HIS BROKEN SAINT

CHAPTER 8: THE MORNING AFTER

Sunlight cut through the curtains like an accusation.

Elias woke to marble cold under his cheek and Damien’s voice still echoing: “I keep debts, even the ones that aren’t mine.”

The chair was empty. Damien was gone. But the blanket from his shoulders was folded over Elias’s legs. Expensive. Warm. That broke him more than the counting did. He traced the edge with two fingers and wondered if owning someone included owning their shivers.

He didn’t move for ten minutes. Counted breaths instead of meals. One. Two. Three. The room didn’t shrink this time. The walls stayed where they were. Small win.

Then the door clicked. Not soft. Efficient.

A maid entered, eyes down, tray in hand. “Mr. Damien said you’re to eat. He has calls.”

Elias stared at the plate. Steak, eggs, fruit cut into shapes he couldn’t name. Meal 1 of 1,095.

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

“Rule 7,” the maid replied without looking up. “You eat when food is served. Unless Mr. Damien says otherwise.”

He picked up the fork to prove he wasn’t a child. His hand shook. The maid saw. She didn’t comment. Just set a glass of water closer and left. The door closed behind her with the same finality as Damien’s last night.

The moment the lock turned, Damien was there. Like he’d been waiting in the hall, timing his entrance to the silence.

Black shirt was gone. Now a charcoal suit. No tie. Hair still damp from a shower. He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the doorframe and watched Elias poke the egg until the yolk broke and bled across the plate.

“You slept,” Damien said.

“Barely.”

“Better than barely. You didn’t scream.” Damien stepped in and closed the door. Soft click. Same sound as the lock. “Rule 8. No wasting food I pay for.”

Elias laughed, sharp and bitter. “So that’s what I am. A grocery list.”

Damien crossed the room in three strides. Took the fork from Elias’s hand. Cut a piece of steak. Held it out.

“Open,” he said. Not cruel. Not gentle. Just certain.

Elias stared at it like it was a trap. “I said I’m not—”

“Rule 3,” Damien cut in. “No lying to me. You’re hungry. Your stomach’s been growling since I walked in.”

The fork didn’t shake. Damien’s hand didn’t either. Elias hated that. Hated that he obeyed again. The meat tasted like iron and humiliation and something else he refused to name. Relief.

Damien set the fork down after one bite. “Good. Now you’re strong enough to fight me today.” He pulled the chair from last night closer. The legs scraped marble. Sat. Arms crossed. Waiting.

“Tell me about your dad. Not the death. The living.”

Elias went still. “That’s not in the contract.”

“It is now,” Damien said. “I don’t own ghosts, Elias. I own you. And you’re full of him. So talk, or I’ll sit here and count your breaths until you do.”

Elias looked away. The curtains. The city. Anything but Damien’s eyes. “He taught me to change a tire when I was nine. Hands always smelled like diesel. He’d sing off key to radio songs when he thought I was asleep. Terrible voice. But he never missed my birthdays. Even when money was tight. He’d carve my name into wood with his knife and tell me it meant I was permanent.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Damien didn’t move. Didn’t reach. Just absorbed it. “Permanent,” he repeated quietly. Then he picked the fork up again. Cut another piece. Held it out.

“Eat. For him. Not for me.”

Elias opened his mouth. Not because of the rule. Because for one second, Damien’s certainty felt like the promise his dad made.

Outside, Nairobi moved on. Inside, Elias had 1,094 meals left. And a man who refused to let him drown before breakfast.