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The comment makes me look at his throat. At the story he told me about how he got it. We sit in silence, waiting, the trap between. One kitten hobbles over, its paw crooked, and I gently extend a finger. It sniffs me, then bats my hand, bold and rude.

I laugh before I can stop myself. Damon raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, she laughs,” he mutters. “Didn’t think we’d get that out of you tonight.”

I shrug. “I think my nervous system short-circuited two hours ago.”

“That tracks.”

The black cat edges closer to the trap. Damon freezes. His fingers tighten on the bag of food.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Just step inside,” he murmurs. “Just a little farther…”

The cat sniffs the metal lip. Pauses. And then, with perfect contempt, she walksaroundthe trap and grabs a piece of kibble from the side.

“Fucking slut,” Damon hisses.

I burst into laughter. I can’t help it. It comes out sharp and high and unhinged, but it’s real.

Damon watches me for a second, then shakes his head, grumbling. “You two deserve each other.”

“I think she likes you,” I tease.

“She’s got a funny way of showing it.”

My laughter fades, and the silence after feels too big. Too real. I look at him, this man I barely know–hardly trust–yet we’re thrust together.

“Damon,” I say quietly as the cat snags another piece of food.

He glances at me.

“Thank you. For bringing me.”

He grunts. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for you.”

“You didn’t have to do it at all.”

He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Stands up and wipes his hands on his pants.

“You ready to go?”

I nod and push up to my feet, trying not to step on my dress. I know that once this night is over everything in my life changes. Probably for both of us.

“Do you ever wonder if people see us like that?” I ask, glancing back at the cats swarming the piles of food he left scattered about.

Damon frowns. “Like what?”

“Feral. Uncatchable. Just… surviving.”

He stands in the bright light of the car beams and says, “No.” His fingers reach out and trail down the curve of my cheek, not soft, not tender, just anchoring us together. “People like us? They don’t look close enough to see anything other than what they can take…” His voice roughens. “They don’t want the mess. They don’t want the noise inside our heads. They want the shape of us, the story of us, broken things dressed up pretty, pliant, fuckable.”

He drops his hand, turns his back to me. His shoulders rise and fall like he’s trying not to say more. The problem is that Damon thinks he understands the darkness in Forsyth, but he has no idea what I know–whatI’ve witnessed.

The pain I felt today? That’s nothing compared to the pain I saw in the Manor.

The humiliation? That’s just penance for the secrets I’ve kept buried for so long.

If I need to be pretty, pliant, and fuckable just to survive?