Celeste sat on the edge of the bed, nevertheless retaining the bloody glove she observed in Damien’s coat. Her hands shook. Her breath got here in short, shallow bursts. The entirety inside her screamed to run, however her heart whispered something else.
The door creaked open.
Damien stepped in, pale and bruised. His shirt was torn. His left arm hung limp. Blood stained the side of his pants. He gave the impression of being dragged through hell.
“Damien,” she stated softly, rising to her feet.
He met her eyes. It wasn’t me.”
“I need to trust you,” she whispered, “But this was in your pocket.” She held up the glove.
He gazed at it, then glanced away. “It’s not mine.”
“Then whose is it?”
Damien didn’t answer. He walked past her and sat in the armchair. He looked exhausted, broken.
“
