 8pm. Manchester has teeth.”
“Rule #2,” Aria followed him as he moved past her toward the house door. “Stop pretending you care if I live or die.”
He stopped. Hand on the doorframe. She could see his knuckles go white.
For 10 seconds, silence. The kind that pressed on your chest.
Then, barely audible: “I don’t.”
Lie.
She knew it was a lie because his other hand was fisted at his side. Because his shoulders were too tense. Because the boy who broke her arm at 15 never clenched his fists when he hurt her. He only did that when he was trying not to.
Damian Black was off-limits. Everyone knew it. Her brother told her. The whole street whispered it. Don’t talk to Damian. Don’t look at Damian. Don’t exist near Damian.
But Aria was 19 now. And she noticed things.
Like how he positioned himself between her and the street every time a car passed too slow.
Like how his eyes tracked her to the stairs even when he pretended not to care.
Like how his phone was still buzzing. And he still hadn’t checked it again.
Danger followed him. That was rule #3 she’d figure out later.
“One more thing,” he said without turning. “If anyone asks, you don’t know me. You don’t know this house. You don’t know Black Industries.”
Aria’s stomach dropped. “Why? Who’s asking?”
He finally looked at her. Full on. Gray eyes dark with something she couldn’t name.
“People who shouldn’t be asking,” he said. “Now go upstairs.”
She went. But halfway up, she heard it. The click of his phone unlocking. Then his voice, low and lethal:
“Tell them she’s not here. If they come looking, they’ll answer to me.”
Aria froze on the step.
Who was “they”?
And why did Damian Black sound like he was ready to kill for her?
She didn’t sleep that night. Neither did he. Through the wall, she heard him pacing. Pacing. Pacing. Until 4am.
Rule #4 she wrote in her head: Don’t trust the monster who guards your door.
Rule #5: Don’t fall for him anyway.
Too late for rule #5. Her heart was already doing stupid things every time he said her name like a warning.
- Writer
